Listening to Freebird at a KOA in Iowa

 Before the 2300-mile drive to Michigan, I print out a letter to keep with me while I travel:

To Whom It May Concern,

If you’re reading this, you pulled me over for some sort of moving violation.

For the past 2 summers, I’ve driven to Jackson, MI from Oakland, CA to visit in-laws. My wife and son fly to Michigan. My dog accompanies me on these trips. He should be in the back. He’s big but he’s very gentle and friendly. If you like dogs, feel free to pet him. His name is Sam, and he’s a good boy.

After a week in Michigan, the whole family jumps in the van and travels to South Carolina to visit my mom. We stay for a week and then my wife flies home, and my son, Sam and I take I-40 home. It’s a lot of driving, but I like having Sam on vacation. That’s why I drive.

While circling the country the past 2 summers, I’ve been pulled over 4 times – twice on I-80 and twice on I-40. Oddly, I’ve never received a ticket. Not once.

After being pulled over a second time, I got the feeling I was being profiled: out of state plates, driving an older mini-van with a dented bumper and no backseats, and traveling with a large dog (for protection?). And, as you can see, I’m a little disheveled and homeless looking. So, I assume, you’re pulling me over for suspicion of transporting drugs. A drug runner, right?

I mean, I can see this, but, as you can see, my eyes are clear, albeit a little sleepy looking.  The van is old and bruised but it once shined, transporting my kid from school to playdate to whatnot. It still runs well, so why get a new one? And the dog is a pet, not some viciously trained attack dog. Say hi.

If you must, search the vehicle. The last row of seats is missing to allow more room for Sam and me to rest at rest stops when I’m sleepy. Besides one suitcase and whole lot of dog hair, you’ll find some summer toys for swimming and whatnot. That’s it. I travel light.

If I were speeding, looking at my phone or driving like an ass, disregard the above and give me a ticket.

Sincerely,

Greg Kim

***

2 nights and 3 days of traveling is the goal. It sounds adventurous, but this is the way I travel – from point A to B as fast as possible. Since I have Sam and I can’t stop for a sit-down lunch or dinner, I eat very little and keep moving, sleeping for a few hours in a KOA or at a rest stop. The tent is the van, and the van is always hot, even with the windows down. This means little sleep.

30 minutes before sunrise, the first rays of light appear in the eastern sky. The night begins in Salt Lake City and ends here -- at the Wyoming/Nebraska boarder. I put on Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska and try to have a moment between music and geography. I’m not on the Garden State Parkway and there’s no factories billowing smoke, but mellow, haunting music is appropriate for sunrise. And it’s called Nebraska.

The light exposes a transition from arid, rocky plains of juniper and sagebrush to the lush rolling hills of the great prairie. When the welcome sign of Nebraska appears, it feels like the transition was immediate – rocks to prairie, like going from the garage to a warm living room.

The soft light ombre of yellows and oranges give way to bright, hot Midwestern sun. The mood is gone; I kill the music. It’s already hot and my face and eyes are dry. I’ve been traveling for 22 hours and I hope to make it to North Plate, Nebraska, 1343 miles from where I started. It’s a goal that comes with bragging rights.

I pull off the highway into a rest stop on the east side of North Platte. A sprinkling of cars dot the parking lot, most with their windows half-cracked. Most likely sleeping. I find a shaded bay, park and jump in the back with Sam. It’s hot, uncomfortably hot. An hour later I’m back on the road, air conditioning on full blast. Before leaving North Platte, I go through a McDonald’s drive-thru and get two English McMuffins – one for me and one for Sam. I give Sam the ham on my McMuffin. His eyes are saucers of delight.

Driving almost 24 hours straight is easy when you start from the comfort of your home and a good night sleep in your bed. Easy? Well, you know.  When you sleep for an hour in the back of hot fan, seat locks from the removed bench seat jamming into your hips and a 120 pounds of Sam leaning against me as I try to sleep, every mile of road from the upcoming drive is a burden. No theme music or fantasizing about buying a corn farm in Iowa, just an internal math problem of how miles to go and what time I will get there. There is eastern Iowa, 520 miles away. Short compared to yesterday, but long and grueling if you’re driving on one hour of sleep. 

Unlike the day before, where it felt like a road trip, full of optimism and discovery, today felt like I was driving with the parking brake on. No matter the music, no matter the beauty of the rolling hills, every mile was torture. I stopped constantly, drinking diet soda, stopping for McMuffins and taking catnaps with the driver’s seat back and the AC on. Windows up. 

Temporary traffic signs warn of traffic from an event at the Iowa Raceway. It is 11 pm and I assume the race is over or starting tomorrow. I exit I-80 and get gas and some snacks before sleeping at the KOA on the other side of the Freeway. I get a bottle of water, cashews and peanut M&Ms. The clerk asks if I’m here for the race and I say yes. No need to tell the truth when you’re traveling.

The KOA is crowded and I don’t have a reservation. I arrive late and leave early so a reservation is not needed. Of all the times I’ve stayed at a KOA, I’ve never been awakened by a camp host knocking on my window. 

I go to the bathroom and wash-up. Someone’s taking a shower. A shower would be nice but that requires a towel.  Old, round speakers built into the ceiling plays Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. It’s surreal. I take out my phone and take a 5 second video of the urinals, while Ronnie Van Zandt sings:

If I stayed here with you girl

Things just couldn't be the same

'Cause I'm as free as a bird now

And this bird you cannot change

I’ll post it on Instagram with some witty copy.

I take a cursory look at the camp map. It’s dark, very dark and I can’t see a thing. Sam and I get in the van and drive slowly through the camp, running lights on. I don’t want to draw attention. Most campers are asleep, wispy smoke from their extinguished campfires gently disappearing into the hot, wet night. I find a grassy area, roll down the windows and park. 

Too hot to sleep, I stare at the ceiling and incessantly check the time. At 5:30 am I give up. The horizon is changing and first light is near. I ball up my sleeping bag and stuff it in front of the front seat. Before starting the van, I notice I’m parked in an open tent area. Tents are all around me. It feels like I drove up on someone’s lawn and spent the night.

 On the way out, I stop by the bathroom to brush my teeth and let Sam out to go pee. No one’s up, so I let Sam off-leash.

Half expecting to hear Stairway to Heaven, I’m a bit disappointed with the DJ’s choice of Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple. The kitsch of last night’s Freebird was refreshing, but Smoke on the Water at 6 am in a KOA bathroom, on 4 hours of fitful sleep, was no fun. There would be no video or witty Instagram post. If I were a dick, I’d leave a negative Yelp review of the campsite: Camp’s ok but they have to stop playing classic rock in the bathrooms at 6 am. No one, and I mean no one, wants to Smoke on the Water at 6 am. 3 stars for being near the freeway.

At the exit of the camp, a large group is up and sitting around a campfire. It appears that they never went to sleep. A 70s El Camino and two large trucks are parked on grass, a race car on a trailer hitched to one of the trucks.  As I approach, a thin, balding man in his early 50s runs to the El Camino and grabs a chequered flag from the bed and waves it as I pass, to the delight of his friends. I assume he will do this all morning. It’s a good joke, a good drunk joke. I toot the horn.

The in-laws house is 400 miles away. I should be there before 6 pm. 2 more McMuffins and we’re back on I-80. With 4 hours of kinda-sleep and the destination on the horizon, I’m optimistic and dreams of buying a farm return.

We cross the Mississippi into Illinois and I think of Jeff Buckley drowning in the Mississippi with his boots on. He literally died with his boots on, albeit wet boots. 

K on the radio dial changes to W and we enter into the eastern half of the United States. The woodsy rest stops of California, and the concrete rest stops of Nebraska and Iowa are behind us, replaced by red bricks in Illinois. Each state tends to have their own rest stop architecture, a job no architect wants on their resume.

Sam and I stroll around at the first red brick rest stop, sitting on benches and looking for plaques that say something interesting about the area. I’m bored. 3 hours to go and I’m exhausted. We go back to the car, rollup the windows, put the AC on and take a quick nap. 

Before leaving I go to the bathroom. I pee a lot, I know. Belly-up to the urinal, a man in his early 20s is next to me. I glance over, eye’s up. I have Cal plates and I don’t want some homophobe calling me out. He’s wearing a new, yellow Banned in DC Bad Brains t-shirt. It catches my eye. Should I acknowledge it – say something like “Bad Brains” and give him a thumb’s up. I could tell him about HR climbing red velvet curtains behind the stage when they played SF. I think he’d like that.

The internal battle of whether or not to say something raged. Ultimately, I stayed quiet. There was a 30-year age difference and no young person wants an old man talking to them about punk rock.  (When I worked at a record store in high school, some cowboys were calling me fag, faggot, gay and, possibly, lesbian because they didn’t like the way I looked. I took it. After they eventually left, a man in a Vietnam army jacket approached me and said that in the 60s he was harassed for having an earring. I looked at him with a forced smile and thought, “Fuck off, Hippie.” I think of that anytime I want to tell a young person that I’m somebody…I used to be somebody.)

As we near Chicago, Audis, Mercedes and BMWs become more ubiquitous. Fords and Chevys still run the Midwest, but, with every passing generation, devotion to “American Made” wanes. And with foreign cars comes city traffic. It feels like home.

Past Joliet, Illinois, I-80 turns into a 4-lane highway, divided by a grassy median and “emergency vehicle only” turnouts every half mile. From experience, this is where cops park and wait for passing scofflaws. 

This is where I was pulled over last year. 

Traffic loosens and speed increases to 55 – 65 mph. I follow the speed of traffic in the slow lane and stay “two Mississippis” behind a semi-truck. A Crown Victoria with Michigan plates passes me, signals right and merges in front of me. I pull off the gas and idle until I’m a safe distance behind them. As this car-play is going on, we pass a cop who is parked on a turnout. As I pass, I monitor the sideview mirror to see if the car moves. It does. It pulls into the fast lane and accelerates, no lights.  I watch, hoping it will fly by. The car jerks right and the lights go on. I pull over and remind myself not to be combative or do anything stupid. I’m on mile 2200 with 200 to go, and sitting in a Chicago jail for being mouthy is not preferable to seeing my family and sleeping in a bed.

I put the car in park and take off my seatbelt. Pushing my hips forward, my left hand grabs my wallet.  I take out my ID and place it on the passenger’s seat, along with my wallet. I lean over and open the glove compartment, retrieving my insurance card, vehicle registration and I’m-not-a-drug-runner letter. I put them on top of my ID and return my hands to the steering wheel, 10 and 2.

I watch the cop through my sideview mirror. He slowly exits and walks toward my car, his gear heavy on his sides. It’s familiar. Even if you’ve never been pulled over, you know the scene from movies and TV.

“License, insurance and registration, please,” he says. His delivery rehearsed and automatic. 

I nod and say nothing. I grab the letter on the front seat and fold it in half. I move it to my left hand and grab the requested documents and place them in the folded letter and hand it to him. He takes the documents out of the letter and hands it back to me, thinking it’s a makeshift envelope to hold the items. I hand it back to him and say, “No, it’s for you.” Game on.

He slowly reads the letter and I return to 10 and 2, anticipating his response. I want a positive response, like an affirmation from a teacher.  Well Greg, that’s a very nice letter. Well written. It could use some editing, but it’s a good first draft.

I look up and my expression changes from frustration to resolve. My head pivots from front to side, my hands still 10 and 2. The space in-between us is long and unsettled. I have no idea how he’ll react. Will he think it’s funny? Will he blow it off and continue the dance of pulling me over for a moving violation? 

He takes my information and returns to his vehicle to call it in, looking for warrants and more information. This always unnerves me, no matter what the situation. 32 years prior, I jumped bail in Chicago over a rioting charge. A stranger bailed me out (and a few others) and said we didn’t have to stick around for the court date, so we immediately left town. When I was stopped last year in Illinois, it didn’t show up, so I feel confident he won’t return with bad news and cuffs.

He walks back to my van, papers in hand. “You were following the car in front of you closely. That’s why I pulled you over.” Dick!  No mention of the letter. 

Before responding, I have an epiphany. My head stops pivoting and I look up at him, my mouth slightly agape and a slow smirk sweeps across my face. Any fear that I had is gone. My eyes are confident.

“I know you,” I exclaim, accenting every word.  He stops, his left-hand falls to his side. 

“Excuse me?”

“I know you. You pulled me over last summer in this exact spot.” I’m busting. I can’t believe this is the same cop. His body tenses and his face blank and pensive.  I’m like a wind-up monkey wearing a fez and banging cymbals together. I can’t believe my good luck.

Not aware of our meeting last summer, he pauses. I can see him thinking. He read the letter and I assume his mind is working backwards to remember the interaction. I remind him.

“Last summer you pulled me over in this exact location. Do you remember Sam? The dog?” Sam is standing between the front seats, intrigued about this deviation. 

“We talked a little and I said you looked like Shane from The Walking Dead.” This appealed to his vanity and he perked up. He was a good-looking guy – strong chin, olive skin and thick, dark hair. He did look a little like Shane.

“Um, you told me you live near the border of Wisconsin and Illinois, near your parents.”

He slowly nods as the memory returns, his muscles loosen, his face softens. He probably can’t remember the exact interaction but he knows what I’m saying is true.

“I do, I do,” he said excitingly, a smirk on his face.  “That’s odd, I remember what you said about Shane. I don’t remember you but I remember parts of our conversation. When I got off work that day, I told some officers about it and they said I do resemble Shane.” He obviously liked the comparison. I had him.

What I didn’t mention was the drug running component of the story. When he pulled me over last summer, he asked me to get out of the car and sit in the frost passenger seat of his vehicle. He accompanied me to the car and sat in the driver’s seat. It was unnerving being in the front seat, computer screens and various electronics crowding the space. Why wasn’t I in the backseat? 

 “So, have you seen the TV show Cops?” It was the last thing I could imagine him saying. Why open with Cops?

I nod and say, “I’m more of a Dateline/America’s Most Wanted guy, but, yes, I’ve seen Cops.” A bit snarky but my confidence abounds. 

 “So, ultimately, they pull over someone and ask if they’re drugs or weapons in the vehicle, right?” He continues. 

I nod again, knowing where he’s going. “So, do you have any drugs or weapons in the vehicle?” 

I shrug and say, “No.” 

“Do you consent for me to search your vehicle?” 

I nod, dejected.

“Let me leash Sam before you search the vehicle,” I tell him. He agrees and I exit the vehicle and leash Sam, standing in a ditch while he searches. It’s very Cops.

The vehicle is basically empty except for one suitcase and lots of McMuffin wrappers.  He opens the back hatchback, the pulsating rhythm and noise of passing cars adding to the tension. 

I’m worried that he might plant drugs in my car. I watch intently, ready to yell, “I saw that!”

He closes the hatchback and walks toward me in the ditch.

“There’s a lot of dog hair in your car.”

“Yeah, he sheds a lot. Some people make sweaters out of their hair.” I don’t know why I said the latter. I was nervous, not as confident as before. 

“Really?” He seems appalled at this thought.

There is no mention of this interaction, only his resemblance to Shane from The Walking Dead. That’s OK.

He stuffs my information back into the folded letter and hands it to me.  It looks like there will be no search or ticket, this time. 

“Slow down and keep your distance from the car in front of you, OK? Have a good day.” I’m a bit indignant that he’s still pushing the moving violation narrative. We both know it’s a lie.

One step toward his vehicle, he stops and slowly turns. A slight smile on his pretty face. “Nice try with the letter. Be safe.” 

“You too, Shane. See ya next year.” He smiles and we have a human moment.

2 weeks later, Sam and I are traveling home on I-40, near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.  My son decided to fly home at the last minute. We spend the night at a KOA, leaving early the next morning. Before getting on the freeway, we stop for gas at an independent gas station and convenience store. 

I lean against the van, watching the numbers on the pump spin, clanking with every turn. Old, round speakers in the overhang– like the ones from the bathroom in Iowa – play a Catholic radio station. Trucks with 6 wheels come and go, off to do “man’s work.” 

Flimsy plastic chairs line the front of the store. Most seats are occupied, occupants sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and talking to each other. Inside, I buy a bottle of water. At the cash register, they’re fresh vegetables in a wicker basket with post-it note that says “Mary’s Farm.”

This gas station is like a café for this small, rural community. It’s a warm scene, even though the place is a wreck, inside and out.

I enter the freeway and I’m pulled over almost immediately. It’s 6:30am. Nothing bad should ever happen at this time of morning. The cop exits and slowly walks to my vehicle. He’s more Robo Cop and West Texas -- mirror shades and a straw cowboy hat -- than Shane and the community policing of urban areas. I hand over my documents and the I’m-not-a-drug-runner letter. The letter is a bit worn. And the dance begins again.

Part-time

Not to be confused with Jamiroquai, the floppy hat wearing, floor sliding ‘90s singer, Jobriath, the first openly gay artist to sign a 2 record, $500,000 recording contract with a major label – the most lucrative contract of its time -- was positioned to be the next big thing. Full-page ads were taken out in Rolling Stone, Vogue and Penthouse; posters were affixed to 250 NYC buses and a huge banner hung from Times Square, announcing Jobriath to the world.  He was going to be the next glam, theater rock Bowie.

A tour of European opera houses was planned, elaborate sets built and lavish costumes designed. However, poor record sales and mixed reviews of his two records halted stardom. He was dropped from his label. So much for advertising.

Jobriath quit music and moved to the notorious Chelsea Hotel in NYC in 1975, working as a lounge singer, bit-part actor, and augmenting his income with prostitution. I don’t think I’ve ever read that someone was a part-time prostitute. In the written word, it normalizes prostitution, offering no judgement. This is good. However, more times than not, prostitution would be the main job, and eventually everything else would go away. You come for the money, and stay for the drugs that helps you deal with the profession. Either way, Jobriath was way ahead of the world with his side hustle.

Unfortunately, Jobriath was one of the first musicians in the world to die from AIDS in 1983. 

                                                               ***

In-between batters of a baseball game between the Giants and Mets, Jon Miller, broadcaster for baseball’s San Francisco Giants, told a story about Cal Ripkin breaking Lou Gehrig’s 2,130 consecutive games played record.  Parked, I sat in my car and listened to the story, the tinny hiss of AM radio and crowd noise forming a soothing backdrop to his familiar voice.  

The game was temporarily stopped after the 5th inning, to recognize the historic accomplishment. Players, coaches and umpires took to the field, and fans stood, cheering. Cal acknowledged the crowd, tipping his hat and putting his hand on his heart. He returned to the dugout. 21 minutes later, fans were still standing and cheering, with no intention of stopping. They wanted more. His teammates pushed him out of the dugout and he took a lap around the park. Play was resumed.

My blue paisley face mask sat neatly folded in the middle of the passenger seat. It was late in the pandemic and the face covering had been with me from the start. It was barely holding on, though, the cords having lost most of its elasticity. A stranger told me that the mask brought out my blues eyes, so I was taking good care of the mask, elasticity or not. In the backseat on the floor, old soda cups were nestled together, pushed under the driver’s seat, and food packaging and wrappers were wrangled into a fast food bag, to be thrown out. It was tidy trash. 

Miller finished his story. I vacantly looked out the windshield. It was Sunday morning and an indestructible, brown plastic garbage can on the sidewalk was overflowing with the spoils of the night before -- fast food and alcohol bottles. Its pointy lid pulled back, to accommodate more trash. It’s always like this on the weekends.

Through the passenger side window, I looked at a large Stella Artois advertisement straddling the east side of a convenience store. It sits on a small, triangular dirt patch. The patch is used as an unofficial dumping ground of elaborate advertisement displays from the store. In the past, a large Icee cup display tempted me. I took it and gave it to my son. It hangs on his wall. 

The Stella Artois display was large, very large. A 24” square lightbox, 4” deep, positioned on a long, flimsy carboard tube, and supported by an even flimsier Christmas tree-like stand. The front and back face of the light box showed 3 people in block colors cresting an ocean swell in a vintage wooded boat – something you’d see JFK navigating around the Cape. A Caucasian couple sits in the front seats and an African-American woman sits sideways on a bench seat behind the man. Hmmm. The seat next to the AA woman in the back is vacant…for you, the person who enjoys the Stella Artois lifestyle. I liked the boat but my fair complexion deems such an excursion as torture.

Standing almost 7 feet high, its shape resembled the world’s largest protest sign. If you replaced the boat scene with BLM, it would slam down nicely on a Proud Boy’s head. That was one use for it. I was thinking more of a project, an art project. Yes, project, a dirty word to some. I thought of planting it in our front yard, replacing the boat scene with the words “We’re All Doomed.” It was late in pandemic, and homemade signs of hope (We’re All in This Together, We’ll Get Through This, etc.) were frequenting highway overpasses. I was more “We’re All Doomed.”

This creative urge subsided and I came to my senses. It was tempting, and I was sure it could be useful, but my message of doom would be exposing to the whole family, not just me. I decided against it, my wife’s sentiment echoing in my head: “Think of the family.”

Wilmer Flores homered in the top of the 2nd to give the Giants their first run against the Padres. “Adios, pelota,” Jon Miller yelled. It would be their only run of the game. I turned off the car, grabbed my face mask and went into the convenience store.

Two employees were behind the counter: the new owner and a clerk. I knew them both. 

As I dispensed my soda, I watched them though the reflective plastic advertisement that stands above the soda station, a space usually reserved for the big boys -- Coke or Pepsi. Today, however, it boasted a bear riding a wave with the words “Cool Chill” patterned across the graphic. 

I took a sip of soda from my cup and topped it off, the soda bubbling over where the straw is attached. I slurp the dregs from the lid and walk to the checkout. 

The owner stands at the left bay and the clerk the other. I belly-up to the owner’s bay and glance over at the clerk. He standing eerily still, alternating between looking straight ahead and through the front window to the small parking lot. He repeats this behavior, like he’s on a loop. 

I steady my soda on the counter and reached for my wallet.

Dressed in pleated Khakis, a jean color button-up with the company’s logo on the breast and gaudy, gold jewelry on both hands, he looked like the person in charge. "How are youuuuuu,” he says, holding the “oooh” for way too long. “Fine, and you?” I reply, making sure not to hold the “fine” too long and adhering to my policy of niceties only in retail situations. His facial skin was orangish from artificial tanning and his balding palette was dyed an unnatural color of orangish brown. His sing-songy speech and propensity to accent the last syllables of words in a high flourish was annoying, but he’s very friendly and might be on the spectrum so I give him a lot of rope. I try to remember it’s probably not his fault. 

He replies to my nicety: “Fine. Working…hardly working.” He laughs and I force a smile. Jokes like that will eventually change my opinion of him, spectrum or not. 

I place two dollars on the counter and look over at the clerk. He’s still dancing between looking straight ahead and out the front window. His blank expression has turned to annoyance. What is he looking at?

I scoured the parking lot for the answer. He wasn’t hard to find.  Pacing in front of the windows was man in his mid-20s. Like the clerk, he toggled between looking forward and looking in the store. Dressed in oversized jeans, dirty, black sneakers and a black bomber, his clothes were stiff from dirt and wear, a sheen emanating from his pants like they were a special kind of wash. His disheveled, wavy brown hair fell across his forehead. He knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted, and the clerk inside had what he wanted. No one was fooled.

The clerk quickly scurried behind me and announced that he’ll be right back. I put the change in my right pocket and wished the owner well. He replied, “You toooooo.”

I follow the clerk out the door and watch him. He gives the man a quick look and the man stops pacing. His eyes and face a mixture of anticipation and furtiveness. The clerk walks toward my car and disappears around the corner. The man follows.  I breach the corner and the clerk is standing next to the brown garbage can, his right hand digging in his pocket. His hand stiffens, he found what he was looking for. I surreptitiously watch from the car, my dark sunglasses protecting my anonymity.

The clerk takes a step toward the garbage can, pauses, looks into the garbage can, and gently places something below the rim. He closes the plastic lid and walks away, shaking his head. Hovering behind him, the man stands slightly stooped, palms forward and mouth agape. He intently stares at the rectangular opening in the lid. 

Following along with the drama, I’m concerned that closing the lid could’ve dislodged the “something” from its precarious place. I quickly chastised myself, knowing that the stooped man would dive head first into the can if that happened. 

On cue, the man moves quickly to the garbage can, finds what he was looking for and disappears into the late sun. 

I take a long pull of my soda and think about the part-time drug dealing clerk and Jobriath supplementing his income with prostitution. One man in the Bay Area, the other in New York City. Both working but not making enough money to live, so they look for alternative income sources -- something I desperately need but I call it passive income. 

Estonia to Emeryville and In-between

Marikka’s path to the United States started in Estonia. From there, she moved to Singapore, Paris, England, Miami, Silicon Valley and, finally, to Emeryville, CA., where she lived with her boyfriend. When I met her, she stood outside of the Oakland Airport on the third curb, waiting for an Uber.

No luggage, she had been in LA for the weekend, enjoying herself after being in a coma for 5 weeks at a hospital in Walnut Creek, CA. She told me this right away. Of course, I was interested.

“What happened?” I asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror.

She was young – probably under 25 – and reminded me of Elizabeth Holmes, the CEO of Theranos. Sans the breathy, baritone of Holmes’ speaking voice, they were similar in their calculated use of words, insightful responses and forced humor. Like Holmes, you could tell this woman had a vision.

“It was my own fault. I guess I took too many psychedelics over a 4-day period. It made my brain swell. It was in the tea, the psychedelics. I took it at the congregation ceremony. Other people did too, but I was the only one…” She paused and didn’t finish the sentence. She wasn’t reflective or pensive, she just stopped talking and took a moment to look out the window. Very matter of fact.

I had a lot to digest, but I focused on her use of the word congregation. To me, congregation is used when talking about church, but it would be a reach to assume she went to a church where a subset of the congregation dropped acid together. 

I did a little math. She said she got out of the hospital 5 weeks ago. Assuming she was hospitalized immediately after taking the acid, that would put her start date at the hospital right after Burning Man. Of course, Burning Man. She and her tech-druid friends probably adorned capes and ritualistically took acid on the playa. 

I didn’t press her on this new disclosure, but I looked at her differently. Until then, she seemed like an ambitious techy, raddling off impressive credentials with every place she lived: Singapore: internship; London: London School of Economics; Paris: fellowship; Walnut Creek: swollen brain and Silicon Valley: failed start-up. At 25, it was impressive and probably not all true. Either way, she seemed driven – not a visionary CEO, but definitely upper management.

The smell of Oakland’s sewage treatment plant permeated the air at the freeway interchange of 880, 580 and 80. Regardless of the time of day, it hung over the interchange like foul fog, deflecting blame for the smell to imaginary passengers in passing cars:

“Who farted?

“It’s the area.”

“Yeah right.” 

Passing Ikea on our left, I signal right at Powell Street and exited. If she were a tourist, I would’ve told her that before Ikea, the last steel mill in the Bay Area occupied the land, and behind the old mill were large mounds of oyster shells from the Ohlone Indians. This was more cabbie talk than Uber talk. There’s a big difference.

“What were you doing in Los Angeles?” I said, knowing it would be something good.

The light turned green and the 10 cars ahead us slowly idled forward, making the right at the intersection. I looked left to the shoulder and thought about my father recently dying. I had learned of his death from my sister on this ramp, pulling over to take her call. I didn’t cry but my body language to passing cars must’ve been a concern. One car pulled over at the intersection and walked back up the ramp to see if I was OK. It was a sweet gesture.

Marika told me she was in LA with her boyfriend, who was the CEO of a vegan dog food startup. They were doing TV and print interviews for the company. She said she worked at the startup too but didn’t tell me her title. 

Used to people questioning the validity of vegan dog food, she went on verbal bullet-point defense of why vegan dog food is better than conventional dog food, before I, and everyone else, asked, “Aren’t dogs carnivores?” I stayed silent, though. Vegan and conventional dog food was not my wheelhouse.

Maybe she thought I was a little too friendly, so from this point on, every sentence started with, “My boyfriend…”  This wasn’t unusual for women, nor was it odd for men to hear this. It was a simple way of saying “I’m taken, back off.”

Waiting for the light at Hollis and Powell, I look left to a gas station. They have an open bathroom that I use when I’m in the area. I know where all the public bathrooms are. It’s a gift.  An old sushi restaurant resides on the other side of the street. A large billboard and train tracks border the back of the building. I thought about watching Pavement through the open front door of the restaurant. I was late and the show was sold out.

We sat in silence for a bit. Red lights and silence can be awkward. Marika taps me on the shoulder. I slightly turn, craning my neck. She shows me a picture on her phone.

“That’s my boyfriend. He’s 40, but doesn’t look it, right?” Leaning slightly forward, her right hand gripping the head rest of the front passenger seat.

“You’re right, he doesn’t look 40. He’s handsome.” I threw her bone with the latter.

She leaned back in the seat, going through her boyfriend’s CV in detail. Like her, he was impressive on paper.

I pull up to a modest, pre-war bungalow with a yellow door. We exchange pleasantries. She quickly exits the vehicle, disappearing into the front yard.

Before pulling out, I Google her boyfriend and find his Instagram. Swiping up, I peruse 100s of posts as quickly as possible. Not a photo of Marikka.

Hit it to David Silver

 In the late 90s, I was at a matinee show at a local club. It was early and there was only a smattering of people watching the opening band. Most of the people there were with other bands on the bill and paying little attention to the young, enthusiastic band on stage. The young band were poor musicians and played through shitty equipment, but the enthusiasm and energy they projected reminded all of why we got into music. It made me want to be young again.

As people filed into the club, harsh rays of sunlight spilled through the front door, exposing a filthy floor and general decay that you don’t notice when it’s packed and dark. With every open door and sunlight, half the crowd turned around and looked to see who was coming through the door. It was very exposing, if you were entering. 

I was standing in the back near the sound booth. The door opened, light flooded the club and an acquaintance walked in. He went straight to the bar, got a beer and settled about ten feet to the left of where I was standing.

He was the boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend. When we saw each other out, we chatted music and made small talk. There was no animosity or weirdness between us. He was reserved, wore wire-rimmed glasses and had perfectly normal brown hair. He usually dressed in untucked button-up dress shirts, slanted pocket slacks and dirty sneakers.  It was a well-defined indie/slacker fashion choice, pioneered by Thurston Moore and Stephen Malkmus. 

Like so many people you meet when you’re young, you usually know something specific about them without having ever met: “She went to Harvard” or “He did time for sending drugs through the mail.” We all had reps; he was no different.  His story was that he co-wrote a hit single for a local band. Anytime I saw him, I thought about this. Not so much the song part but how much money he made from the song and was he still receiving royalties? I never mentioned that I knew.

Instead of walking over and greeting him, I stayed put. The young band was loud and conversation would be jilted and filled with blank faces, so I stayed put.

While watching the band, my eye kept looking over to him. He was dressed differently, very differently. Instead of the slacker look, he had on something that Fred Durst would wear: below the knee Ben Davis-like shorts with leopard print piping running down the sides, a chain wallet with an extra-long chain, a reproduction Chandler Bing bowling shirt and Converse hi-tops in leopard print. It was like he went to a rock shop on Melrose Avenue in LA and said, “Enough with the indie look, rock me up!”

It was hard not to look at him.  The chain, the leopard print – it was all too much. However, I got the feeling that he really liked what he was wearing. It was something he could never afford and always wanted. These were not thrift store clothes; they were definitely bought at a trendy clothes store.

When the band finished, I walked over and said hello. I asked him what was up and he said he just got off tour with Skinny Puppy or Ministry or some other band like that. I was impressed. I didn’t know he was hired gun and it explained the new fashion choice. With a little bit of white face makeup and eyeliner when playing live, the new looked worked.

I was a little older than him and long past desiring a piece of clothing that I thought was the coolest thing ever. However, when I was younger, I remember buying a few items that I coveted and had to have – clothes that dated you to a specific time period:

1] In 1980, if you wanted Doc Marten’s or Creepers, you had to get a store to import them, or, what most people did, they took a vacation to England, or they got a friend who was going to England to bring back a pair. Back then, lots of people made the trip oversees. It was like mecca for the punk rocks.

Without the internet, I managed to get a plaid butt flap (a piece of cloth that attaches to your belt loops and hangs below your bum) and Manic Panic hair-dye from Trash and Vaudeville in NYC and speed-bleach to die my hair white/blonde from a beauty store in the Castro (SF). I preferred green Vietnam army boots over Doc’s and pants and shirts were purchased at thrift stores and altered. However, what I really wanted were Creepers.

I put the word out to my sister’s friends in the city and they said a shop on Brady Alley off Market sold creepers for $85. Up until then, the largest purchases of my life were a guitar and amp. I lived at home, went to high school and had a job – I could afford this.

They were red suede with a single monk strap and extra thick soles. I loved them and wore them every day until the glue on the heel came undone, causing them to flap when I walked. By the time I retired them, my taste was changing. When I moved to SF, I left them at home and never saw them again.

2] Mohair sweaters went together with Creepers, and thrift stores were full of fuzzy, holey, pill-y mohair sweaters. When paired over a long-sleeve dress shirt – sleeves, collar and tail exposed -- it was my favorite look. If the tail was long enough, you wrote a band name on it, where people behind you knew your favorite band. How Creepers and mohair sweaters became acceptable punk fashion, you have to look at the Sex Pistols. Unbeknownst to most us, the Sex Pistols were put together by Malcolm McLaren and dressed by Vivienne Westwood. In many photos of the Sex Pistols, Johnny Rotten could be seen donning a furry mohair sweater, albeit a very fancy mohair sweater, not the thrift store kind we wore. Even in a scene where non-conformity was a premium, just one photo of a “punk star” in a mohair sweater was enough for everyone to adopt the odd, antithetical style.

In the mid-80s, I replaced Black Flag with The Replacements. With the musical change, came a new look: longhair, old t-shirts and tight jeans. Maybe a vest. Eeeeks. I still loved mohair sweaters, though, and now wore them with less an attitude. The subtle change worked in the new scene, too.

Around this time, I was in Berkeley with a friend. We stopped at a store called Urban Outfitters. In the window was a plaid, yellow and brown mohair sweater. Very fuzzy and very cool. We walked around the store and marveled that all the pants were already pegged. Up until then, you hoped your girlfriend had seamstress skills to straighten all your pants.

I found the sweater and surreptitiously looked at the price tag: $75. Unlike buying the Creepers, when I lived at home and had no overhead, I now lived in a Victorian in SF and all extra money went toward living. We eventually left the store but all I could think about was the sweater.

That night I told my roommates about the sweater…and the price of the sweater. They were supportive and told me to get, in spite of the hefty price tag. A few weeks later, I went to Berkeley with $80 and it was mine.

I wore the sweater out the store. It was fuzzy and beautiful and new and cool. I loved it. When I got home, I assembled my roommates and we had a fashion show. They loved it, too, but I could tell there was some trepidation – not just from them, but from me, too. It was kinda large, very itchy and it kinda cinched at the waist, causing it to balloon around the mid-section – a look that no one wants.

Like all people, we didn’t express this. I tried wearing it a few times, but I didn’t like it. After a while, I placed it on a shelf in my closet. With every move to a new apartment, it followed but it was never worn. It sat for almost two decades, in perfect condition. However, it was from Urban Outfitters which meant it had no resale value.

In the early ‘10s, I packaged it with 8 vintage sweater vests and sold it in a lot on Ebay. A guy from Chico, CA bought it. He said he wanted the vests for his BMX gang. He said nothing about the mohair sweater; the sweater was superfluous. Yes, it was.

3] When I turned 25, I went down to the Hall of Justice and got a taxi license. After a 2-hour taxi class, where a cop warned us about picking up “homies in Troop jackets on 3rd Street,” I was a cabbie. My band was touring a lot, and it was a perfect job for a musician: flexible hours (you could quit and come back), cash at the end of the night and no real boss. Essentially, it was a stripper type job for guys.

Before I started, I wanted to get an old taxi cap – one that Ernest Borgnine wore in Escape From New York. Yes, I was taking my fashion cues from an old actor. Again, I put the word out and someone said there was a good hat shop on Grant Street in North Beach (SF). 

North Beach was/is an enigma to me. Home of the punk clubs of my youth, no one I knew lived there. Ever. So, when I went there, I felt like a tourist amongst the Italian restaurants. It felt like a vacation, never worrying about running into someone you knew. I kinda liked it.

The hat store was located a couple blocks up from Broadway, on the left side. It was a small shop with most of the hats towering behind the counter. I easily spotted it midway up and to the left: a military style hat with a black leather visor, a yellow leather crown and a band with the words “Yellow Cab” written across the front. It was easy to spot. Not wanting to return to North Beach, I brought $80 with me. If the hat was more than $80, I would forego it and find something else. It wasn’t it. Like the creepers, I wore the hat out of the store. Walking down Grant, I stopped on Columbus and got a slice before returning home. I enjoyed the foray of being a tourist. It did feel like a mini vacation.

Unlike the fashion show of the mohair sweater, I arrived home and said nothing, but I had a look on my face that said “I’m wearing a taxi hat. Look at me.” Unlike the sweater, there was no remorse. The hat was cool. It was rock. It looked great.

Unfortunately, I got a job at City Cab, not Yellow Cab, but I didn’t care. I was still wearing the hat.

Before starting, a taxi driver friend told me the hard rules of being a cabby. I thought he was going to tell me not to pick up “dudes in Troop jackets” and general people to avoid, but he didn’t. The rules were about picking up your cab and returning it:

1. When picking up your cab from the dispatcher, tip him $10. If you don’t, you’ll be assigned the worse cab and you’ll never get an airport run.

2. When returning the cab, tip the gas man a dollar and change. Regardless of whether you filled up right before returning to the lot, the gas man always topped you off, and you always had to tip, regardless.

3. Upon returning, pay the gate (daily vehicle rental) and tip the dispatcher another $10.

4. You’re young, no one will like you. Don’t do anything to piss them off.

Like wearing a Yellow Cab hat? Dispatcher was an extremely coveted job.

That was it. It sounded a bit like the mafia and extortion but I didn’t care. I was young and I had the perfect hat. Tip the dispatcher in and out, and tip the gas man a dollar and change. Simple. I was ready.

Waiting in line to get keys to my cab, I clinched a $10 bill in my right hand. I approached the window and said, “Driver Kim. It’s my first day.” Without looking up the up, he said, “Your cab is on its way back. Number 2048,” and slid the keys under the plate glass window. I grabbed the keys and replaced it with a $10 bill.

Outside, 10s of drivers milled around two very old gas pumps, waiting for their cab to pullup. For the afternoon shift, cabs returned in intervals: 4:30, 5:00 and 5:30. I found a place on the fringe and waited. There were no women waiting. Most of the drivers were in the 40s and 50s, wearing baggy, dirty, dark clothes and looked worn-out and downtrodden. Some were drinking 40 ouncers and others were smoking pot. My first day and, if I stayed, the future was right in front of me.

As I waited, one the 40 oz drinkers broke from his circle of drivers, and walked toward me. I looked behind me and then at him. He was coming for me. With a black derby jacket, baggy jeans and non-descript black sneakers, he was in mid 40s, tall and little overweight. His shoulder length wavy brown hair was brush to the side, sweeping across.

“This is City Cab, not Yellow Cab,” he blurted. To the lifers, it was a profession. He spotted me as a dabbler. Before I could say anything -- not sure how to respond to that –he turned and returned to the fold. I had already broken the 4th rule: don’t piss off the drivers.

A little shaken, I convinced myself that it was no big deal, while staring intently at a new wave of cabs returning from their shift.

Besides the Yellow Cab hat in my head, I was wearing an Ed Hardy tattoo t-shirt that my friend Josh printed, tight, pegged jeans with holes in the knee, leopard print Converse hi-tops laced up halfway and a red velvet vest over the t-shirt. It was the most rock I’ve ever looked. Throw in my mirrored shades and I was the biggest douchebag there. 

My cab finally came. Thank God. I left the yard and looked for fares. 12 hours later I returned. I tipped the gas man, the dispatcher and left. When I got home, I retired the hat. It would make appearances -- my roommates and I wearing it while drunk, but it never left the house. I eventually traded it to a friend for a P-coat. It’s cold in SF.

I lasted two years as a cab driver, the second year working once a week, at most. While filling up at an outside gas station, the cabbie who said “This is City Cab…” pulled into a bay, and went inside the station, returning with two drinks. He came over to where I was leaning against the cab and said, “Have you ever had horchata?” Before I could respond, he handed me a drink in a Styrofoam cup and raised his drink in salute. We touched Styrofoam. “Hammer of the Gods,” he said. That was the only time we talked.

4]  Dan worked at NaNas on Market. NaNas, along with Daljeet’s and other Haight Street indie fashion stores, sold everything I would’ve wanted when I was in high school: Docs, Creepers, studded belts, tights with daggers on them and skulls on the everything you could imagine. It was like Disneyland for Chris Angel and Dave Navarro.

The people who worked there didn’t exactly mirror what they sold but they had their own fringe style: Guys in tight jeans, harness boots or Docs, chain wallets, flannels or gas station shirts and oversized t-shirts; Women pretty much wore baby doll dresses with Docs and tights. It was the early 90s and it was the dominant hipster fashion. 

Dan’s friend and co-worker, Cam, who looked a little like Geddy Lee (…and you’re my fact-checkin’ cuz), deviated from the fashion norm. Instead of flannels, he wore oversized, flowing printed dress shirts, made out of thin, silky cotton. Paired with his extra tight stretch pants, he was tight on the bottom and loose on top. A wind machine’s friend. I liked the look.

Dan worked in the shoe department. Since I was poor, he would give me used shoes (mostly Docs) that people left at the store when purchasing new shoes. He knew my size. One day he called and said he had a used pair of harness boots for me. Harness boots? I was excited. Up until then, it was predominantly Docs and an occasional derelict Monkey boot. Later that day I stopped by the store. Dan went in the back and got me the shoes. While I waited, I browsed the oversize printed dress shirts. Cam definitely used his employee discount to get some of these. Amidst the swirls, checks and swooshes of patterned shirts was a white dress shirt covered in blue stars. The fabric was thin and soft and it flowed. It would be a departure if I got it. I wanted it.  I asked Dan if he would use his employee discount to get it and he said yes. I told him to get it in XL. With his discount it came out to $45. I pulled together money from a half-night of cab driving and paid Dan.

That weekend the NaNa people were hosting a picnic in Golden Gate Park. It would be a perfect opportunity to wear my new shirt and try out my new look. 

The mirror saw tight-ass jeans, brown suede harness boots and my new star dress shirt. It didn’t feel right.  I stared at the mirror, raising my shoulders, while pulling down on the tails of the shirt. It looked a little better, a little skinnier. Maybe it was because it was fancy and I wasn’t that fancy. That wasn’t it, though. 

Unlike bone-skinny Cam, I was more barrel-chested and a bit thick around the waist. Even with the skinny on the bottom, loose on the top fashion sense, it made me look like a beached whale or like I was hiding weight. And, it was more blouse than shirt -- something to you wear to cover your ass. Dejected and determined to like it, I kept it on, but braced for mockery. Mockery was just part of life. My roommates said nothing about the shirt when I told them it was time to go. Not a good sign.

A boombox on a picnic table played ‘50s songs. Oldies.  Figuring it was a mixed tape, with other types of contemporary hipster music mixed in, I didn’t give it a second thought. I was more worried about my shirt. However, after 30 minutes of oldies, I found myself mouthing the words to “In the Still of the Night.” And I had a theory about what was going on.

Like Mormons on their two-year missionary trip, where they bike from house-to-house wearing big suits over long underwear, and knock on doors to proselytize

about Joseph Smith, these NaNas ultra-hipster were attempting to proselytize oldies. They switched religion for music.  Because they held sway due to their employment, and they dressed in the coolest non-fashions, people would see them listening to oldies, and they would follow suit. It was contrived and calculated, and it may have worked. Not with me, though. Or they thought they worked for Sha Na Na and, in this case, they would be required to listen to oldies. Either way, I was on to them, but, if I said something, my used shoes connection would dry up.

Cam was there in stretch pants and an oversized patterned dress shirt, like always. He looked great, and it looked natural on him. It was a bit windy and his blouse gently swayed with every gust. He flitted from group to group, while the boombox played Clarence “Frogman” Henry’s “Ain’t Got a Home.” A few couples danced on the grass next to a fire pit, strolling, cha-chaing and hand jiving.  You could tell they practiced.

 In contrast, my shirt was more Mumu, and I felt very uncomfortable in it. I knew it, everyone knew it.

Dan was late getting there, as always. He was my connection to these people. As he walked up, he had a big smirk on his face. I knew the smirk was for me:

“Well, well, well, nice blouse. Did you get it at Claire’s?”

He knew where I got it. He was being a dick.

“Fuck off.”

The fog lifted, and the sun made an appearance. Like all Golden Gate Park picnics, I was wind burned, cold and probably sunburned, even though a thick fog persisted most of the day. Regardless of time of year, it was always like this.

Dan grabbed a beer and talked with the 50s crowd. Some non-oldies were playing volleyball. I decided to join them. I took off the star shirt, balled it up and stuffed it into my bag. Underneath, I was wearing a Beverly Hills 90210 shirt. Irony.

I subbed in to the front row, center. Across from me was woman I kind of knew. We nodded and she gave me a competitive look, her shoulders gently swaying from side to side, eye’s wide. Her team was serving. Before the ball was served, she looked at me and announced to her team: “Hit it to David Silver.” Great. I was now taking shit for my t-shirt. For the rest of the day, she called me David Silver, first and last name. My only option to was to take off my shirt. Last time I did that, though, a stranger called me Casper.

When I got home, I took the shirt out of my bag. It was wrinkled and had lost its “flow.” The chill of the picnic was still with me, and the drafty Victorian I lived in wasn’t helping. I tossed the star shirt into the bottom of my closet, never to see it again. Good riddance.

Tiger King

Even though the neighborhood was changing again – new, young, moneyed couples looking for houses under $1,000,000 with an Oakland zip code -- it was still economically and racially diverse (kinda), and, mostly, still very liberal. Or at least it seemed that way.  In fact, our neighborhood was one of the most liberal zip codes in the country. It showed with the cars we drove and the clothes we wore. It’s now very easy to tell liberals and conservatives by their looks, even if they’re not dressed like an American flag.

Unlike us lifers, who were in our forever home and going nowhere, the newbies will more than likely move farther out to a less cooler zip code when their youngest starts kindergarten. They’ll tell their friends Oakland schools suck, mention crime and justify the move with math: a more expensive house in the suburbs was cheaper than sending two kids to private school. Makes sense.

Neighborhood block parties were eventually replaced with Nextdoor, a Facebook-like website for neighbors to chat, plan and complain. Like most everything on the internet, it’s shit-show that devolves into anger over the littlest of slights. Like Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, I enthusiastically signed up for Nextdoor, and, like Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, I quickly ignored the platforms, returning only when multiple helicopters were circling overhead or when police cars surrounded a neighbor’s house, to see what the hell was going on. It’s great for these types of answers.

One thing I did notice about Nextdoor, is our neighborhood was filled with all types of liberals: namaste liberals, Subaru liberals, rich liberals, poor liberals, sporty liberals, I-call-it-like-I-see-it liberals, a-person-is-sitting-their-car liberals, etc. And they all tend to think they’re right and offer diverse opinions on innocuous incidents. For example: Someone posted that a car driving through their neighborhood pulled over, and a man got out and pissed in some bushes and then left in the car. I read it and thought,” Yeah? It’s better than shitting between parked cars.” 

Most comments were mostly supportive and middle of the road: “Sorry you had to see that” and “Probably doesn’t live in the neighborhood.” But there were other that took it to the extreme: “If you have video, go to police and have him arrested for exposing himself.” Yes, this person wanted him on the sex offender registry for exposing himself to an imaginary person/child. On the other side was this: “We shouldn’t judge. Maybe the man had a prostate problem and needs to pee every 10 minutes.” Sexual predator, prostate victim, or, more likely, some dude that really had to go to the bathroom. The post racked up 10s of comments and arguing ensued. The many shades of liberalism were on display.

During the early days of the Black Life Matters, when I thought BLM graffiti meant Bureau of Land Management, a rumor spread quickly through our neighborhood that BLM protesters broke into the Oakland Zoo and released tigers. Helicopters were circling and I checked Nextdoor for information.  If this were true, the protesters would have to find their way to our outer Oakland neighborhood, walk a mile uphill from the entrance to the tiger pen, avoiding zoo police and pretty much anyone, and the gate to the pen would have to be open. Also, there’s the little problem of opening the gate and quickly being devoured by the tiger. This rumor had big, gaping holes.

Before the police said it was a hoax, I decided to pen my first Nextdoor post: “Tiger found near Oakland Zoo. Resting in my garage. I gave her some milk and a deer carcass. Her name is Shnookums. DM me, if she’s yours.” Fortunately, the internet provided a photo of a tiger in a garage, with blood all over the floor. I posted the photo and the copy. A few hours later, the post garnered 66 replies and I was laying low. 

The replies clumped together in multiple camps of thought: About 15% of the replies thought I actually found a tiger and was keeping her in my garage. I didn’t expect this. Another group of people didn’t think it was funny, “given the time we live in.” Another group thought it was funny and “just what we needed, given the times.” Another group thought I was an idiot, and the last group argued whether it was appropriate to use humor, “given the times.” I changed my Nextdoor icon to Shnookums and vowed never to do that again.

A few days later, I received an email from Nextdoor informing me that my account was suspended. 

If You Lived Here, You Made it

 The neighborhood was diverse. In white-speak, that means black people lived there, too. Or, if I were speaking the truth, black people had always lived there since World War II and white couples were moving-in, fleeing the first dot-com in San Francisco, seeking cheaper housing. 

The wave of gentrification had been going on for a few years, and houses that sold for under $100,000 ten years ago, were now getting close to $400,000. At the time it seemed like a fortune; 15 years later it seemed like a steal. That’s the way housing worked in our area: $1,000,000 starter homes and $800,000 houses sold as-is, with dog crap on the living room floor when touring the house. I’ll take two, please.

With the new wave of homeowners came disparity in age: new residents were under 40 with young kids, and existing owners were over 65. The new residents were teachers, social workers and office workers, driving Hondas and Toyotas. They removed security doors and windows, planted drought-resistant succulents and unofficially adopted local schools, determined to “make them better.” I love you, Oakland, now change.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, bought her home in 1966 and raised her family there until she passed in the 2016. When Mrs. Jackson purchased the house, she said it was where all the black professional lived at the time. “If you lived here,” she said, “you made it.” Anytime I drive through the neighborhood, I think of these words.

Her son tried to keep the house but they owed a $400,000 balloon payment that was due in two months. He didn’t seem to worry about the huge payment. He told me this while talking about adding a second story to the house, and asked if I would object to adding a second story. I shrugged it off for later, knowing they were going to lose the house.

The house was foreclosed on a few months later and bought by a house flipping group for $550,000. Unlike most house flips, where they feverishly work and re-list the house a few months later, this group took their time, finishing the flip 18 months after purchase. They listed the fully renovated home for $920,000 – the highest priced home in our neighborhood. 6 months later it was down to $720,000 with no buyers in sight. 

Our other neighbors were Evelyn and Norman Franke. They bought their home in 1948 – first home on the block. Both were born and raised in Oakland and were Cal Berkeley professors before retiring. When I met them, they were in their mid-80s, still driving (recklessly) and enjoying a good life. 

The day we moved in, Norman came over and welcomed us to the neighborhood. He was tall, gangly, and spry for his age. His clothes were a size or two big for him, which I figured was due to old man weight loss. He told us about the year he spent in a sanitarium for TB and a story about finding three magnolia tree saplings while hiking up the street. He said he gave one to a doctor as payment, gave one to a friend and planted the other on the border between our houses. 55 years later, the mature magnolia tree towers over our house, shading the house on warm days. Before he left, he asked if he could speak to me in private. I was intrigued. He informed that an 18-inch strip of lawn of his property butted up against our lawn, and asked if I would mow it when I mowed our front lawn. I said I would, of course. In return, he offered to rake the hardy leaves of the magnolia tree. I told him he didn’t have to do that, but he insisted. We shook hand and he said it was a gentleman’s agreement. I liked that.

The next morning Norman was raking leaves in our front yard. It was a bad look for me, but telling him to stop would be worse than my bruised pride. A few days later Evelyn told me that he likes raking leaves and for me to let him do it. His adult children, when they visited, echoed the same sentiment.

Evelyn and Norman lived until their mid-90s – Evelyn went first and then Norman a few years later. I assumed their health was declining when Evelyn told me they were taking a cruise to Colorado to visit their children. I didn’t correct her because she once looked at me and said the goats were coming, while looking at the meadow across the street. A few days later, a flimsy electric fence appeared across the street bordering the meadow. A day later, 500 goats devoured the meadow.

When they died, and the rest of the elderly homeowners in the neighborhood perished or moved into assisted living, they were replaced by a second wave homeowners. Gone were the Toyotas and Hondas, replaced by Volvos, Subarus and Teslas. Housing prices had doubled and some tripled, so gone were the teachers and social workers. The new crop was younger, pedigreed and mostly worked in tech as Social Media Managers, Lifestyle Photographers and Directors of Diversity and Fun, but even with the high salaries of tech, they still needed generational wealth for a down payment. 

One morning I was talking to our new neighbor next to the magnolia tree. It was mid-June and the grass in the meadow across the street was waist high. As cars races up and down the street, making it hard to hear, I looked toward the meadow and said, “It’s almost time for the goats. They should be here in a few days.” 

4 Sentences and a Thank You

 Mr. Kim,

Hello, my name is Claire Huckster and I have been retained by Ms. Jones to represent her in your upcoming dissolution.

We have filed the paperwork and a case has been opened. We would like to arrange to have you served.

Please let me know what days and times and place work for you to be served this week.

 Thank you.

*

4 sentences and a thank you ends the marriage. Ding, ding. 

I reread the email a handful of times and was amazed at how passive and innocuous the words were. Dissolution? For you to be served?  Its delivery was rhythmic, bouncing from ‘we” to “we,” as if it were a poem. Like all recipients of this type of email, I irrationally thought, “19 years of marriage ends with a short, carefully worded email?” It has to end some way. Why not like this?

Most of my questions were about being served. With little to no knowledge of how you’re served, I assumed it was the “chase and surprise” method shown on TV. This could be fun, I thought. 

I waited a few days to respond. When I did, I asked for a favor:

Hello,

Thank you for the email. 

I can be served at my home address after 3 pm.  Any day of the week is fine.

A favor: I’m not sure how I will be served. A tap on the shoulder while shopping at a mall? Approached while walking through a parking lot? Even if I’m served at my house, I assume there will be drama to it. Because of this, I request the following from the server, if possible:

 Knock on the door and ask for me. When I come to the door, ask, “Are you Greg Kim?” I’ll reply, “Who’s asking,” in an angry voice (don’t worry, I’m acting). Hand me a 11”x 8” envelope and say, “You’ve been served!” As quickly as possible, throw a provided smoke bomb (I’ll leave a smoke bomb at the foot of the stairs) at your feet. As the colored smoke rises, make a magician move with your hands, look me in eyes and mouth “gotcha.”

Thank you, Greg Kim

I hit enter. 4 days passed and no reply. She wasn’t my lawyer so I couldn’t casually send an email asking if she read my email. I assume if I did this, my ex would be charged for 15 minutes of her time, which was probably very expensive. 

5 days after the initial reply, I received a text from the server asking if I was home? A bit perturbed because I never received an email saying when I’d be served, I asked, “Did the lawyer give you my special instruction for being served?  Within seconds, the dancing 3 balls of texts wiggled: “I don’t know what you’re talking about! The exclamation point denoting anger. “OK, leave it at the door, if you can.” 

Most of my bullshit is met with blank stares and bewilderment. If it’s online, it’s usually immediately cancelled or met with fake indignant replies. I’m used to it, but I never give up hope that someone will play along with my games. It never happens, though.

Upon returning home, a manila envelope sat eschewed on our doormat.

Nestled between Amtrak train tracks and 880 freeway, the Hayward Hall of Justice of Alameda County looks like every other Hall of Justice in California that hasn’t been renovated. A brutalist structure of concrete and glass, it’s the opposite of welcoming and airy. It’s somewhere you don’t want to be, where no one wants to be. Inside is like all courthouses: Lots of marble; old, large bathrooms with wooden stall doors and public defenders and teenagers sitting wood benches, huddling and talking in low tones.

I followed the sidewalk to the front entrance, my left hand clutching a manila folder with an FL-120 form inside – the form used to respond to initial divorce papers.

The front of the courthouse was blocked by three large, rectangular tables, forming a barrier between the entrance and the public. 3 civil servants stood masked behind the tables, looking tired in I-don’t-care city employee clothes. I queued up in line, standing on a 12-inch round sticker that said 6-foot social distancing. It was early in the pandemic, but we were already used to these stickers and keeping our distance.

I patiently waited, taking out my phone and staring at the screen like the rest of the line. It was a warm late spring day and I wore a baseball cap to shield my pale face. As I waited, I practiced what to say. I tend to stumble when explaining things to strangers. I stumbled while practicing so I gave up and waited.

The fold-up rectangular table separated us. Instead of bellying up to the table, we both stood 3 feet behind the table on opposite sides and slightly leaned forward to talk.  

I took out the FL-120 form in the envelope. “Hi, I need to file this for dissolution,” pointing at the form. The man squinted to see the form. I held it out farther out. “Dissolution?” he replied. I shrugged and low-voiced the word: “Divorce.”  The person behind me looked up from his phone. The civil servant perked up and said, “Oh, you’re in the wrong place. This is the social services building, the courthouse is across the street,” pointing to a similar looking building.

Putting the form back in the envelope, I followed the sidewalk past a hot dog vendor and a T-Mobile tent with two people sitting behind a table. A handful of people were getting hot dogs and talking to the T-Mobile reps, so I slightly veered into the street to avoid the small crowd. It was a pandemic and I was doing my part. An oncoming car slowly passed me, eyeballing me the whole way. The driver’s right hand slowly went up and he gave me a look that said, “What the fuck are you doing? Get out of the road.” I ignored him, mumbling, “Fuck off, dick. It’s a pandemic.” 

A small line formed outside of the courthouse. No tables blocking the entrance. One by one, a handler let us into the building when a person left. I waited patiently and distanced myself from the person in front of me, sans round stickers telling me where to stand.

The line moved quickly. I entered the building through the far-right door, given no instruction of where to go.  In front of me were baggage screening and x-ray machines, blocked by a mishmash of chairs. A makeshift wall sat flush next to the x-ray machine, preventing access to other areas of the room. Past the machines sitting at the end of the baggage conveyor belt, two guards in uniform sat in dining chairs, a social worker type standing behind them. They were talking. I looked through the top of the x-ray machine, trying to catch their eyes. 

One guard looked up and yelled, “Whatcha need?” We were about 20 yards apart, separated by chairs and machines. 

“Yeah, hi, I need to file dissolution papers?” I said dissolution again, hoping to get a different response. My voice at a soft yell.

“What papers?” he replied, his eyebrows raised.

Dejected, my shoulders shrugged and I gently shook my head. “Divorce,” I blurted out, forcing a smile. 

His expression changed to understanding and said, “Oh, put it in that box on the table,” pointing to a cardboard box to the left of me. The box was closed with a small slit on top, red duct tape framing the slip to reinforce the opening. The guard’s change of expression when I said divorce would be one that I would recognize. It said he was in the divorce club.

“What about the money for filing? Can I use a card?” 

“Nope. Check or money order.”

Up until this moment, my strategy was to pay for the divorce on a one credit card. With the option gone, my mood changed to resolve. My cheeks grew flush and the ends of my mouth drooped. It felt like a lead blanket was slowly dragging down my body.

I put the form in the box with no check or money order. Before it began, it was over. I wouldn’t be fighting the divorce or asking for alimony. I had zero dollars in my banking account, and without financial support, I was done. 

Trying to convince myself that doing nothing was a good plan, I turned and lumbered out the door, my body a little bit heavier than when I entered.  I followed the sidewalk to the parking garage, mumbling “Fucking stupid dissolution divorce. Stupid-ass dissolution.”

Doing nothing was the easy way out; fighting for a small piece of the fruits of 19 years of marriage would be hard. I would have to prove I was a good husband, an earner, a good father, a good person and a person with a decent digital footprint. All of this and more would be brought up, dissected and discussed behind a mahogany conference table in a lawyer’s office, I assumed. My lawyer and me on one side; her lawyer and she on the other side. This was too much to bear. Walking away was easier, even if it meant destitution. But I knew all that was bullshit. This was about exposure and vulnerability. Keeping quiet and saying nothing, I thought, would protect me, and sway opinion on me in a positive light. I was delusional.

3 weeks later a white envelope with a return address from the Court of Alameda arrived in the mail. The address was handwritten in terrible penmanship. As a person with bad handwriting, I noticed good and bad handwriting, and judged my handwriting against the bad. Knowing it had something to do with the form I submitted, I slowly opened the envelope and peeked inside. The form I submitted was in the envelope with a Post-It affixed to the front that said, “Filing fee of $435 dollars required. Please pay.” The penmanship was horrible.