Dumping

Redwood Road in Castro Valley splits East Bay Regional Park District and East Bay Municipal Utility District for 8 miles -- EBRPD to the west and EBMUD to the east. At Pinewood Road, it snakes west, uphill, for 2 miles, ending at Skyline Boulevard. This 10-mile stretch of road is the least used road in the Bay Area. This statement is unofficial and unauthorized, of course, based on my daily use of the road. It’s also littered with industrial, construction and household trash from dumpers. Dumping is this year’s opioid epidemic.

After dropping my son at school, my dog and I drive to the foot of Redwood Road. Peppered with trailheads, we used to hike miles into the urban backcountry of the East Bay, not seeing another person along the trail. Now, my dog is old and his back legs weak, so, if we stop at a trailhead, we walk about 100 yards, stop, and return to the car. Hiking is now about standing around waiting for the dog to poop, nothing else.

Even though we no longer utilize the hiking trails along Redwood Road, I still mosey across the 10-mile stretch every morning, the dog in the back. He can no longer enjoy a walk, but he still relishes an open window in the backseat of the car.  I enjoy the solitude of the road, never breaching 30 mph, while listening to a curated Spotify playlist.

Besides occasional RVs from Chabot Campground, the road is lightly sprinkled with rain-or-shine bicyclists, EBRPD work vehicles, and the lone sports car, taking advantage of a cop-less, underutilized windy road. That’s it. It’s normal to pass less than 5 cars while traveling the 10 miles. It can feel like traveling back in time - before traffic usurped weather as the news of the day.

Dumping usually occurs within the first 2 miles of the road: small and large mounds of roofing material, household garbage and car parts located on dirt pullouts and trailhead parking lots. Clear video footage, license plate identification and/or photos of the dumpers breaking the law doesn’t equate to a fine or jail, so must dumps are at the end and beginning of the 10 mile section of road. There’s not much risk involved. Dumpers are lazy because of this. Deeper dumps — parted cars and large appliances — are farther along the road, the sheer weight of the materials requiring more time and multiple people to unload the cargo. Car axels tend to be heavy.

Traveling this road for multiple years, I’ve become somewhat of an expert on dumps, not dumpers:

·        The Mound: This is the most common dump. More than likely, the materials are pushed from the bed of a truck. When the materials reach the height of the truck bed, the goods are tossed on top of the mound, spilling down the opposite side of the truck. These types of dumps tend to attract other dumpers.

·        The Drive-By: Mostly household garbage in bags, this dump is tossed out of a speeding car, resulting in bags spotting the side of the road for up to 200 yards.

·      
      The Guilty Type-A: This is my favorite small dump. Transported in the trunk or backseat of car, the dump materials are mostly household goods – paint, plastic children’s toys and garbage. Instead of throwing out it the window, this unique dumper places the goods in a small, tidy pile, taking up as little space as possible. I wouldn‘t be surprised that if it contained a note saying “sorry.” This person has problems with clutter and messiness, but not enough to properly dispose of the items.

Dumping is mostly an Oakland, CA problem, that’s what I thought. I was wrong. After seeing articles about other cities in the USA dealing with the same problem and talking to friends in the Bay Area who live in the suburbs and complain about dumping, it appears that it is a new phenomenon or, more likely, the internet has exposed something that was always prevalent. T

Oakland reacts to the problem with an app: See-Click-Flix. An app to report dumping and other public nuisances.  In a perfect world, other than Oakland, it looks like this: see a dump, take a picture and hit send. Dump gone. Pretty simple. If the dump is removed immediately or even within a few days, it’s a large miracle — comparable to curing poverty.

In comes another app to complain about the problem with See-Click-Fix: Next Door. Next Door is like Facebook but for your neighborhood, demarcated by zip codes. When the idea of Next Door was pitched to backers, it probably emphasized stronger, safer communities, some sort of online neighborhood watch component and local referrals for household services. In reality, the aging Boomers and Gen X Boomer-sympathizers who mostly use the app, speculate whether the bang they heard was a gunshot or a firecracker; why a man is sitting in a car in front of their house and dumping. Dumping is reported to See-Click-Fix and then complained about when it sits untouched for months.  A post on dumping regularly receives 100s of replies.

Commenting on Next Door or any social media platform, regardless of how neutral or innocuous the comment is, will lead to diverse comments – comments I don’t want to hear. Even though I have valuable information that will help expedite the cleanup of dumped goods, I stay quiet. If I were to comment, I’d list two solutions for expediting pickup of dumped goods:

1.     If possible, move the dump to the center of the road. The ensuing traffic jam will result in multiple calls to DPW and immediate cleanup.

2.     For large dumps, find an object with a large face to write on. Think appliances and plywood. Bring a can of spray-paint and write “Fuck” in large letters. More than likely, our puritan society will be outraged and the calls will flood in for removal. It works.

You can see why I don’t post this solution on Next Door.

A year or so ago, Oakland hired experts in the field of trash and dumping to find out what the hell was going on. Where they found these experts, I don’t know. Prior to hiring the experts, Oakland blamed out-of-towners and the homeless for the problem. Of course, Oakland was wrong. The experts said 3% of dumping was from the homeless and the rest was pretty much pinned on the residents of Oakland — people who work in construction, trash removal, restaurants and yard debris removal.

Driving on Redwood Road this morning, I saw the spoils of last night’s dumps: dented car bumper, disabled Big Wheel, drywall, etc.  As the road winded to the top of a hill, I thought: “Maybe I’m an expert.”

Mr. Fix and The Line

Two teenagers were in the backseat. Both were occupied and under the guise of quickly getting something for dinner and then returning home. If I deviated, there would be teenager disgust to deal with. I knew this and when it all went to hell, as it usually does, I would find myself a few hours later, contemplative and reflective, intellectualizing what went wrong: “Greg, you knew this could happen.  Next time, be prepared for this scenario. They’re teenagers, they’re fuckin’ crazy. Rational thought doesn’t apply to them.” No matter how many pre-teenage pep talks I’ve given to myself, it never seems to work. So, I usually employ the endgame tactic: Fuck it. Return home and drop off the grumpy kids. Go by yourself.

“Is that the line? Do you think that’s the line?” It was obviously the line that I needed to be in, but, as human nature will have it, I tried hard to convince myself it wasn’t the line I needed to be in. I was lying to myself.

The teenagers looked up, looked right, observed the line and didn’t say anything. I drove by slowly, craning my neck like it was a car accident. I estimated it to be 100 – 150 people deep and a wait time of 2 hours. I don’t know how I came up with these numbers.

I started making up excuses, anything to get me out of the line: “They were sold out,” “The place was closed, locked up.” Lies, actually. There was no way I was getting out of this. I looked in the backseat and said, “Guys, I’m going to drop you off. The line is way too long.” No response.

On the way back to the line, I experienced the 5 stages of grief: denial (I’m sure the line moves fast. It will probably take 10 minutes. It’ll be fun.”), anger (“Stupid fuckin’ business. Didn’t they know this would happen? Idiots!”), bargaining (God, if you allow me cutsies, I will stop blaming you for all the problems in the world), depression (“This sucks. I suck. You suck.”) and acceptance: (“It won’t be that bad. I’ll be patient. There’s nothing I can do.”) I’m fucked could’ve summed up all the stages of grief.

I pulled into the dirt lot next to the store, which people had annexed as auxiliary parking. The main lot of 100 spaces was full and cars vying for those spaces were backing up into the street. It was a mess.

The store in question was situated in the center of a small strip mall in the Coachella Valley -- where senior citizens rule, ramps are plenty and dinner is early. Flanked on both sides were 3 furniture/clothing consignment shops and a barber. Even though it was late November, the temperature was near 80 degrees. As I walked toward the store, I was relieved that most of the line was under a covered walkway.

The store had two sets of double doors on opposite ends. The south was used as an exit and the north filtered the line inside to 4 registers. A handler at the in-door guided people to 1 of the 4 registers, keeping them 4 deep at all times.

I peered in and did the math: 4 registers, 16 people in line and a general line of about 175 people. If 16 people came in every 10-15 minutes, it would take between 2-3 hours. There was nothing I could do. The math worked out.

The line snaked north under the walkway, extending to the end of the strip mall and then curving up a berm to another (standalone) furniture shop. This was the back of the line, where we all began. The low morning sun washed the line in orange hues, the upper bodies of the people waiting covered in shade. I would take half-shade, at this moment.

As I slowly walked to the back of the line, the handler from the in-door followed: “If you are in line, you need a reservation. I repeat. If you’re in line, you need a reservation.” She would repeat this journey every 5 minutes, like a head count in prison.

There were 172 people in line, according to my count. Unofficial, of course. I was 173 – last in line.  In full sun, I was 20 people away from the shaded walkway. My hat would have to do.

It took seconds before I was no longer the last person in line. As people arrived and took their place behind me, they repeated the same frustrations: “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this. How long do you think it will take? The line had a common denominator: waiting. We looked at each and talked about the line. It was a living, organic thing.

20 minutes later, I had moved just enough to get out of the sun and under the overhang. It was better. I leaned against a wall, shades on and listened but didn’t engage. There were enough people making the best of it, so my input wasn’t needed. I was happy to be quiet and still.

As time dragged on, the line became involved in everything. A car horn invoked cries of “Ah, come on. Be patient. What an idiot.” The line agreed that whomever honked the horn was an idiot. This spawned deeper conversations about the deterioration of patience in America.  Conversations were no longer private and cell phone calls were dissected – the aural voyeurism eating up valuable time.

An elder, diminutive man behind me, who looked a lot like Mr. Fix, the tuxedo wearing old dancing man from the Six Flag commercials, was the unofficial ambassador of the line. He greeted everyone with an empathetic smile and even retrieved hard candy from his car, dispersing the round balls to the line, front to back. He was from Orange County and had left the day before at rush hour, taking 11 hours to get to the Coachella Valley. 11 hours. He didn’t complain about this, it was just an unfortunate fact. He shrugged.

As our line-group moved into the shade, Mr. Fix performed three unofficial head counts of the line. The first count was 162 people. Each count was highly anticipated by everyone and there were many questions when he returned: “What’s it like up front?” “Did they say how much longer?” He answered each question dutifully and ended all thoughts with “It’ll be all right.” 

A woman in front of me waited with her teenage son. I was impressed. Not expecting a long line, she mistakenly went to the grocery shopping before arriving, leaving her goods in the hot car. As the line inched forward, she mentioned the groceries a few more times. Finally, she asked her son, “Do you mind if I go home and put away the groceries?” The teenager replied, “No, not at all.” My brow furrowed: “What the hell kind of teenager is this?”  Impressed by the generosity of the young man, I almost broke my silence and offered to keep an eye on him while his mother was away. However, my senses kicked in, and I said nothing. I was aware that my silent presence might have been off-putting for some of the line-goers.  Mom returned an hour later, apologetic. I gave her my best look of disappointment. The enigmatic teen said nothing.

Mr. Fix’s second head count totaled 85 people in line. We were getting close. This put me right in front of the barbershop. Done on the cheap, the shop was a narrow, long room with high ceilings and 2 floor-to-ceiling mirrors on opposing walls, to confirm every fear you have about your body. 4 barber chairs lined one wall, across from a low, long wooden bench used for waiting customers. This was pretty much it. Sparse. When looking into the shop from the walkway -- because of the large mirrors -- it felt like you were entering a funhouse or looking at a desert road disappear into the horizon. It felt uninviting.

A long row of parked cars stood perpendicular to the line. It was assumed that most cars belonged to the line, however, every once in a while, a driver would approach their car with a look of bewilderment. They’d stare at the line, follow it up and down, looking to catch an eye that would explain this anomaly.

As the line watched, an elderly woman got in her car and proceeded to backup, senior-style: eyes forward, car in reverse, foot on gas. A passing car was behind her, waiting to park in another stall. The line pulsated, reacting immediately: Whoa, whoa.” “Wait, wait, wait.” “Stop, stop.”  The line was trying to will her to stop.

Mr. Fix jumped into action, politely pounding on the hood of her car. The car screeched to a stop and Mr. Fix pointed to the stopped car behind her. She rolled down the window and they talked. Before returning to the line to fill us in on their conversation, Mr. Fix reached into his pocket and offered her a hard candy. 

The last count was 35 people in line. The entrance was in sight, so it didn’t need to be done, but Mr. Fix was determined to give us an update. It was a formality. He returned with instructions: get your confirmation number ready and have your ID out.  We were getting close.

The in-door handler greeted me professionally and said to stand in front of a turnstile. This was it. The end. Like the anticipation of being released to an empty amusement park, I rolled through the turnstile, relief flowing through my body. The handler pointed to the line in front of register 3. I took my place, 4 people deep. Easy time. 5 minutes later I was returning home.

“How was Honeybaked Ham? Did you get the turkey?” This question came from the pool. Instead of starting my reply with, “While you were swimming, I was…” I decided to conjure Mr. Fix and lie; “It was OK, the line wasn’t too long.” I walked away mumbling “the line, the line, the line.”

The next morning, while eating leftover sandwiches, I said to my friend, “I don’t think that was turkey last night.”

“Me neither.”

“Do you think it was ham?”

“Ham usually has the bone, but it tasted like ham. It had the honey glaze on top.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t tell. I’m not a big fan of ham. Is there a ham/turkey hybrid?”

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!