Where My Doll?

The representative of an architectural firm to the USPS Postmaster General’s underling’s underling:

“Since we’re in California, we’re thinking of a Spanish mission theme for the new post office?”

“Go on.”

“You know, a bell tower, curved arches, clay roof tiles, stucco. Something like that. Maybe call it Casa de Post Office or something.”

“Well, what about office space? Will there be room?”

“Yes, yes, we’ve thought about it but the mission theme would be too expensive for your budget. So we propose keeping the main area of the post office – the area where the public visits – mission themed, and the office area just a long rectangular block, attached to the main building. No bell tower, curved arches or clay tiles, but it would be stucco.”

“Will there be an architectural theme to the office space?”

“We’re thinking ‘80s corporate office park.”

Inside the Spanish mission corporate office park post office were Bob and Ken.

*

Gay Bob Doll didn’t go over well when it came out in 1978. Anti-gay organizations said it was a slippery slope that would lead to Priscilla the Prostitute and Danny the Dope Pusher dolls, two dolls that I would buy in a second. Anita Bryant and her orange empire said homosexuals would use drugs, money and alcohol to get what they want. I guess they used all that influence to produce Gay Bob.

The brainchild of an ex-advertising executive, Gay Bob was meant to look like a cross between Robert Redford and Paul Newman. In reality, he looked like Alex Baldwin and Elliot Gould, with a GI Joe body and haircut.  Instead of going the nelly route, Bob was all man: tight jeans, flannel shirt, boots, one earring and a tight, blond perm, and came with a variety of outfits for his swinging lifestyle. Packaged in a box to look like a closet with cheeky copy on the back, Bob literally came out of the closet anytime you “played” with him. As a doll collector who never takes dolls out of the box, I wince every time he comes out of the closet.

Bob may have been the first Gay doll (I’m sure the first Ken in 1964 was gay, but let’s not argue), but Earring Magic Ken was the second and most popular doll. In fact, Earring Magic Ken was the most popular doll model of all Kens, establishing gay men and women as an economic force.

Earring Magic Ken lived in that wonderful space of unintended circumstance. Designed to be a “cooler” Ken, with an updated, modern face and fancy “club kid” clothes – lavender vest with mesh undershirt, tight jeans, highlights to his hair and an earring in his left ear -- he could’ve swung as an early metrosexual adopter, but his necklace said, “Nope, he’s one of ours.” A large, silver cock-ring hung from his neck. How the designer slipped that in and sold it to the higher-ups, I have no idea. With the success of Earring Magic Ken, you would think Mattel would’ve followed it up with Leather Ken, but they did the opposite – pulling Ken from stores when his cock-ring was outted. Anita and her gang were in power and cancelled Ken.

Gay Bob and Earring Magic Ken were bought separately on Ebay or at an early 90s toy show – before Ebay, AOL selling boards and the movie 40-year-old Virgin. The last sentence absolving me of any negative comparisons. 

Bob and Ken were prominently displayed in our Mission flat, along with Bionic Bigfoot, Evel Knieval and 50 plus pop culture dolls form the 60s, 70s, 80s and early 90s. When we moved to a bigger place in Oakland a few years later, all the dolls and a box truck full of small kitsch items, were put in plastic bins, sealed and stacked in the basement. As the moving truck took off toward Oakland, I mouthed, “No more kitsch!”

They stayed in the dark for 19 years, replaced with pricey accent pieces and a mixture of fine and ironic art. We were adults, kinda. Near the end run of the 19 years, things started to fall apart: my marriage fell apart, I needed money and there was no sentimental value to keeping the dolls and pretty much everything we brought over from SF. It only took me(us) 19 years to realize this. So, everything went up on Ebay. I sold Earring Magic Ken and Gay Bob as a duo. It just seemed right.

The new owner of the Gay Bob Doll and Earring Magic Ken was a French national with little to no English skills living in Los Angeles. At the last minute, he swooped in on my EBay auction, beating out uncannyxjen64 at the last minute to become the new owners of Earring Magic Ken and Gay Bob. It was official, my doll days were over and everything was up for auction, except one Evel Knievel action figure. It was hard to part with him, but he was 1 of 5 identical Evel dolls, so it was it wasn’t that hard.

Along with a vintage Avon corn cob pipe soap dispenser, an Osmond concert program from 1978 in Allentown, PA. and vintage dead-stock Fonzie socks, I packaged all my winning Ebay items in separate used Amazon boxes, filled them with packing peanuts and sealed them with clear tape. After measuring and weighing the boxes, I took them upstairs and printed address labels.

The Spanish mission Post Office occupies a large parcel of land at E. 14th and 145th in San Leandro, CA. Labeled one of the most racist cities in America, realtors and elected officials from San Leandro once conspired to keep African-Americans out of their town, through real estate redlining and intimidation. They were successful until integration took over in the 1980s. Today, San Leandro touts a Cherry Festival, diversity and a couple of Chipotles. It has arrived.

The four Ebay boxes precariously leaned against the back of the passenger seat of my Prius. Traffic eased and I made the left turn into the post office, my right hand firmly pushing down on the end box, to keep them from spilling onto the floor.  Across the street is a Latino-focused strip mall. There’s a small party store where I used to pay my PGE bill, when I lost privileges to pay online due my delinquent history, and a small guitar store where I buy picks and strings, only if I’m desperate. 

To my immediate right is a short one-way road traversing the length of the property and running parallel to the E. 14th.  2 mailboxes are perch on the western outer edge of the median, dividing the drive-thru mailbox road and the post office parking lot. The lot is large – at least 16 spaces. I park nearest to the front door.

The box containing the dolls – the largest – anchors the bunch. I walk around the car and grab the boxes, my outstretched arms balancing the boxes against my chest, my chin pressing against the top box. Before passing through the yellow stucco archway, through the motion sensor doors and into the lobby of the post office, I look up at the bell-less bell tower. At one point, there must’ve been a working bell. It had to be the selling point. Now, the bell tower and every ledge of the building are fortified with anti-pigeon spikes. What was once a building to repel invading Gringos, now focuses on the war on pigeons. Pigeons are winning. Because of the spikes, the building is like an inanimate Hellraiser.

The lobby is spacious -- why I like this post office – and there’s a drop-leaf countertop next to the clerks that they use for pre-paid boxes. I place the box on the countertop, pushing it back as far as possible to avoid theft, and mumble “thank you” to the teller. She gives me a no-look, limp wave behind her mask. I’ll take it.

When I arrive home, I find boxes and pack-up a few items that will go out the door in a few days: 1984 Levi Olympic tracksuit, complete set of Menudo dolls and 12 Partridge Family paperbacks sold in a lot. They all have bids, oddly.

A few days later, I check on all the shipments of the past week. All were scanned into the USPS website except Ken and Bob. Not a big deal. A few days later I check again and no mention of the dolls. Two weeks later, I regrettably look again and the Kens are not registering – probably lost, maybe stolen or, more likely, some error on my part. However, since I hadn’t heard from the French national – the new owner of the dolls – I held out hope. Either way, I sent a short message to the buyer: Did the package arrive? A few days later, when I thought I was in the clear, I received a message from the French national saying, “Where my doll” I responded with an elaborately worded paragraph explaining the journey of the dolls. Of course, I didn’t take into account the French national’s command of English was poor and my French was worse. “Where my doll” arrived again a few days later. This time, I utilized the many powers of the internet: I took my finely worded paragraph and let the internet translate it into French. Viola!! Problem solved. Unfortunately, I had no idea if the translation was accurate. 

A few days later I received the same email: “Where my doll.” Except this time, it included three new words: “Where my money.” It was time for a refund. The dolls were gone. I sent a terse note to the French national: “Dolls. Lost. Refund. Paypal. Sorry.” It was the best I could do.

It would be easy to blame the post office, pointing the finger at the dark years of “postal rage” and, personally, receiving our mail as late as midnight, to justify their incompetence. But I didn’t feel that way. A stamped letter that costs 49 cents gets to my friend in NYC in 3 days; a priority box to NYC in two days and a next day envelope to NYC by 5 pm the next day. That’s incredible.

That said, I’m not going to blame the post office. It was my fault. I must’ve forgot to address the package. After this epiphany, I thought about calling the post office or stopping by, inquiring about the dolls. But what would I say?

“Hi, I dropped off a package here a week ago,” pointing to the drop-leaf counter, “and the package was never entered into the system. Did you find any boxes that weren’t addressed or lost?”

“What was in the box?”

“Um, two action figures?”

“You mean dolls?”

“Well, yeah, kinda. Action figure dolls.”

“Hey Dennis, do we still have that box with the two gay dolls in it?” yelling to the backroom.

“Nope.”

Sorry, honey.”

The pain of that perceived conversation outweighed the financial lost. I gladly ate the loss and accepted negative feedback from the French national.

Four months later, I received a text from soon-to-be ex-wife regarding the dolls. In the four months, I had moved from our family house to a studio above a Supercuts in a small commercial district in Oakland. The luxury of having space to source, post and ship EBay items was over. I wouldn’t be taking a tape gun, scale or USPS Priority boxes. Like Noah’s Ark, I would take two of everything: 2 spoons, knives, etc. Not two TVs, though. My EBay selling days were officially over, and any enthusiasm for what I collected 30 years ago was finally over.

The text said a person named Chris in J. Crew’s return department had received a box that contained vintage Barbies and he wanted to get them back to us. At first, I was appalled. J. Crew? Huh? If there was no address, how did they get it? It was supposed to go to the French national. As I sat with it I realized what happened: The J. Crew box most likely came from something my ex-wife ordered. I saw the empty box and thought it would be a perfect fit for the two Kens. The French national bid and won, and I dropped it at the USPS with no label and it somehow got to Chris at J. Crew from using the original label that it was shipped in. A bit convoluted but it’s close to the truth. The problems I have with this theory is where it was shipped (why not use the original label and ship it back to our home address?) and who paid for it to be returned? Regarding the former, I assume J. Crew footed the return bill. I felt a little bad.

As any isolationist, shut-in or the gentler “private person” would do, I waited until I knew Chris would not be at work: Sunday after 7 pm.  While 60 Minutes broadcasted across America, signaling school age children that the weekend was over and 5 days of misery lay ahead, I called Chris.

One ring, two rings…thank God. No Answer. Chris’ voicemail kicked in and I rambled:

“Yeah, hi Chris, my name is Greg and you may have received two Barbies…Kens in a return box” I corrected Chris about the contents of the box. Even though I was out of the doll game, I was a tad offended that he called Kens Barbies. A big faux pas in the doll world.

“Yeah, um, thank you for contacting us. The dolls are most likely ours…mine.” I took ownership of the dolls. It surprised me. “If it’s ok, I don’t want the dolls back. Feel free to give them away – maybe a vintage or thrift store, or throw them away or, do whatever you want with them.” I hesitated before the last comment. It sounded flippant. At this point, I was pacing back and forth, spewing whatever into the phone. My face was pink, blood rushing to my lips -- the source of the blabbering to put the fire out. I finally stopped.

“Thanks again, it was very kind of you. Have a good weekend and holiday.”  

Starlings in the Slipstream

The Starling’s lived 7 houses from us, and next to a house that boasts 52 five-star reviews on Yelp for their Christmas light display. The house even has its own name: Widmer World.

 Before Widmer World and Yelp, the Starling house was where we gathered afterschool and on the weekends.  A large catholic family with more kids than the Brady Bunch, all the boys had names starting with “B” and the girls with “L,” except for the youngest boy whose name started with a “T.” Because of this, you could say all their names seamlessly in one breath. It was something we did to pass time — that and inane chanting of “car, car, c-a-r,” when cars passed. Simpler times.

 

Mrs. Starling was heavyset with porcelain white skin and was always in a non-descript dress and lace-up shoes with a small heel. She didn’t move much from the living room, preferring a Lazy Boy situated next to their fireplace and a direct line to the TV. She was always kind. Due to the amount of pre-teens and teens in the house, Mrs. Starling took a hands-off approach and let us be feral. We were very good at being feral.

 

Mr. Starling got off work at 3 p.m. I always imagined him clocking out of his South City factory job, walking to his car and driving home, arriving at exactly 4 pm. Regardless of traffic and weather, he always seemed to be on time. When we heard his car pulling into the garage, we gathered at the front door, waiting for the sound of a closing car door. When we heard the slam of the door, we went out the front door and he entered through the garage. He always entered through the garage. We were afraid of Mr. Starling. So were the Bs and probably the Ls and definitely the T.

 

One day after school a handful of us were in the Starling’s kitchen playing with a litter of eight 10-week old kittens.  We loosely set up 7 of the kittens in a triangle formation of bowling pins, scrambling to put rogue kittens back in place when they immediately scattered.  The remaining kitten would be used as the “ball” to knockdown the kitten-pins. One person would slide a kitten across the linoleum kitchen floor, their spindly body slowing spinning in circles, careening into an unsuspecting kitten. The kittens would scramble and we’d scatter after them, yelling in delight of the chase. If a kitten proved hard to get, we’d let out an onslaught of “pussy, fag and dick” upon the person that couldn’t catch them. Pussy, fag and dick were staples of our language, using them liberally for all occasions.

 

As we set up a new round kitten-pins, our friend Dave was still trying to capture a lone kitten that hid under their sofa. We called Dave a pussy and a fag. And we continued saying the words until he retrieved the kitchen.

 

Out of the blue, Mrs. Starling spoke:

 

“I don’t like that word, don’t use it.”

 

“Pussy?”

 

“Yes. I don’t like that word.”

 

“What about fag?”

 

“That one is ok.”

 

“Sorry, Mrs. Starling.”

 

A little jarred from the admonishment, we quickly left and went to the park, where we were free to use the language we wanted.

 

As innocuous as Mrs. Starlings scolding was, it stuck with me through decades. It was probably the first time someone said they were offended by the words that I used.  Instead of pushing back, I quietly accepted her criticism and eventually stopped using the word. Maybe it was age or maturity that pushed the change, but it was probably the simple act of Mrs. Starling telling me she didn’t like it. Up until then, I was the center of the universe.

 

6 years later, I was 20 years old and in Des Moines, IA talking to a pretty young woman on a street outside a club where we just played a matinee show. In the decade since the pussy incident, I’d found punk rock and then anarchism and then college rock. I was enlightened.  For the most part, all were insulated communities of affected white kids dabbling in radical and liberal politics, hipster music and pseudo-intellectual pursuits. Pussy, fag and dick were replaced with vulnerable, homosexual and penis. We weren’t that formal, but we were definitely early PC.

 

The pretty woman talked about her desire to move away from Des Moines. She described her predicament in clichés: this town is boring, there’s nothing to do; too many jocks and rednecks, the cops always harass me — tropes that are still relevant today for misfits living in small towns. We encountered kids from all over the US wanting to move from their small towns and cities. This was not uncommon. They were the best and brightest misfits in the their communities. It was never a question of if they’d leave, more like when they’d leave. They had to leave. Many of them wanted to get in our van and come back with us to SF. Unlike them, we had already made the move and were living examples of the so-called good life. It wasn’t always good.

 

My new friend talked about her parents and brought up race: mom white, dad black. I took this opening to ask about her race.

 

“Are you mulatto?”

 

She looked down, smiled and slowly raised her head.

 

“We don’t use the word mulatto. We call it bi-racial.”

 

You could tell that she was used to this; her wry smile reeked of disappointment in me. Regardless of being from a big city and traveling around the country playing music, I was a fraud. Just another culturally ignorant small town mind living in a big city. I think John Cougar sang that. Oooh yeah!

 

Blood rushed to my head and my face turned pink:

 

“I’m so sorry. There’s a band in SF called Tragic Mulatto and I just thought…I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

She comforted my ignorance with grace and dignity. I comforted her with apologies and an excuse to leave.

Thanks For Not Asking

Joe works at a convenient store at Beaumont and E. 31^st in Oakland. I assume Joe isn’t his first name since he speaks with an accent and converses in Arabic with his older buddies, who smoke in front of the store, hang out on the side of the counter and act as clerk when Joe is restocking. I hope he owns the place as he’s there every day of the week.

 

In the last 6 months, the front doors of the store were smashed during protests and a late night attempted burglary of an ATM – the thieves driving their vehicle through the front door in hopes of finagling the heavy-ass ATM into the backseat of their car or truck. This type of burglary never ends well and is quite common in spite of being so dramatic and loud. I always associated this type of crime as regional – southern or rural. In urban environments, they’re too many narcissists with cell phones vying for attention on You Tube to drive by and think, “It’s none of my business, just keep driving.” Nope, they breakout their phones. Letting things be is no more. With Big Brother in your hand and imminent likes on the screen, the dopamine euphoria of standing out on the Internet is too great a temptation.

 

My approach to the daily customer vs. checkout clerk interaction has changed. Up until two years ago, my style was to be nice as possible, littering pleasantries in our brief interactions: “Thank you soo much” and “Have a wonderful day (the secular version of “Have a blessed day”).” The latter is the equivalent of shaking someone’s hand and then cupping the shake with your left hand, while nodding and doing your best to show the utmost empathy in your eyes. I defend this action, thinking that somehow my obsequious behavior might offset the asshole that came before or after me. Having been a cab driver for a few years, I should know better. Human nature dictates that you take home the asshole interaction and leave the good ones at work.

 

In the years since I changed my approach to retail interactions, I’m more comfortable with simple hellos and goodbyes, refraining from questions or observations. With this new approach, I convinced myself that the beleaguered retail clerk needs a break from small talk and would appreciate curt, polite pleasantries. Like my video-wielding You Tube fame hunters, it’s just a different form of narcissism.

 

Getting to the convenient store from the east is never easy. It requires a small jaunt through a homeless freeway underpass, tents and all sorts of discarded furniture lining the sidewalks, and then a quick right, quick left and a U-turn to an outer road, before pulling into the far right parking space. Adherence to blinkers at every turn helps facilitate a safe arrival. If not, you get a lot of hands thrown in the air in anger.

 

In front of my favorite parking spot, an air pump machine is wrapped in yellow caution tape. Since I’ve been going here, it’s never worked. A homeless late model sedan is parked to my right. The cabin is full of wrinkled clothing and essential belongings, the windows blocked with various button-ups and polos, and the driver’s side door always open. The open door is a warning that the owner is near.

 

The owner of the vehicle stands next to the defunct air pump with a squeegee in his right hand. I get out of the car and walk past him, acknowledging his presence.

 

“Can I clean your windshield?”

 

“Aww, no thanks. No amount of cleaning is going to help that vehicle,” pointing to my dirty, sea foam Prius.  It was my not-so subtle attempt at absolving me of giving him money. An excuse, if you will.  Like most people, though, I’m more comfortable giving money on the way out instead of the way in. However, I’m smart enough to never say, “I’ll get ya on the way out.” A lot can happen between going in and out.

 

Joe is not at the checkout. A younger man of similar origin sits halfway between the register and checkout counter in a swivel stool with a back support. Instead of the ubiquitous mask, he wears a full plastic mask shield. Between the shield and the Plexiglas that separates us, his security is covered.

 

I shuffle in, my flip-flops clacking at every step. My mask covers most of my face; my exposed eyes are watery and sad. I fill my recycled soda cup with Diet Pepsi and move toward the register. Instead of asking about Joe’s whereabouts, I adhere to my rules of conversation and say nothing. I pay $2.00 for a $1.85 soda and leave without getting the change. Joe doesn’t sweat being short so I always round up, leaving the change. When I’m short, he doesn’t care. I assume this tactic of not worrying about the small stuff is a survival tactic, benefitting his well-being.

 

Outside, the homeless window washer is still next to the defunct air pump. I walk over, hand him a dollar and say, “It’s smoky today from the fires. It doesn’t seem fair with the pandemic and all.” He nods. His face is kind. He knows my liberal kind.

 

A few days later, Joe returns…with a cast on his left arm. The top glass to the right front door is replaced with plywood. Joe must have been assaulted. I got my soda and approach the counter. I want to say, “I’m sorry, Joe. Did someone assault you? I’m sorry about the door, too. I know you have insurance but I’m sure the deductible is high. People are fuckin’ idiots, man.”

 

I refrain, though.

 

“Refill, Joe.”

 

I take out 2 dollars from my wallet and slip it under the dome-shaped hole in the Plexiglas. No change.

 

As I walk away, I say, “Take care, Brother” and nod. He looks at me and nods. I like to think that was his way of saying, “Thanks for not asking.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lake Chabot

 Lake Chabot Road connects San Leandro to Castro Valley (or the other way around), depending on which way you’re heading. Freeways and other surface roads achieve the same result, but this road is for savvy locals and professional commuters. In an area that boasts 7.8 million people, where even the most remote roads are traversed incessantly, this 1.9 miles connector remains proudly remote and underused.

 

My daily routine of wasting time until evening, when it’s OK to sit in your room and play hearts, incessantly google “the best TV series streaming now” and peruse long-form journalism on Pocket app, which fills me with useless information (30 minutes before dawn, when the first rays of light illuminates the eastern sky, the sun is 6 degrees from the horizon) that I’ll never share, leads me to travel this road twice a day — once to get a soda from my favorite convenient store and another to drive back home.

 

Heading north on Lake Chabot Road, past the entrance to the lake, where a temporary digital sign pleads with park-goers to wear a mask and pack out your trash, and where I saw a homemade sign advertising a Down Syndrome picnic (in this gloomy world of ours, the sign filled me with hope), I reach down to the cup holder between the seats and take a long pull from my 44 oz. Diet Pepsi.  I bear right and enter the windy 1.9 mile stretch of road leading to San Leandro and then home.

 

To my right, Lake Chabot shows signs of late summer drought, its banks severely exposed and the water placid and heavy, dog-killing blue algae loitering near shore. Dirty, dry live oak trees line the road, traveling the short distance from shore to road, crossing the road and continuing upward, littering the burnt, amber grass with spiny leaves.

 

Near the halfway point, the road straightens out for 300 yards. A smattering of park cars line the right dirt embankment — mostly likely fisherman who use the gated fire road for free access to the park.

 

In anticipation of the straightaway, I accelerate into a bend. As I round the corner, I noticed a tall man standing on the side of the road, motionless and facing forward. About 200 yards out, slightly past the fire road, his right hand is pointed to the sky, bent 90 degrees at the elbow. His left hand appeared to be touching his abdomen. From a distance, I could tell he was skinny, tall, wearing a bright yellow Lakers tank-top and a surgical face mask covering most of his face. It wasn’t unusual to see people on the road, but it was unusual to see this man.

 

As I passed, his particulars came into view. In his right hand -- the one pointing to the sky – he delicately pinched the quill of an eight-inch bird feather between his thumb and index fingers. The feathers creating an ombre effect of brown, bottom to top. His left hand hovered over his abdomen, his fingers manipulated into the sign of the devil, reminiscent of countless photos of Tupac throwing the west coast sign. His eyes never wavered, staring straight ahead as I passed.

 

I watched him through the rearview mirror. Instead of breaking character, shrugging his erect posture, he continued to pose, remaining perfectly still. I looked away. When I looked back, he summarily turned toward the trees, like instructed by an Army Sergeant, and disappeared into the brush.

 

 

 

The Little Cowboy

I heard it before I saw him.  Not the low rhythmic bass and rattling of a passing car, the bass getting louder and louder and then slowly dissipating. No, it was familiar. I knew the song but it was out of context and getting louder and louder –tinny and trebly.

Parked in front of the Quik Stop, I craned my neck left and right. Nothing. In front of me a man poked his index finger at the Red Box screen. From experience, I knew the screen was troublesome and was a bit perturbed they never fixed it. A cardboard sign the size of a refrigerator box was hammered to a pole near the entrance – the head of a three-inch nail protruding from the top of the sign – saying “Lost Dog 510-5623-696.” No description of the dog. To the left of Red Box a digital sign boasted lottery winnings; below the sign propane tanks stood locked in a white, steel meshed cage. Like grocery stores offering rental carpet and hardwood floor cleaners, gas stations and convenience stores are taxed with the burden of keeping barbecues in propane. It seems to me that a hardwood store is better suited for this type of thing. It’s just one of those things you don’t question.

I should’ve been in the store refilling my 44-ounce recycled cup with Diet Pepsi, but I wanted to see where the loud sound was coming from. It was getting closer and clearer. I sat in the car, knowing it was heading my way.

A new Honda Civic with lightly tinted windows pulled in the parking lot and parked immediately to my right. The driver turned off the car and looked at his phone, his shoulders and head tilted toward the device.  Silence. It wasn’t him, obviously.

Through the passenger side window, the car came into view. Turning left into the lot, past the “lost dog” sign, the car pulled next to the new Honda – windows open, volume loud. All three of us were lined in a row: me looking at the old Honda driver, the new Honda driver looking at his phone and the old Honda driver staring directly at the new Honda driver. I appeared to be the only one

Knowing something transpired that brought both of them here, to a convenient store parking lot in Castro Valley, CA., I stayed put and waited them out, delaying my 44 oz. soda.

I stole glances at the two: new Honda still on his phone and the other staring directly at the new Honda driver, music still permeating the parking lot like fog.

I started humming the song.

He came on a summer’s day

Bringing gifts from far away

I knew it, I knew it.

The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)
"Yeah, your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea”

My mind flashed to Michael Stipe sitting in the back of a limousine, sporadically singing Brandy by Looking Glass. A camera zoomed in on his face while he sang.

The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl)
"What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl)

He hums, looks out the window and then turns to the camera. “Sexist,” he says. Yes, it is, Michael.

A staple of mellow gold 70’s rock, Brandy was a one-hit wonder from a band called Looking Glass. I think they were Scandinavian. I know this because I had the single when I was young. I still remember it: yellow label on Epic records.  It got lots of play.

Appearing that the standoff was going nowhere, I exited the car and lingered, discreetly looking in the direction of the old Honda, as not to draw the ire of the old Honda. At first glance, it was obvious he possessed “the anger.”

Even though he was sitting in the driver’s seat, window open with his left arm leaning out the window, I was able to get a pretty good composite of him: late 70’s, bone thin, under 5’ 8” with straight grey hair to the ears and a rare, straight devil beard, the kind you can brush and style. Even with the advanced age, his face was boyish and his wiry disposition gave off a “don’t fuck with me” vibe. Given his looks, he would do well in a tight pair of Wranglers, old Durango work boots, a western shirt and a straw cowboy hat. Maybe at one time he was like this, but his bucolic days were behind him, replaced by Walmarts, urban trailers parks and an old Civic with bondo on the door.

Appearing nothing was going to happen, I entered the Quik Stop and filled my soda, gently placing the lid, with the straw already inserted, on top of the cup, to avoid spillage. I was a pro.

Walking to the counter, I slurped the soda that slipped through straw hole. Overfilling will do this. The man behind the counter and I exchanged our dance of “hellos, thank yous and have a nice days,” as we have 100s of times. Neither of us willing to further the relationship with the truth of “how are you?”

I push open the left glass door with my right palm, avoiding my fingers touching the glass, like a germaphobe. Expecting for all the players to be in position upon my return, the little cowboy in the old Honda was gone. But Brandy was still present, albeit faint, like it was coming the other side of the building.

 I was a bit disappointed that the little cowboy was gone, but the story was going nowhere – just three cars in a parking lot.  Nothing was going to happen.

I got in my car, rolled down the windows and exited on the east side of the parking lot. The faint sound of Brandy was still in the air and getting louder.

In my rearview mirror, I see the old Honda pull into the parking lot and park in his old spot. The window is down, Brandy is on loop and the staring resumes.

Give The Homeless What They Want

1989

Being an FNG (fucking new guy) got me the worst taxi on the lot: a beat up, late ‘80s Ford station wagon with a governor, which prevented me from going over 55 mph, and an ignition that didn’t require a key. All you had to do was turn it. No key needed. The governor wasn’t a big deal since you were mostly on city streets. It only became an issue when you were racing back to the airport on a “short.” That’s cabbie talk. I worked for City Cab. We called it Shitty Cab. I was definitely in a shitty cab.

Heading north on Larkin, I pulled into a red zone at Geary. The red zone was roomie so the long wagon fit perfectly.

A wad of cash bulged from the right pocket of my brown Levi cords. It was after midnight and I was doing well, so the bulge loomed large.  To my right the Century Theater advertised Live Naked Girls and a block away the Mitchell Brothers Theater advertised the same. I regularly drove handfuls of men in suits to both, and shuttled strippers and happy-ending masseuses to different parlors, clubs and drawn out wild-goose searches for drugs. The suits usually asked about the credibility and status of the clubs they were going to and the strippers usually sexualized the ride, offering empty compliments and feigning interest in me in hopes of sway. After 2 a.m., the latter extended invitations to “party.” Tempting as it was, I never got out of the cab. They were always angling for a free ride.

Before walking into the liquor store at Larkin and Geary, I glanced up at 901 Geary, a 6 story SRO hotel on the edge of the Tenderloin. Work took me into this hotel, every now and then. Anytime I passed the hotel, I thought about an index card pinned to a bulletin board in the lobby of the hotel: For Sale, Iron Broad, $5, Knock on Room 401, If Interested. I stared at the 4x6 card and thought, “What the hell is an iron broad?”  It took some time, but I figured it out: Ironing Board. At the time, I was prepared to knock on room #401, 5 bucks in hand, and buy an iron broad. To me, and iron broad hails from the Balkans and stomps wherever she goes.

A homeless man asked for change as I walked past. I nodded and continued through the doors of the liquor store. The store was small, poorly lit and crowded, reeking of Freon and wet wood. They all smelled like this. I was tall so I could see over the isles, identifying the refrigerators.  I grabbed a 12-ounce Diet Pepsi and made my way to the register, my right hand resting against the rolled-up cash in my pocket. I stopped, turned around and went back to the refrigerators. Passing the small soda section, I stopped at the large beer section. I opened the glass door and grabbed a 40-ounce Mickey’s Big Mouth. The clerk put the Mickey’s in a perfectly sized brown bag. I reached in my right pocket and slapped a few earned dollars on the counter.

Outside, the homeless man was still crumpled against the liquor store wall. Without stopping to proselytize and pander, I handed him the 40 and said, “Take care, Brother.” His eyes lit up. “Thank you, Man.”

It felt good, really good. I continued up Larkin, making a right on Post.  Post would take me to Union Square where I would find fares. As I drove, I defended my actions in my head. Yes, it was questionable to buy beer for the homeless, but I didn’t care. Spare change, leftover food and choruses of “get a job” were the norm. My new norm would be alcohol for the homeless.

At Powell I picked up a French couple that flew from France to see Metallica at the Cow Palace the following day. I was impressed, but more impressed about my epiphany. From then on, when I encountered a homeless person and there was a liquor store nearby and there was a bulge of money in my pocket and I was in the right mood, I would buy them beer or ½ pints without shame. I was out!!

 2020

If she purchased a bottle of water and two bananas, I wouldn’t have noticed her.  She would’ve been like millions of other yoga moms out there, sporting a yoga uniform of lycra-mix cropped pants and power tanks, North Face down vests, high ponytails and the dreaded yoga mats slung from their shoulders. I find the latter smug — a beacon to the world that she eats right, volunteers, gives money to the right causes and generally acts in a peaceful, well postured manner. Privileged, as we say. I only noticed her because she purchased a Super Big Gulp of soda and two bananas. Out of character for the stereotype. Not the bananas.

Cradled between Highway 13 and 580, forming a triangle of mishmash housing, 3 hooker motels, 2 storefront churches and a sketchy used car lot, 7-Eleven stands behind a crumbling, 6-space parking lot, 20 yards from the road. The omnipresent Redbox kiosk perched in front, the screen-shade in tatters from use or vandalism. Across the street a chain-link fence divides the freeway from the frontage road. Attached to a section of fence was a large sign that said, “We Love you, Ken Houston. Our Mayor of East Oakland.” The large canvas was attached to the fence with zip ties. When CalTrans took it down, the zip ties remained, hanging like bats.

On the other side of the 580, Mills College, with their high fences and sprawling meadows, anchors the neighborhood -- their influence trickling back across the freeway with a freshly paved section of road, new sidewalks, a bike path and the replacement of the archetypal upside-down cane-like street lamps with quaint, candle-like lamps.  If you were to drive on the road, you would think the city favored the left side of the street and disliked the 7-Eleven side of the road.

The yoga mom was in front me. Staring at her high ponytail, she placed 2 bananas and her Super Big Gulp on the counter. She paid and walked out the door. That was the end of it. I wouldn’t see her again nor would I think of her. Like a dream, my thoughts of her would fade.

I put my recycled 44-ounce plastic cup full of Diet Pepsi on the counter and paid in change. My pockets always carried at least 2 dollars in quarters, dimes and nickels.

Pushing opening the glass double-doors, I made a slight left, following the sidewalk to my car. The homeless man was still slumped against the wall, his hair, face and hands the color of dirt, his clothes stiff and emanating a slight sheen. In front of him on the concrete, 2 bananas, like a blackjack hand. I looked around for yoga mom and saw a grey Audi Q8 pulling out onto MacArthur without two bananas, confirming my cavalier analysis of yoga mom.

Having acknowledged the homeless man on the way in, I felt it was redundant and/or too liberal to acknowledge him on the way out.  I nodded, though.  Sitting in the driver’s seat of my Prius, I pressed the ignition button. I plugged in my phone and pressed Bluetooth on the display screen. I stared at the 2 bananas. The 2 fucking bananas.

I pressed the ignition button again, opened the door and walked back into the 7-Elelven. The homeless man asked again for change and I slightly nodded. This was the third time in 5 minutes that we exchanged this consumer/homeless dance. I was in uncharted water of how to act.

The beer fridge occupied the full southern wall of the 7-Elelven. I moved with purpose to the fridge and grabbed a 40 of Colt 45. It was the cheapest. I struggled a bit with getting the cheapest beer, my internal privilege being questioned, but all the choices were crap. It’s a 40-ouncer. It’s beer.

“Thirsty, eh?” the man behind the counter sassed. “Yep,” I nodded. Explaining what I was doing would be pointless.  There was a level of anonymity I needed to adhere to incase the homeless man drinks the 40, takes off his clothes and writhes against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 7-Eleven. In this case, I could be held responsible for his actions. I imagined the man that sassed me looking at the security tape of me giving the homeless man beer and saying, “That’s him. That’s the guy. The tomato face, Will Ferrell looking guy. He gave him the beer. Get him??” Of course, he would be saying this to a cop. The police would come to my house, take me away and parade me down Piedmont Street as the guy that gives alcohol to the homeless not food or money. Bystanders would throw organic tomatoes at me.

This wasn’t gonna happen.

Without stopping to proselytize and pander, I handed the 40 to the homeless man and said, “Take care, Brother.” His eyes lit up. “Thank you, Man. You want these bananas?”

“Nope.”

Vindication.

The Lying Voice

Walking west on Center, I look down and notice the dirty sidewalk. It’s dirtier than usual. I’m used to dirt, blight, crime, dumping, shit, etc., so it doesn’t bother me. It should. I was just noting the difference between dirty and gross. Gross status involves vomit and human feces, so, I guess I was lucky, the streets weren’t that bad.

The light is red at Milvia. In front of me, the beginning of a farmer’s market occupies the 1900 block of Center. Vendors are setting up their booths with tents, tables and product; early birds are milling about, eyeing the urban farmers. Most are boomers with recycled bags.

“It’s terror of the flames!” The scream was loud, almost a bark, echoing off the civic buildings. I look up and see no one matching the description of such dramatic words. I’m the only one at the light, so I wait.

“It’s terror of the flames!” Again.

“It’s terror of the flames!”

Every 5 seconds it comes again, like the barker is working off a click track.

“It’s terror of the flames!”

Obscured by a row of booths on the north side of the street, the barker comes into view, flanked by one security guard. The guard is smirking, knowing this is just the first of many flanks. It’s Berkeley. He walks him to the end of the block and lets him loose with the others: an eastern block woman with kids who are picked up at the end of day by a mini-van full of other eastern bloc families; Street Sheet peddlers and a mixture of shitty musicians and run-of-the-mill homeless.

I watch as the barker is returned to his people. He looks a lot like Allen Ginsberg – Gallagher-bald, rimmed glasses and an air of academia -- and is carry of a cloth satchel that hangs a little below his left hip. The satchel is out of character. He must be nouveau homeless. If you cleaned him up a bit, he could easily be writing poetry in front of Café Med on Telegraph. Homeless poet, I like that. He continues to bark every 5 seconds.

The light turns and I walk to my destination, halfway down the block. A no nonsense cop is out front talking to two young people, as I approach. I move past them and reach for the door.

“Are you here for the test?” she says, slighting blocking my path to the door. She’s tall, svelte, boyish and intimidating. No bullshit. My sister would love her.

“Yes,” I say.

“Did you park in a lot or on the street? The door will be locked during the test, so there’s no leaving to feed a meter.”

“I’m in a lot,” I said. The confirmation email for the test said to park in a lot. So I did.

She turned her head to the other two:

“I walked.”

“I’m in a lot, too.”

The cop opened the door and said to walk down the stairs and follow the signs. We were the last to be admitted. Anyone after us would be met with a stern rebuke, I assumed.

The building was all angles and concrete. Newer but made to look art deco: painted metal instead of copper. The name of the building was written in Frank Lloyd Wright font. It’s the official font of Berkeley, I think.

The 3 of us entered a large office room with 20 rectangular desks, 4 chairs to a desk. 37 people occupied the 20 desks. We were told to sit at a desk with one person. We made 40 people. This scene would repeat itself 4 more times in two days. 200 people for 3 dispatching jobs. This is how they recruit for high pay, low education jobs. I applied for a job at BART that accepted 3000 applications for one job. I didn’t get it, but 2,998 other people didn’t get it, either. There’s some comfort in that.

Before starting the three-hour test, two HR people from the City of Berkeley spoke. They were friendly and encouraging. They must’ve been new because most HR people are beaten down from carrying the burden of employee secrets. Most look like they’re missing a quart of blood.

Tag teaming, they explained the test: 11 sections of multiple-choice answers, focusing on verbal ability, reasoning, memory and perceptual ability, what ever that is. I tried familiarizing myself with the material before the test, but it appeared to me the test was common sense and relied more on your individual talent to talk, type and listen at the same time, while conveying everything in a clear, concise and articulate manner. Some people are good at sports, some aren’t.  It’s kinda like that. Attention to detail was not my thing so I was in trouble.

HR introduced the cop at the door. She was in charge of recruiting or something similar and spoke to us about the arduous process of becoming a dispatcher. For those who passed this test, the next stage was an oral interview, and then a typing test, and then a lie detector test and, finally, some sort of psychological test. She said the oral interview would review our whole lives, start to present, and they’d know if you lied so don’t lie. This made the class uneasy and gave pause to the room.

Most of us had already lied or embellished our resumes, to look more employable. More than likely this variance would be picked up on the lie detector test, so most of the applicants that moved on to the next stage would have to come clean or learn how to lower their blood pressure when they inevitably asked the question: “Did you tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth during the application process?”

For the mishmash of undereducated people in the room, we would learn to lie for a job that paid almost 100k and required only a high school diploma.

After the no-nonsense cop finished her scared-straight act, she introduced a Berkeley dispatcher of 20 years. Dressed in a dark hoodie with a yellow star on the right breast and the words Berkeley Police under the star, he was the opposite of the no bullshit cop. Slightly stooped, laconic and calculated, he said the job was stressful but if you balanced it with an outside life, you’d be fine. That was it. I stared at the yellow star on his hoodie. It looked like a concentration camp star badge.

As the test circulated through the room, I looked at the participants and did the math: I was the oldest in the room by 15 years; 70% of the test-takers were women, the majority African American; And, of the men in the room, I was the only one that was bald. This was all-important, for some reason or another. I was already preparing for defeat. The stated adversity of baldness, age and gender would assuage disappointment and justify doing poorly on the test. If I were younger, hairier and a woman, I would’ve passed. Woe is me.  Even so, I was oddly confident. The stew of the undereducated in front of me was a motely crew. How hard could it be?

The first section was the easiest. Look at two sentences and identify the sentence that is most clearly written. 13 questions. We had had 5 minutes to complete. From there on, the pace picked up and it got harder.

The next section I screwed up. We listened to radio calls and were to assign the calls an A, B or C status, highest priority to lowest. Sounds simple enough, but my inattention to detail kicked in, and I didn’t really comprehend the instructions. By the time I realized my mistake, the test was almost over. I didn’t finish the section and surmised I wrongly answered 9 out of 13 questions, due to the mistake. The disappointment was immediate. My eyes well up. I knew I wouldn’t get the job. I thought of leaving, but I stayed put. On the eve of my 56^th birthday, I was a few months from divorce, had negative $251 dollars in my bank account, unemployed and severely depressed. And, it looked like I wasn’t getting this job. It was beginning to look like I would be joining my new friends at the edge of the farmer’s market.

With the realization that this job wasn’t going to save me, suicidal thoughts crept in. This wasn’t unusual. In the past 6 months, I’ve used suicidal thoughts to ease my anxiety of the future. Self-soothing, if you’re in the know. It’s simple: why worry when you’re not going to be around in the future? However, It was the first time the lying voice in my head said, “Your friends and family are better off without you.” This was new. Up until now, the voice concentrated on me. Now, it was broadening the circle and disinformation. This scared the shit out of me. If the lying voice convinces me of this, it’s all over.

There are no winners in divorce but there are losers. When my marriage fell apart, I realized that who ever has the most money, has the power. Duh. It didn’t matter that I was male and, traditionally, the male moves out and the wife stays in the house, with the male paying alimony and the mortgage. Nope, it looked like I was moving out and would pay exorbitant rent for the worst studio in Oakland, losing all stability and dreams of the future. In this picture, I was the female, but instead of getting the house and a monthly check, I was figuratively moving into a homeless shelter with 2 young kids. A mixture of pride, martyrdom and gender-generational bullshit kept me from asking for more. Or anything.

With a new white trash attitude of fuck it (another form of self-soothing) and an old feeling of suicide ideation, I returned to the test with less vigor and more despair.

Lumbering through the sections, while keeping an eye on the clock, the arc of the test started easy, got gradually harder and then dissipated back to easy. I told myself it didn’t matter. But that was a lie – it mattered a lot. I lied to break the fall.

All hope ended with section 8 of the test. The arc was at the top of the bell curve and planned on dishing out a dollop of hurt. It came with an audio recording of dispatch taking quadrant locations and identifying a shitload of license plates. Quadrant locations came every second in the form of numbers. While we recorded the locations on a piece of paper, we identified 100s of license plate numbers on one piece of paper, double checking the license plates on a separate piece of paper that also contained 100s of license plate numbers. And then we had to mark it true or false on a Scantron. The idea was to do both at the same time. Because the quadrants came so fast, I was barely able to verify the license plate numbers. The end came and I looked down at the Scantron. I finished 9 questions out of…81. I looked up at the clock. The end couldn’t come soon enough.

HR asked us to form a line. The test was over. Sitting at a table near the front, I was either going to be first in line or last. I didn’t want to sit in line and small talk about the test. I jumped up and handed HR the Scantron, the booklet and a myriad of papers with my information on it. I quickly moved to the bathroom and then out the front door. I wanted to the first at the parking lot pay machine before it backed up with test takers.

Outside, the farmer’s market was winding down. Ginsberg was gone and the eastern bloc family was still making money for their human trafficking pimp. I saw no test takers in front of me, so I slowed the urgency of getting their first.

At the pay machine, a woman was finishing up paying for parking. I recognized her from the test.

She turned and said, “How do you think you did?”

“It was harder than I thought,” I responded

“Really? I thought it was pretty easy.”

“Good luck.”

Good luck.”

She was in her mid-20s and wearing tight jeans, heels and sported a side-part bob. She either dressed for the job or had a lunch date after the test.

Defeated, I slowly walked to my car, head down, arms hanging at my sides, the instrumental of Christmas Time as my soundtrack. With suicidal ideation comes depression. Or the other way around. If you were to look at me, you would sense something was wrong. Regardless, I was hungry. Chipotle would suffice. It had parking, wouldn’t be crowded (assumed) and had no pretention of a café or a recommended restaurant. It was a good place to go unnoticed, to sit in the corner and stare at an invisible person across from you. Weird and creepy, but fast food restaurants accepted this kind of behavior. And I had a Chipotle gift card. That was the driving decision.

No one was in line. I ordered my regular chicken quesadilla, chips and soda, and grabbed a paper bio-straw and a mound of napkins from the soda dispensary area. I ate on a stool facing San Pablo Avenue. To my right was REI, an outdoor super store; on the other side was a CVS. A homeless man in a 49ers jersey was pacing out front, peddling something. Every turn of the pace triggered the electric door opener of CVS. This wouldn’t last long.

The restaurant was ¼ filled. Everyone was on their phones. People in wool socks and puffer vests passed by on their way to REI; the sick and errand-runners went the other way.

I Googled “It’s terror of the flames.” It couldn’t be some random words formulated in a mentally ill brain, it had to be something. I was right. It was taken from a larger quote about suicide from David Foster Wallace, the author of the supposed-to-read book Infinite Jest. Fucking homeless poet.

I silently acknowledged the connection. Maybe the homeless poet was talking to me? The bio-straw was soggy from the soda, the cylindrical shape caving in on itself. It was gross. It was time to go. Fuck it.