On His 8th Grade Graduation

Wolfie,

In 8^th grade, my best friend was a kid named Frank Pavlick. I had met him in the middle of 7^th grade when we moved from Virginia to Pleasanton, California. I’ve mentioned him to you before. He’s the guy we called frog because he could jump really high and he could also do endless pull-ups. He was also fond of dark-colored corduroy pants and tank tops.

We graduated 8^th grade on a Friday in June of 1982. Both of us wore brown polyester suits with button-up silk shirts and brown leather shoes with a 2-inch heel. The suit was called Wildfire (yes, the suit had a name), which was a knock-off of another, more expensive suit called Angel Flights. John Travolta wore Angel Flights in the movie Saturday Night Fever and, it seemed, pretty much the rest of American men followed suit (no pun), even 8^th graders.

The graduation ceremony ended at dusk, followed by a graduation dance in the gym. Neither Frank nor I had ever been to a school dance, so we vowed to go -- even if we just stuck our heads in and said hi to friends. And that’s what we did: stuck our heads in, turned around and went home.

In our Wildfires, we rode our bikes home in the dark. We went to Frank’s house, played guitar and listened to music. At the time, music was still somewhat of a rebellious act. Not all kids were into music. I know, it’s hard to believe. Frank and I were known for the bands we liked and our guitar playing (Frank was voted best musician in school and class sweetheart. The latter is another story, though. I’ll tell you about it later).

At midnight, we watched Alice Cooper’s Welcome to my Nightmare (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgPqZmrJ380) on TV. It was a perfect ending to 8^th grade. I left his house around 2 am and rode home. That was the end of 8^th grade and the beginning of high school.

As you embark on high school, I can’t express how proud of you I am. You’re engaged, you participate, you’re passionate and you’re a good, kind, and gentle human being. The world needs more people like you.

Always remember to show compassion and empathy toward others and remember the golden rule. Your future has no boundaries and I can’t wait to see the great things you accomplish. Be great!

I love you so, so much and I will always be here for you. Happy graduation.

I love you, Dad.

And I Would Deserve It

One burgundy shirt and a wooden bead necklace away from looking Rajneesh, I parked my car on the north side of the 400 block of Golden Gate. It was almost 6 pm and I was counting on meter parking being free. I was right.

In the boot of the car was my burgundy jacket. I was wearing burgundy pants, a black t-shirt, and Red Wing ankle boots. This was my outfit for our gig at City Hall. 

Across the street was Stars -- long shuttered. It was a fancy restaurant before fancy restaurants.  In ’89 I picked up Leslie Nielson and 2 friends South of Market in my cab and took them there. The entrance was in the alley at 150 Redwood.

At the corner of Golden Gate and Van Ness was Chevy’s – long shuttered. They had light airy chips with mild salsa. When I splurged for lunch, I ordered 2 chicken enchiladas and a Diet Pepsi in a large, red plastic cup, filling up on the chips and salsa before the order arrived. I miss Chevy’s.

Across the street was The Opera Café. Still there. On their door, it says, “This is a good place for a diet. This is a bad place for a diet.”  Waiters were adorned in tuxes, prone to break out in song. This was their shtick. Never been there.

Walking down Van Ness toward McAllister, the sidewalk was filled with workers going home or out to dinner. The light at McAllister was on the tail end of a green light. I slowed, knowing I wouldn’t make it. Bringing up the rear of the workers crossing the street, a homeless man walked his bike, two large Hefty bags filled with recyclables tied to the seat post, protruding three feet on both sides. It was a sight I’d seen before.

As the bike up rolled up the slight incline of the handicap ramp, his bags inevitably hit everyone he passed. The last person to get hit was a young man in colored denim, a button up long sleeve dress shirt and tie. No jacket. It was casual, but work appropriate. It said he cared about looking good for work.

The homeless man was Southeast Asian, slightly built with thick, black, unkempt hair and saucer eyes in full dilation, as if he was desperately trying to receive more light from the sun. My drug-dar being off since leaving the Tenderloin 5 years ago, rendering me a drug layman, I deduced he was mixing drugs: alcohol with methamphetamine, I would say. And throw in some mental illness and poverty. 30 years ago, I would’ve said his ass was crazy.

Like everyone else who got hit by the bags, the young worker ignored it and moved on, looking up at the adjacent building’s 2^nd-floor window and talking on his phone. However, the homeless man had had enough. He called out the worker:

“Fuck you, man. You’re a fucking asshole. Fuck you.”

I approached the scene, stopping about 10 feet from the worker and immediately deduced that I could take the guy if need be. My Tenderloin co-worker of 13 years taught me that you “don’t jump over the bar unless you’re going to win the fight.” I was pretty sure I had this. Before a physical altercation, I would employ my own Tenderloin tactic: yell every swear word as loud as you can. Or a calm, “Move on, motherfucker,” while intently staring at the subject. This usually worked. Luckily, no one seemed intent on fighting.

As I stood there, ready, I noticed that for every “fuck you,” the worker nodded politely, not engaging the homeless man. It was fascinating. He had turned toward the man, expressionless, taking everything he said with a slight nod.

As the homeless man tired of swearing, he yelled, “I should kick you in the balls.” This was obviously his swan song. It would either invoke a physical reaction or that would be it. There were others watching and the intrigue was waning. Either way, I was ready,

On cue, the young worker nodded and spoke. We all waited: "And I would deserve it." I did not expect that. I looked around as if I were the only one who heard it, with an expression that said, "Did you hear what he said? It was brilliant. I love this guy."

The worker looked up toward the window. A woman appeared and dropped a key. He vanished into the doorway of the apartment. I stayed put as the homeless man walked past me, processing what I had seen.

The hyper-masculine approach of my youth and my Tenderloin training of swearing loudly was dead -- this was the future. The future was calm, inclusive and empathetic. It was something he learned in school, starting in kindergarten. It wasn’t learned in a workshop, class or retreat. It embodied him, it came naturally. As naturally as anger came to me.

3 Stories of the Middle Finger

3 Stories of the Middle Finger

Bearded, staring into space, Dave’s stepfather toggled the living room and dining room in his wheelchair. Roofing accident. The brown shag matted with small piles of poop around him. His mother was out. We behaved differently when she was gone.

I walked past his stepfather, nodded and made my way to the back of the house. Dave’s bedroom door was halfway open. He was standing in front of a full-length mirror, giving himself the middle finger.

Like a cowboy from a 60s western drawing his gun and shooting, Dave followed the same process: arms dangling at his side, feet shoulder-width apart, waiting. Perceived slight received, arms raised and forceful middle finger given to imaginary offender. As I watched, I noticed the feigned anger and indignity on his face. Every other middle finger different: balls and no balls flips.

Balls might be the most common: middle finger fully erect or slightly bent with neighboring fingers bent at right angles, slightly protruding forward. In this incarnation, the thumb plays no role; No Balls: middle finger fully erect while thumb pulling back neighboring fingers. If you're arthritic or the dexterity in your fingers is lacking, this is your flip.

I entered his room and we immediately left to go outside, not mentioning the little show he put on. I nodded to his stepfather on the way out.

A few decades later, I’m driving on 580 in Oakland in the number two lane. I’m going the speed of traffic, maybe a little faster, and I’m in an innocuous car -- a car that doesn’t piss off people. A car on my right slowly passes. I glance over and the driver gives me a no balls flip. I immediately throw up my hand and give them a look that says, “What did I do?” Frantically waving his hand like he’s giving directions, contorting his face and finally pointing past me, I deciphered that the flip was not intended for me. In the number one lane, to my left, a car speeded by, the drivers’ arm raised across the passenger seat, giving the finger to the car in the number three lane.  I realized I was in the middle of a two-person flip off. It was a first.

Two hours ago, I’m crossing a 4-lane street in a Prius, EV mode. A car the pisses people off. The traffic clears and I glide across to the left-hand turn lane. Behind me is a black, new Mercedes with no plates. It speeds up and tails me. I’m immediately given a “balls flip” from the driver, the middle finger dramatically bent. It was new, though -- a hybrid between the English palms out, bent, two fingers flip off and the American balls method. That was the first thing I noticed. The second thing was that the driver was handsome – older handsome like Richard Gere in the 1990s.

Through my rearview mirror, I quickly deduced that he was either one of two types of guys: worked on restoring motorcycles or fast cars on a reality show on the Discovery Channel or a tech executive (not a pedestrian tech worker). He had the good looks and cool haircut that both employ.

If I could've seen his jeans, I would've had a better idea. If he were wearing Levis, the reality show theory would be apt. If he were wearing fancy-boy $300 jeans, he would be a tech executive.  The latter prone to taking first dates to Cirque De Soleil, wearing fancy jeans, un-tucked dress shirt, and dress sneakers. Front row, of course.

The light turned green. He quickly passed me on the left. I had to look. Again, he gave me his English-American balls hybrid flip. The passenger, a bland woman for being with such a striking man, whose role is usually the calm voice of “let it go,” got involved, giving me the standard American balls flip.

I blamed it all on the Prius.         

Cannonball

Andy stood at Broadway and Montgomery, smoking a cigarette, staring across the street. Behind him was an SRO hotel. His residence. As far as SROs go, it was ok. It was far from the Tenderloin, so it attracted more drunks than junkies. Sometimes drunks are better than junkies; sometimes not.

Andy was neither. He was poor, working poor, and in transition from a crazy girlfriend, a girlfriend that bought him a weekend in jail for a lie. With a welcoming smile, boots on their third resole and a slew of wool sweaters, he was comfortable in this neighborhood. He fit. North Beach.

Since the 40s, North Beach has attracted writers, musicians and romantics. Everyday, young men walk the streets, looking into windows of bars and bookstores, imaging their heroes: Kerouac, Garcia and Biafra, to name a few. And imagining history. Andy was no different. Fluent in Modest Mouse and Hendrix, Burroughs and Foster Wallace, like so many young people of his generation, he wasn’t pigeon holed by the past or present, only knowing both, without the shackles of age, history and dogma.

Across the street was Centerfolds, a strip club that caters to a more sophisticated crowd – a moneyed sleaze that appreciates girls with less tattoos, bigger boobs and clearer eyes. In contrast, a block to the west was The Lusty Lady, the politically correct strip club. With their jerk-off booths, fleshy dancers and union protection, the discerning scumbag had choices. Regardless of choice, methamphetamine, delusion and bad dads were common denominators of the entertainment.

On the street outside the entrance of Centerfolds, Andy viewed a young, Asian man arguing with the bouncers. By his gesticulation, he could tell he was emphatically making a point. He moved closer to hear the plea:

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know,“ he said, wide eyed and shaking his head, in an effort to sway ignorance. “I didn’t know you couldn’t touch them. Nobody told me; there were no signs,” he continued, scouring the outside wall for a sign that listed the rules.

2 bouncers, crossed-armed and looking a little like Mr. Clean in black suits, stood motionless. Trained not to engage, they let him talk it out, but exhibited enough menace, incase force was needed.

Getting nowhere, he slightly changed his approach:

“My friends are in there. I promise, I swear, if you let me in, I won’t do a thing. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” He said, resorting back to the original point.

Finally, with no response from the bouncers and out of ideas, he blurted: “I spent a lot of money in there, you know.” No response. He touched a stripper. He broke the rules.

Admitting defeat, he lumbered a quarter block down Montgomery and sat on the curb, his head between his knees. Andy watched, knowing he still had fight left in him.

Breather over, he jumped up and marched back to the entrance. Before he got there, second thoughts ruled, and he turned around. Stopping, with his back to the entrance, he appeared contemplative. Fueled with entitlement, injustice and alcohol, he came up with a better plan, walking farther down the block to where his motorcycle was parked.

Slipping his full-face motorcycle helmet over his head, he walked into the street and slinked back to the club, parked cars obscuring early detection from the bouncers. Crouching down behind the last parked car at the corner of Montgomery and Broadway, less than 15 yards from the swinging double doors of the entrance, he prepared himself for the final part of the new plan: regaining entrance into the club by force.

Bent over at a 90-degree angle, both hands on helmet, he gained speed, crashing into the bouncers and piercing the double doors. Both bouncers fell backwards, but quickly regained composure and followed him into the club. As quickly as he entered, he immediately returned with even more thrust. Pissed, the usually laconic bouncers threw him into the street, helmet still on head. With the professional façade gone, they swore and kicked him in the stomach. He curled up into a ball, bracing for the blows. This is how things like this end. And he knew it.

They grabbed him out of the street, throwing him against the outer wall of the club, extra hard, knowing his helmet would brace him from head injury. Before they could properly restrain him, the police arrived and threw him into the back seat of the police car. They’re always nearby in North Beach. As the police determined what happened, Andy could see the young man violently throwing himself around the backseat, eventually breaking out the back left window. He still had fight left in him and still had the helmet on his head. He would need the fight, and the helmet, because a broken window dictates at least one more beating.

Employee Assistance Program

Before therapy, it started with a call to the Employee Assistance Program (EAP) at work, a free service that helps employees with “problems.” And I had a problem. I called and they asked me what was wrong:

“I’m angry and I feel like someone is going to hurt me,” I said, knowing that I was anything but articulate. What I meant was my mouth was gonna get me in trouble. I had no censor on the street, and had the amazing ability of turning the most innocuous incident into a full blown problem.

After a long pause, the counselor said, “Hold Please.” Followed by another long pause, a new person with an empathetic, professional tone popped on the line and blurted, “So you want to hurt yourself?”

Knowing that I could be in some deep shit, and that they might be calling HR at this very moment, I backtracked: “No, no, no!! I meant that my mouth was gonna get me in trouble. I’m not gonna hurt myself, but I feel someone is gonna hurt me.” I fucked it up again!

“Who’s gonna hurt you? Is someone gonna hurt you? At work?”

“Aw Jesus,” I said, my voice showing considerable regret, “no one is gonna hurt me. Listen, my mouth is gonna get me in trouble in the Tenderloin. I’m gonna tell the wrong person to fuck off. I’m burned out.”

“Oh, burned out.” she said with some relief. “Ok, let me transfer you back. Hold please.”

I knew “burned out” would be language they could understand. They referred Ronald and the rest was 14 months of therapy, the first 6 sessions on the EAP.

The Mylar Period: Get Well Soon

It seemed like a good idea. That’s how pretty much everything starts with me. I think it’s a good idea and since it’s a good idea, other people will follow suit and play along. It never happens this way.

I saw a picture of a dead raccoon on the side of a road. Tied to the dead raccoon’s leg was a Mylar balloon that said Get Well Soon. It floated 6 feet above the dead animal, framed by a wire fence and rolling hills in the background. The picture had more questions than answers.

What I saw was a different take on the Get Well Soon balloon. Instead of the omnipresent photo of a skier with a broken leg, a Get Well Balloon hovering over the injured in the corner of the room, I saw the balloon in a different light, in a different context. I imagined the Get Well Balloon being given everyday of the year, to anybody that was depressed, having a bad day, hiding dark thoughts and/or the myriad of people with various mental illnesses. Basically everybody! Everybody deserved a Good Luck Balloon…at any time… on any day. It was a big thought for a small picture.

This idea set me off. It was a bit after the shootings in Connecticut, and mental illness was foremost in the collective minds of the nation. To embrace the new idea, I changed my Instagram bio to: Accepting Get Well Balloons every day of the year. I mean, come on, I’m a tad mentally ill (getting worse as I get older), so why don’t I get a balloon?

I came up with a plan.

Before work, I stopped at SF Party Supply to get a Get Well Soon balloon. I’d been in the store before and I knew they could supply my needs – them or possibly Safeway. I’d seen a few Mylar balloons floating near the flower area at Safeway. Safeway would be a backup.

SF Party opened at 9 am; I was their first customer.

A person that looked like he didn’t work there – possibly the owner – asked if I needed help. I told him I wanted a balloon and he summoned help. The help produced a 1 inch thick catalog of various Mylar balloons, in all shapes, sizes and colors. It was awesome and got me really excited. I had no idea the enormity of the Mylar balloon community.

He opened the catalog and found the Get Well Soon section. I looked at about 30 different designs and picked one that was easy to read. He went downstairs for a few minutes and returned with one balloon.

On the short drive to work, I came up with a narrative to go with the balloon:

The Get Well Soon balloon is greater than broken bones. It’s greater than the flu. And it’s now for mental illness too.

I felt the balloon needed a mission statement.

And there would be rules to handling the balloon:

1. The balloon would go with me everywhere for one day: car, work, meetings, bathroom, therapy, Subway (lunch), corner store, etc. Tucked in my pocket, following me like a shadow blimp, I would attempt to act non-chalaunt, like it was a bag or some other accoutrement.

2. Seeing no visible problem, inevitably, someone would ask what was wrong. If they asked about my wellness, I would pull out a small piece of yellow lined paper from my pocket. Written on the paper would be 21 personal problems. The problems would range from personal problems to the heartbreak of psoriasis.

I would ask them to choose a number between 1 and 21. Depending on how well I knew then, how much I wanted to share and a myriad of other on-the-spot criterion, I would truthfully share the info on the number they chose, or I would lie and toss them a soft ball: mild depression.

Given the choice of sharing personal thoughts with friends, family or coworkers, or choosing to keep them to myself, I mostly chose the easy route of keeping the family secrets intact. No brainer. However, the unintended consequence of growing closer to a friend (or changing the relationship rules and freaking them out) through sharing a fear or a hidden ailment was a nice afterthought. It never happened, though.

3. After sharing, I would answer questions. When conversation ceased, the rules of our departure would be explained: “When I leave, I want you to say, ‘Get well soon, Greg.’” This was the best part of the game. Oddly, everybody I encountered played along with game and wished me well.

As I prepared to leave work, exhausted from my day with the balloon, my coworker looked at me and said, “Tell people you’re an artist and your medium is Mylar.”

I thought about it, shook my head and opened the door to my office.

“Hey, Greg,” he continued. I turned and looked: “Get well soon.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll try,” I replied, smiling.

The corner of Ellis and Polk

While waiting at the light, I look to my left. A woman is staring at me. She could pass as someone who had a job, until she opened her mouth.

“Do you know where fucking Glide is at?”

It was one of those days, so I was on her level and didn’t miss a beat:

“I don’t know where fuckin Glide is at, but Glide is at Ellis and Taylor,” pointing downtown.

Looking me in the eye, like this whole Tenderloin mess was my fault, she blurted, “I hate this fuckin’ place.”

Preaching to the choir, I concurred, “Me too. Me fuckin’ too.”