As Seen On TV

A week or so ago, I met a woman while walking the dog. No, not like “I met a woman.”  She was weird and chatty, not uncommon when you’re dealing with dog people.  The conversation was simple and banal, interactions I’ve had 1000s of times: “Is she a retriever? Looks like she has a little cattle dog in her. Have you tried CBD for her hips?” The latter being a newer question.  And, of course, the Bay Area standard, which precedes all observations, and is usually prompted by “What’s her name?” Instead of saying the name and moving on to the above observations and questions, I find that most people state the dog’s history: “She’s a rescue, I rescued her.” And then they state some irregularity in her because she’s a rescue. Being part dick, I fight the urge to respond, “Of course she is.” Or, if I’m really feeling it, I say, “I got mine from a puppy mill in Idaho. Instead costing $2500, she was $1500. The hips are bad, but she was cheap. Pretty good, eh?” You can imagine the looks I get. And, if I’m feeling a little less than “dickish,” I tell them the truth: “She’s not a rescue. I got her from the pound. $35 bucks.” In my mind, pound trumps rescue in liberalism. I’m better than you!

Her predictable conversation is not the story, her jacket was. It’s hard to describe her jacket, which ran from her head to her feet.  However, the minute I saw her, these words popped into my brain: As Seen On TV. I know, I know, I don’t know what that means, but it was there, bumping against the head matter. I thought it was a Shamwow, but I was wrong. Shamwow is a fancy towel seen on As Seen On TV (Side note: If you ever visit Bed, Bath and Beyond, they have an As Seen On TV section. It’s pretty cool, trust me).

Her jacket was basically a velour mummy/sleeping bag, which was meant for lounging on a sofa while watching TV. It was something you buy while watching TV and immediately regret. Hence, As Seen On TV.

With a closed, cocoon bottom, a double zipper on the side and hoodie-like top, you could lay on the sofa with only your face exposed, snug and warm. It was something that should never leave the house. If you did, you would have to hop -- there were no legs. So, instead of hopping, she created an opening in the bottom, unzipping it from her waist to her feet and stuck her legs through the whole. One problem, though, with her legs exposed, the bottom of the jacket hung in front of her legs like a giant sack of rice, bumping her shins and feet with every step. She didn’t seem to mind, alternating between this tactic and walking bow legged, which caused the rice sack to dangle between her extended legs like a giant penis. It was jarring to see in person.

As we exchanged crazy talk, I subtly snuck peeks at her jacket.  It was fascinating. Not only was it missing legs, it had no arms. If it were yellow, it could double as a banana costume. If this wasn’t odd enough, there was something definitely going on underneath the jacket. Her unexposed left shoulder extended to the top of her ear, forming a velour circle that she could rest her head on. It looked like a giant walnut was balancing on her shoulder. Noticing my staring, she addressed the issue, saying she recently had shoulder surgery. I nodded but I wanted to say, “You mean shoulder augmentation?”  There was also something going on around her midsection.

The shoulder was my cue to leave. I said goodbye and slowly walked back to my car.  She followed, talking nonsense all the way: “There was this Japanese man with an Akita at my old condo complex that would stand silently with his dog, smoking. For hours, it seemed. This was during my 2-year marriage. Man, that was a mistake. Someone reported him on Next Door.”  She paused, probably thinking about the marriage and then talked about Next Door nonsense. And then it all made sense, she was one of those crazy Next Door people that post about drivers not using their blinkers and receive 100 indignant responses. It all made sense. Now I had a face to the craziness.

I got in my Prius, slammed it into drive, put the pedal to the metal and slowly, silently coasted out of the parking lot, leaving little to no impact on the concrete

Lay's is a Good Chip

It’s raining. It shouldn’t rain before December.

I order my regular 6” turkey sandwich, baked Lay’s and a fountain drink. I take a seat in the farthest corner of the restaurant. This is my regular spot and I get a little perturbed if someone is sitting there. There’s one guy - like me – who also prefers the farthest booth in the restaurant. He’s my nemesis.

Looking up from my book, 4 people enter, wiping off the rain from their clothes. Two are social workers and the other two are clients. It’s an outing. The social workers are dressed in liberal, non-profit, non-descript clothing and the clients a lot more colorful. Client one is dressed in a robe and flip-flops – a dirty t-shirt peeking out from behind her robe. Her feet noticeably calloused and dry, splaying over her flip-flops.  Client two is in a full-length nightgown -- It obscures her feet and anybody she might have. For all, wearing this type of clothing in public is a sure sign that you gave up, but these two get a pass, obviously.

Client two orders first, without fanfare. Client one is a different story. Bending down to see under the sneeze guard, client one addressed every addition to her sandwich:

“Mayonnaise and mustard?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Lettuce?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Peppers?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Her eyes were completely focused on every addition to her sandwich. Once the addition was completed, it got a “yeah, yeah, yeah.” Instead of three separate words, “yeah, yeah, yeah” was blended into one long word, with an occasional emphasis on the first letter of the string yeahs.

Staring at what was transpiring in front of me, I gave up any clandestine approach at disguising my outright intrigue. I was fully in. She was fully in.

Two two-seater booths were open in front of me. I was in the last booth, facing the entrance. Next to me was a door that opened into the kitchen. Many patrons mistook it as the bathroom, so I was prone to saying, “No Bathroom.” Most didn’t question my authority.

Client one sat in front of me and client two sat behind one -- both social workers sat opposite of them in the booth. According to their body language, it appeared there would be no conversation except small talk.

The social worker for client one opened with a small talk staple: “How’s your sandwich?” Like a whistle to a well-trained dog, client one stood and walked around the small ordering area, spinning ovals and circle eights on the linoleum floor. Her 6” sandwich firmly pressed against her lips, I craned to see teeth. It appeared she was all gums, sucking on the sandwich like a pacifier.

She returned to the booth, the end of her sandwich limp with saliva. Before a second question could be asked, she was up again, disappearing behind a wall that obscured the cash register. I kept vigil on the wall, waiting for her return.

Reappearing with a small ketchup cup filled with pepper and an opened bag of Lay’s chips, client one walked to client two’s booth and placed the cup in front her. Not sure what to think, client two stared at one, saying nothing. Client One stared back, pushing single chips into her mouth. Finally, number one broke the silence: “Lay’s is a good, thin chip. It’s easy to chew.” Spoken from an expert.

Everybody Get a Chech

At the corner of MacArthur and 73rd in Oakland is Millennium Tax Service. It used to be called Instant Tax Service. To the north resides MacArthur Nails and to the south is Ink N’ Thayngz (the “I” in Ink is a tattoo gun) which used to be Electric Rouge Tattoo. I can only imagine what Thayngz is. I assume it’s run of mill tattoo culture offerings: piercings, scarification and skull rings. However, the dream of sundries with a tattoo is always possible.

Anytime I’m stuck at the light at 73rd, I peer into the window of Millennium Tax Service and wonder what’s going on in there. When the light turns green, I leave the thoughts behind.

A few months ago – right around tax season – I was at the light and noticed two large posters taking up Millennium Tax Service’s front window. On the right, a young white woman in a black business suit offered “$15 In Your Pocket!” if you referred a friend and, on the left, a young African American woman boasted “Everybody Get A Chech.” Yes, “Everybody Get a Chech.” I doubled checked and confirmed that check was indeed misspelled.

This time, when the light turned green, Millennium Tax Service stayed with me. I pondered the meaning of the poster and came up with this: on the back wall of the business is a bench seat. The seat is a long piece of 2” by 12” wood, held up by cinder blocks, stacked two high. On the bench are 6 Chechnyan Russians, dubious of banks, a little overweight and, when asked How’s Life, they respond “long.”

When a customer is finished with their taxes, they’re lead to the back of the business and they pick a Chechynan as a parting gift. Everybody get a Chech. The customer leaves with the Chech and lives with the customer.

In the backroom, behind a black curtain, a storage room bustles with Chechynans. One passes through the curtain and takes a seat on the bench seat, constantly keeping the number of Chechynans at 6.

This is the only explanation for Everybody Get A Chech.

A few weeks after discovering the poster, I drove by Millennium Tax Service and noticed they switched the positions of the posters. Everybody Get A Chech was now on the right side – so far to the right that the “h” in Chech was obscured by the frame of the window. Some officious stooge had alerted them of the misspelling. Not cool.

Yesterday, while performing my duty of getting take-out, I drove down Macarthur, a stretch of Oakland that the locals used to call Little Beirut, and Millennium Tax Service was gone. So was Ink N’ Thayngz. And the check cashing place on the corner. All gutted by fire.

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As I waited for the light to turn green, I could only think of one thing: the poster…the poster’s gone.

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.