Fancy Plastic Cup

--> She was all arms and 20 years late: raising the roof and a drunken interpretation of the running man dance, while slowly spinning circles. She looked at me, rocked her head front and back a few times and said, “Alright.” Her lips perched, waiting for a reply. “Alright,” I said.

She stood in a small patch of flooring in front a plate glass window at a Texaco next to the Detroit Airport. Behind the safety glass, two Middle Eastern men observed, wearing looks of recognition. A regular. Let her dance, she’ll eventually leave.

“That’s a nice cup. Where did you get it?” She said. Her eyes brightened with interest.

I looked down at my right hand. The cup in question was – what I thought – an unremarkable, 44 ounce soda cup that I bought at my local Quik Stop in California. I’d been using it for soda refills all across eastbound Interstate 80. Up to now, no one had mentioned its beauty. It was time to take a look at this cup.

About 12 inches high and 4 inches across, the top 3/4ths of the clear plastic cup was wrapped in a mosaic of three sets of repeating words in 20 plus different white fonts: Arctic Chill, Chill Zone and Mega Chill. It was reminiscent of shirts or posters with the words Love or Peace written in 10 different languages.

Overlaid onto the typography, a graphic, purple iceberg, accented in teal and framed in bold, white lines, wrapped the top half of the cup. The iceberg slowly melted into a cartoonish penguin riding a wave. Following the iceberg and wave were three words, spaced evenly across the cup: Arctic Chill, Chill Zone and Mega Chill. To me, Mega Chill is always pronounced like an announcement for a monster jam rally at the Oakland Coliseum in January. A few graphic snowflakes littered the cup to reinforce the “chill” vibe. On top, a thin, plastic lid, greying from use, splotched with soda stains.

Wrought for subliminal messages, I inspected the cup for hidden skulls and penises (it’s always one of these two). Nothing except a few women’s symbols littered throughout.

It didn’t have the kitsch value of a Cum and Go cup or the iconic status of a 7/11 Super Big Gulp, but, for the secondary players, I guess it was an OK looking cup. I never thought about it.

“I got it in Oakland. I’m from there.” Detroit and Oakland share a similar reputation, so I expected some sort of passionate response.

“Ewwwww weeeee.” She cried, slowly spinning, her palms to the ceiling. “What are you? A Crip or a Blood?”

Obviously mistaking South Central, Los Angeles for Oakland, I bit my lip and answered, “A Crip.” If I wanted to invite conversation, I would’ve been a little more in-depth: “A Crip, you see. I don’t look good in red, it highlights my already ruddy complexion. The blue of Bloods is more compatible with my pale skin. I choose my gang affiliation by the colors they represent.”  Having a history with extended conversations, I knew this response would be met with a blank stare and then more questions. Succinct and simple doesn’t invite a response.

“Do you know Reverend Jones? He lives in Oakland.”

It was an honest question, albeit very broad. It reminded me of my mom returning from the mall and saying, “Hey Hon, I saw a punk rocker at the mall. Do you now him?” The first and last time she asked this question, my response was, and “No Mom, but I haven’t received the new issue of “Tri-Valley Punks.”

“No, sorry. Never heard of him.” It didn’t seem to faze her.

I paid for my drink and walked toward the door.

“Hey Oakland, you know, it’s my birthday.” She said this loud enough where the two Middle Eastern guys could hear it, in case they were feeling generous.

“Yep, I kind of assumed that. Happy Birthday.”

“Aweeeee yeah, Oakland. Ewwwww weeeee.”

More circling and hand raising.

Knives

It was a typical Bay Area story: Man exits Fruitvale BART, walks to parking lot and gets a gun pointed in his face by 4 teenagers. 4 teenagers isn’t typical, though. From afar, the terror of getting a gun pointed at you, cop or criminal, is terrifying, but if you’re reading about it, and you’ve lived in the Bay Area long enough, where crime is so common that you rarely report it, it’s easy to think, “Ah, no harm. He just lost his wallet and phone, probably. As long as he didn’t get hurt.” Of course, that’s apathetic and cavalier, driven by trying to make sense of a violent, pointless act.

The victim quickly handed over his wallet and backpack to the criminals. It took just a few seconds. In his backpack were his 7-day-old customized rollerblades and musty gym clothes. He commented that the criminals would be disappointed in their loot. It didn’t say if a cell phone was taken.

All of this was reported in SFGate, San Francisco’s digital edition of the SF Chronicle. Or maybe the Examiner. I’m not sure.

What’s interesting in how they described the victim: Award-winning Rollerblading Journalist. Now, that got my attention. I wasn’t sure if he was an award-winning Journalist or an award-winning rollerblader, if even that exists. I assume a rollerblader would be a 2-time champion rollerblader or something like that, not award-winning. If that wasn't enough, the victim ran a podcast about rollerblading. This guy was big time in the rollerblading community and he kind of preferred to talk about his rollerblading and his rollerblades instead of the robbery. SFGate was fine with this, giving him multiple paragraphs.

As we do in modern society, three rollerblading companies read about the robbery and chipped in to replace his ‘blades.  Because they “chipped in,” no company volunteering to outright buy a new pair of rollerblades for the victim, made me think that fancy rollerblades are expensive. I checked, they are. One pair I saw – a futuristic snow boot with 4 day-glow wheels with mags running down the middle of soles - was over $1000. So, if the criminals could find a very specific buyer for these, they could make some money. However, like me, they probably dismissed them as “stupid rollerblades” and threw them away. Au contraire, Lil Thieves.

I know two things about rollerblading: 1] The 1993 rollerblading movie Airborne, set in Cincinnati, Ohio and starring Seth Green. Green and his single mom move from Los Angeles to Cincinnati, to start over after a divorce. Unfortunately, they move into an apartment complex that’s run by the local rollerblading gang.  Green is a rollerblader, too, and courts the gang’s leader’s girlfriend. Bad move. In the end, Seth and gang leader embark on a 15-minute rollerblading race through the streets of Cincinnati – winner gets girl.  2] My friend Jose is a rollerblader. While skating down the Hayes hill in SF, he hit a car at full-speed. Upon impact, his rib cage collapsed, caving into itself. The visual has never left me.

While down the rollerblading rabbit hole, I looked up rollerblading crimes in the Bay Area. According to SFGate, there were two rollerblading crimes in SF in the past 7 years: 1] 4 men in their early 20s robbed a 29-year-man of his rollerblades on Potrero Hill. They listed the time of robbery as 1:30 am. As we all know, nothing good happens after midnight, especially when you’re wearing rollerblades. However, as drunk a crime as it sounds, they did target the ‘blades. If you’re a thief of honor, I feel it’s polite to ask the victim’s shoe size before robbing them of their ‘blades. If the shoe size is compatible with the perp's shoe size, a follow-up question should be asked: "Do you think they run big or small?" The discerning robber always asks your shoe size. It’s only polite. 2] A Bayview man on rollerblades attempts the theft of a chainsaw at a local hardware store. He was unsuccessful.

Expanding my rollerblading crimes search to America, I find that there was a spat of ‘blades crimes a few weeks ago: Rollerblader robbed of skates while practicing skate routine in parking garage; 25-year-old white man wearing rollerblades robs bakery and convenience store, in two consecutive days; A man wearing a half-shirt and rollerblades robbed a deli in Brooklyn; And, a man in Southern California rolled into a bank and asked to “borrow” money. Meddling customers thwarted his half-ass robbery.

I’m pretty sure there hasn’t been a study on rollerblading crimes, but, unofficially, I’m going to say a pair of rollerblades is stolen every 12 hours in America and every 20 hours a person wearing rollerblades is arrested for robbery. It’s official.  Stay alert USA!

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.