Starlings in the Slipstream

The Starling’s lived 7 houses from us, and next to a house that boasts 52 five-star reviews on Yelp for their Christmas light display. The house even has its own name: Widmer World.

 Before Widmer World and Yelp, the Starling house was where we gathered afterschool and on the weekends.  A large catholic family with more kids than the Brady Bunch, all the boys had names starting with “B” and the girls with “L,” except for the youngest boy whose name started with a “T.” Because of this, you could say all their names seamlessly in one breath. It was something we did to pass time — that and inane chanting of “car, car, c-a-r,” when cars passed. Simpler times.

 

Mrs. Starling was heavyset with porcelain white skin and was always in a non-descript dress and lace-up shoes with a small heel. She didn’t move much from the living room, preferring a Lazy Boy situated next to their fireplace and a direct line to the TV. She was always kind. Due to the amount of pre-teens and teens in the house, Mrs. Starling took a hands-off approach and let us be feral. We were very good at being feral.

 

Mr. Starling got off work at 3 p.m. I always imagined him clocking out of his South City factory job, walking to his car and driving home, arriving at exactly 4 pm. Regardless of traffic and weather, he always seemed to be on time. When we heard his car pulling into the garage, we gathered at the front door, waiting for the sound of a closing car door. When we heard the slam of the door, we went out the front door and he entered through the garage. He always entered through the garage. We were afraid of Mr. Starling. So were the Bs and probably the Ls and definitely the T.

 

One day after school a handful of us were in the Starling’s kitchen playing with a litter of eight 10-week old kittens.  We loosely set up 7 of the kittens in a triangle formation of bowling pins, scrambling to put rogue kittens back in place when they immediately scattered.  The remaining kitten would be used as the “ball” to knockdown the kitten-pins. One person would slide a kitten across the linoleum kitchen floor, their spindly body slowing spinning in circles, careening into an unsuspecting kitten. The kittens would scramble and we’d scatter after them, yelling in delight of the chase. If a kitten proved hard to get, we’d let out an onslaught of “pussy, fag and dick” upon the person that couldn’t catch them. Pussy, fag and dick were staples of our language, using them liberally for all occasions.

 

As we set up a new round kitten-pins, our friend Dave was still trying to capture a lone kitten that hid under their sofa. We called Dave a pussy and a fag. And we continued saying the words until he retrieved the kitchen.

 

Out of the blue, Mrs. Starling spoke:

 

“I don’t like that word, don’t use it.”

 

“Pussy?”

 

“Yes. I don’t like that word.”

 

“What about fag?”

 

“That one is ok.”

 

“Sorry, Mrs. Starling.”

 

A little jarred from the admonishment, we quickly left and went to the park, where we were free to use the language we wanted.

 

As innocuous as Mrs. Starlings scolding was, it stuck with me through decades. It was probably the first time someone said they were offended by the words that I used.  Instead of pushing back, I quietly accepted her criticism and eventually stopped using the word. Maybe it was age or maturity that pushed the change, but it was probably the simple act of Mrs. Starling telling me she didn’t like it. Up until then, I was the center of the universe.

 

6 years later, I was 20 years old and in Des Moines, IA talking to a pretty young woman on a street outside a club where we just played a matinee show. In the decade since the pussy incident, I’d found punk rock and then anarchism and then college rock. I was enlightened.  For the most part, all were insulated communities of affected white kids dabbling in radical and liberal politics, hipster music and pseudo-intellectual pursuits. Pussy, fag and dick were replaced with vulnerable, homosexual and penis. We weren’t that formal, but we were definitely early PC.

 

The pretty woman talked about her desire to move away from Des Moines. She described her predicament in clichés: this town is boring, there’s nothing to do; too many jocks and rednecks, the cops always harass me — tropes that are still relevant today for misfits living in small towns. We encountered kids from all over the US wanting to move from their small towns and cities. This was not uncommon. They were the best and brightest misfits in the their communities. It was never a question of if they’d leave, more like when they’d leave. They had to leave. Many of them wanted to get in our van and come back with us to SF. Unlike them, we had already made the move and were living examples of the so-called good life. It wasn’t always good.

 

My new friend talked about her parents and brought up race: mom white, dad black. I took this opening to ask about her race.

 

“Are you mulatto?”

 

She looked down, smiled and slowly raised her head.

 

“We don’t use the word mulatto. We call it bi-racial.”

 

You could tell that she was used to this; her wry smile reeked of disappointment in me. Regardless of being from a big city and traveling around the country playing music, I was a fraud. Just another culturally ignorant small town mind living in a big city. I think John Cougar sang that. Oooh yeah!

 

Blood rushed to my head and my face turned pink:

 

“I’m so sorry. There’s a band in SF called Tragic Mulatto and I just thought…I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

She comforted my ignorance with grace and dignity. I comforted her with apologies and an excuse to leave.

Thanks For Not Asking

Joe works at a convenient store at Beaumont and E. 31^st in Oakland. I assume Joe isn’t his first name since he speaks with an accent and converses in Arabic with his older buddies, who smoke in front of the store, hang out on the side of the counter and act as clerk when Joe is restocking. I hope he owns the place as he’s there every day of the week.

 

In the last 6 months, the front doors of the store were smashed during protests and a late night attempted burglary of an ATM – the thieves driving their vehicle through the front door in hopes of finagling the heavy-ass ATM into the backseat of their car or truck. This type of burglary never ends well and is quite common in spite of being so dramatic and loud. I always associated this type of crime as regional – southern or rural. In urban environments, they’re too many narcissists with cell phones vying for attention on You Tube to drive by and think, “It’s none of my business, just keep driving.” Nope, they breakout their phones. Letting things be is no more. With Big Brother in your hand and imminent likes on the screen, the dopamine euphoria of standing out on the Internet is too great a temptation.

 

My approach to the daily customer vs. checkout clerk interaction has changed. Up until two years ago, my style was to be nice as possible, littering pleasantries in our brief interactions: “Thank you soo much” and “Have a wonderful day (the secular version of “Have a blessed day”).” The latter is the equivalent of shaking someone’s hand and then cupping the shake with your left hand, while nodding and doing your best to show the utmost empathy in your eyes. I defend this action, thinking that somehow my obsequious behavior might offset the asshole that came before or after me. Having been a cab driver for a few years, I should know better. Human nature dictates that you take home the asshole interaction and leave the good ones at work.

 

In the years since I changed my approach to retail interactions, I’m more comfortable with simple hellos and goodbyes, refraining from questions or observations. With this new approach, I convinced myself that the beleaguered retail clerk needs a break from small talk and would appreciate curt, polite pleasantries. Like my video-wielding You Tube fame hunters, it’s just a different form of narcissism.

 

Getting to the convenient store from the east is never easy. It requires a small jaunt through a homeless freeway underpass, tents and all sorts of discarded furniture lining the sidewalks, and then a quick right, quick left and a U-turn to an outer road, before pulling into the far right parking space. Adherence to blinkers at every turn helps facilitate a safe arrival. If not, you get a lot of hands thrown in the air in anger.

 

In front of my favorite parking spot, an air pump machine is wrapped in yellow caution tape. Since I’ve been going here, it’s never worked. A homeless late model sedan is parked to my right. The cabin is full of wrinkled clothing and essential belongings, the windows blocked with various button-ups and polos, and the driver’s side door always open. The open door is a warning that the owner is near.

 

The owner of the vehicle stands next to the defunct air pump with a squeegee in his right hand. I get out of the car and walk past him, acknowledging his presence.

 

“Can I clean your windshield?”

 

“Aww, no thanks. No amount of cleaning is going to help that vehicle,” pointing to my dirty, sea foam Prius.  It was my not-so subtle attempt at absolving me of giving him money. An excuse, if you will.  Like most people, though, I’m more comfortable giving money on the way out instead of the way in. However, I’m smart enough to never say, “I’ll get ya on the way out.” A lot can happen between going in and out.

 

Joe is not at the checkout. A younger man of similar origin sits halfway between the register and checkout counter in a swivel stool with a back support. Instead of the ubiquitous mask, he wears a full plastic mask shield. Between the shield and the Plexiglas that separates us, his security is covered.

 

I shuffle in, my flip-flops clacking at every step. My mask covers most of my face; my exposed eyes are watery and sad. I fill my recycled soda cup with Diet Pepsi and move toward the register. Instead of asking about Joe’s whereabouts, I adhere to my rules of conversation and say nothing. I pay $2.00 for a $1.85 soda and leave without getting the change. Joe doesn’t sweat being short so I always round up, leaving the change. When I’m short, he doesn’t care. I assume this tactic of not worrying about the small stuff is a survival tactic, benefitting his well-being.

 

Outside, the homeless window washer is still next to the defunct air pump. I walk over, hand him a dollar and say, “It’s smoky today from the fires. It doesn’t seem fair with the pandemic and all.” He nods. His face is kind. He knows my liberal kind.

 

A few days later, Joe returns…with a cast on his left arm. The top glass to the right front door is replaced with plywood. Joe must have been assaulted. I got my soda and approach the counter. I want to say, “I’m sorry, Joe. Did someone assault you? I’m sorry about the door, too. I know you have insurance but I’m sure the deductible is high. People are fuckin’ idiots, man.”

 

I refrain, though.

 

“Refill, Joe.”

 

I take out 2 dollars from my wallet and slip it under the dome-shaped hole in the Plexiglas. No change.

 

As I walk away, I say, “Take care, Brother” and nod. He looks at me and nods. I like to think that was his way of saying, “Thanks for not asking.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lake Chabot

 Lake Chabot Road connects San Leandro to Castro Valley (or the other way around), depending on which way you’re heading. Freeways and other surface roads achieve the same result, but this road is for savvy locals and professional commuters. In an area that boasts 7.8 million people, where even the most remote roads are traversed incessantly, this 1.9 miles connector remains proudly remote and underused.

 

My daily routine of wasting time until evening, when it’s OK to sit in your room and play hearts, incessantly google “the best TV series streaming now” and peruse long-form journalism on Pocket app, which fills me with useless information (30 minutes before dawn, when the first rays of light illuminates the eastern sky, the sun is 6 degrees from the horizon) that I’ll never share, leads me to travel this road twice a day — once to get a soda from my favorite convenient store and another to drive back home.

 

Heading north on Lake Chabot Road, past the entrance to the lake, where a temporary digital sign pleads with park-goers to wear a mask and pack out your trash, and where I saw a homemade sign advertising a Down Syndrome picnic (in this gloomy world of ours, the sign filled me with hope), I reach down to the cup holder between the seats and take a long pull from my 44 oz. Diet Pepsi.  I bear right and enter the windy 1.9 mile stretch of road leading to San Leandro and then home.

 

To my right, Lake Chabot shows signs of late summer drought, its banks severely exposed and the water placid and heavy, dog-killing blue algae loitering near shore. Dirty, dry live oak trees line the road, traveling the short distance from shore to road, crossing the road and continuing upward, littering the burnt, amber grass with spiny leaves.

 

Near the halfway point, the road straightens out for 300 yards. A smattering of park cars line the right dirt embankment — mostly likely fisherman who use the gated fire road for free access to the park.

 

In anticipation of the straightaway, I accelerate into a bend. As I round the corner, I noticed a tall man standing on the side of the road, motionless and facing forward. About 200 yards out, slightly past the fire road, his right hand is pointed to the sky, bent 90 degrees at the elbow. His left hand appeared to be touching his abdomen. From a distance, I could tell he was skinny, tall, wearing a bright yellow Lakers tank-top and a surgical face mask covering most of his face. It wasn’t unusual to see people on the road, but it was unusual to see this man.

 

As I passed, his particulars came into view. In his right hand -- the one pointing to the sky – he delicately pinched the quill of an eight-inch bird feather between his thumb and index fingers. The feathers creating an ombre effect of brown, bottom to top. His left hand hovered over his abdomen, his fingers manipulated into the sign of the devil, reminiscent of countless photos of Tupac throwing the west coast sign. His eyes never wavered, staring straight ahead as I passed.

 

I watched him through the rearview mirror. Instead of breaking character, shrugging his erect posture, he continued to pose, remaining perfectly still. I looked away. When I looked back, he summarily turned toward the trees, like instructed by an Army Sergeant, and disappeared into the brush.