Young Guns

It was unfortunate that the monthly staff meeting fell 2 days after Toby decided to steal a vehicle and say fuck it to the last two years of employment. It was his choice, I knew that, but it was still depressing. Unfortunately, this mode of so-called resigning was common.

Everybody was aware that he wasn’t at work and that something happened. They asked me but I held the party line: “He called in sick.” It was all I was giving them; it was all I could give them. They knew it was bullshit. Rumors were swelling and everybody had opinions.

In private, with certain staff, I would reveal a little more information: “He’s not coming back. He’s ok, but he’s not coming back.” For somebody with a very big mouth, this was not easy.

At the staff meeting , the inevitable came early. I knew it would. Nobody cared about my reiteration of phone policy, cleaning vehicles after use and the proper way to fill-out an accident report. They wanted to know about Toby.

“Greg, so what happened to Toby?” a driver asked. I looked at him, smirked, raising my eyebrows and said, “I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. All I can tell you that he’s not coming back.” Revealing that he wasn’t coming back – information that was private at this point, was too much information. I stopped and tried to retract what I said: “Well, he might be back, I’m not sure. It’s not up to me.” I like to use “It’s not up to me.” It implies that decisions are made upstairs and were out of my control.

Instead of moving on and talking about a required Sexual Harassment training, I told them this:

“Do you remember Young Guns II? You know, the one with Keifer, Estevez and Lou Diamond Phillips?” I paused. They were still paying attention, holding out hope that this would somehow lead to more information. I continued, “The producers of that movie wanted to use Bon Jovi’s Wanted: Dead or Alive for the closing credits.” With the mention of Bon Jovi, I immediately lost them. They knew me well, having attended these monthly meetings. They knew that I liked to deviate from the business at hand.

Last month, after seeing Crass (band), the king of all dogmatic, anarchist punk bands, I answered all questions at staff meetings with: “Well, what do you think Crass would do?” Most knew the band so it went over well. At least I felt it did.

The time before that the first words out of my mouth were: “I’m not in a good mood. I’ve been listening to Shania Twain all morning.” It was a lie – not the Shania part, but the being in a bad mood part. I was in a fine mood and it was because of Shania. Her feminist anthem That Don’t Impress Me Much sparked rich images of 90’s girl power, which I relished and drank from. But fantasy was not enough. Before the meeting, I snuck into the meeting room and wrote That Don’t Impress Me Much” on a whiteboard. I closed the doors to the whiteboard (oddly, it had doors). At the meeting, I baited staff to question what I was saying. When one of them took the bait, I slowly got up, walked over to the whiteboard and dramatically opened the doors. I pointed to the song title and in my best No Scrubs TLC affect, wagging my finger, said, “That Don’t Impress Me Much.” My look was sassy and I was very proud of myself.

I continued on about Jovi: “They approached Jovi about using Wanted: Dead or Alive and he came up with a better idea. At this time, remember, Jovi was very into the western/cowboy/native thing, wearing Native chest plates and donning cowboy hats.” I said this like Jovi history was common knowledge. Some were paying attention, wondering where this was going, and the others were staring at the table.

“Jovi had a better idea, though. He told them that he’d write a new song that sounded exactly like Wanted: Dead or Alive.” I waited to see if they knew the song I was talking about. The story was coming to an end and I was excited.

“And that song was…Blaze of Glory!” Like most of my stories, it was met with blank stares. They’d forgotten what the story pertained to. I had to remind them.

“And Toby went out in a Blaze of Glory.”

When He First Got Out by Tom Pitts

When he first got out he enjoyed the mundane. It was the little things, he told himself, that made every day worth living. He would walk slowly down the aisles of the grocery store, taking in the sounds and smells, the peaches in the produce, the bread in the bakery. He would hear the nostalgic music being pumped into the store and whistle out of key as he stared absentmindedly at sale prices on stuff he had no intention of buying.

He would take long walks along the beach. Listening to the surf hitting the beach, he’d wonder about God and the vastness of the universe, ponder the passage of time. He would try not to morn the loss of his own time by making little promises to himself. He promised to live in the moment and read more, eat more, see more, do more; to slow down, but to never stop living.

Reflection was his watchword. He was a quiet man now. When he did speak to people, it was with an apology or an “excuse me.” Mild mannered. Unassuming.

For a while it worked too. He could appreciate a cloudy day as much as a sunny one. He took in the bitter with the sweet. He would drink in all of his emotions, good and bad, like fine wine, savoring each individual flavor. His time without time had truly taught him to live.

Inside, monotony was all he knew. It was like a poison slowly killing him. On the outside, monotony was like a drug, keeping him stable, keeping his head straight. It was the little things, he told himself. That’s what he told himself inside too, that he’d never forget to appreciate the little things.

He worked his job, stocking giant shelves in a giant warehouse that shipped restaurant supplies. He learned a little Spanish from his co-workers, a little bit of Chinese from the customers. He already knew about patience, about drudgery. He practiced those each day like they were ancient arts.

He felt as though he’d found the secret. It was in a simple life, simple acts, simple needs, and simple dreams. Those barefooted Buddhists had nothing on him. Solitude was a reward, not a punishment. Silence was golden. Patience did have its own rewards.

It was almost two years after he got out before things began to unravel. It was on the number 14 bus, on his way home from work. He watched a young man tell an elderly lady to fuck off. The young man didn’t want to give up his seat on the bus. The kid just sat there, selfish, self-absorbed. He stood up and surrendered his own seat. It was further back in the bus. The elderly lady walked back, thanked him, and sat down. That was it. Problem solved.

The next day, he woke up late. He made it down to the restaurant supply store on time, but he was rushed, had no time for coffee. When he got on the bus, it was later than normal, the rush hour. The bus was full; he was forced to stand. The business people that closed in around him stank of colognes, perfumes, and hairspray. The air was claustrophobic and damp.

People on the bus looked at him, looked at him in the way that people looked at him after he got out, when they knew where he had been. They looked at him like he was different, wrong. His face felt hot and feverish; he got off the bus three stops early.

He was relieved to get off the bus into the morning air. Immediately his head began to cool as he strolled quietly toward his work. He reached the front door and slipped in without saying hello to anyone. He walked to the stockroom refrigerator and put away his lunch. Carlos told him Eduardo called in sick so he would have to do most of today’s inventory by himself. Semi-trucks would be in that afternoon to pick up orders that needed to be pulled and inventoried. It would have been a tough two-man job, but with only one, the task seemed insurmountable.

He knew that Eduardo wasn’t sick. He was hung-over. Eduardo drank like a fish. With his eyes bulging from a thyroid condition and his puffy lips hanging off his face, he thought Eduardo looked a bit like a fish too. They both knew today was going to be tough. Four Semi-trucks heading to the northern part of the state were to be packed and loaded before three p.m. Eduardo picked a hell of a time for another mid-week bender.

Dumb fucking Mexican.

Eduardo was from El Salvador. Or maybe it was Nicaragua. Carlos told him to do the best he could. He wondered where the fuck Carlos was from. No one ever asked him where he was from. They all assumed it was right here, that he’d been here all his life. He felt no need to tell them otherwise.

The day was long. The trucks were early, the shipments late. Carlos yelled at him in English, he yelled at him in Spanish. Every time he moved it seemed he crushed his thumb, smacked his knee, bumped his head.

The trucks were finally gone. His day was finally over. He felt older than he ever had his whole life. He nodded a goodnight to Carlos, who stood speaking Spanish to a small cluster of his co-workers. Carlos ignored him and kept on talking. It didn’t bother him. He wasn’t here to make friends.

It was later than usual when he left. The sweatshops had let out and the bus was full of loud-speaking Chinese ladies who were just as anxious to get home as he was. He sat in the back of the bus trying to rest his head against the window. He sat, staring out into the darkness, head bouncing against the glass, not thinking of anything.

To him, the Chinese ladies sounded as though they were fighting. Every few minutes he would open his eyes and check to see that they were still smiling. He was beginning to block out their volume when a young white girl sat down right in front of him. She had a toddler with her, a snot-nosed little boy who immediately pulled himself up on the seat back and began coughing in his face. The mother ignored the child. He wanted to say something. Cover your mouth. Turn around. Take that fucking whore of a mother of yours and get the fuck out of my face. But instead, he just sat silent. When the child upgraded the cough to a sneeze, he got off the bus.

He was six long blocks from home. Home was a residential hotel. Two years busting his ass and he still lived in that shithole. He was better off in the half-way house.

He unlocked the door to his room and sat down on the bed. He felt like a cigarette. It had been years since he smoked. He gave it up when he went away. It was easy to quit inside. A bottle of Kentucky whiskey sat unopened on the dresser, left over from a date that never happened. He wondered if it would make him feel better, or worse. Instead he lay back and closed his eyes. He fell fast asleep with all his clothes on.

He slept without dreaming and woke up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He sat up in bed, unfocused and bleary, staring into space. The first thing he thought of was a cigarette. The second thing he thought about what day it was. It was Saturday. This week had gone so sour; he thought he’d never see the weekend. He got up, pissed in the sink and went back to bed. The fucking roses can stop and sniff themselves today.

When he woke up it was almost four o’clock. He decided he was going to open that whiskey. He cracked the seal and spun open the cap. The burn in his chest was warm and familiar. For the first time in a week he felt good. He felt like he deserved a little more than this shithole room and his shithole job. He took another drink. He felt like he deserved some of the most basic comforts. A little bit of what everyone else was already getting. He felt like getting laid.

He could still feel the warmth in his chest when he hit the street. He was hungry, horny, and he had seventy dollars in his pocket. There was a diner just a few blocks away, the old fashioned kind, with mediocre food and high prices. He spent seven dollars on a burger that tasted like shit and another three on a beer that went flat before he finished the burger.

He looked down at the remains of his burger and felt unsatisfied. Maybe he should just go home. Getting laid suddenly seemed like a stupid and expensive idea. He didn’t have the time or the money, or, most of all, the energy to play at mating rituals in a bar somewhere. He was too old and too ugly for the singles’ scene; they could sense that he was not okay. He was creepy and he knew it. Whores were the way to go for him. He pushed his plate away, calculated his tip and threw down some cash.

The wind had picked up, blowing in the San Francisco night, making the air sting his face. He hiked through the Tenderloin, zig-zagging upward though the streets toward the track, the two or three blocks where the whores still had cunts. He passed liquor stores with small crowds of bums outside, each with his hand out asking for change. They asked for cigarettes while one dangled from their mouths. He stepped over unconscious bums on the sidewalk, quietly regretting not choosing that path in life. True freedom. From responsibility, from working, from the man, even from consciousness. What a quiet joy it must be not to have to think these thoughts, to maintain this body, to bother with the effort of life.

“Choo got a big dick?” a transvestite called out to him from a doorway. He stopped to look at her, squinting as though she were a mirage. Fake tits squeezed together in a leather bra, fishnet stockings pulled over her cartoonish wide hips. She wore no pants, but he dared not look at her crotch. He knew she was a man. He knew from where he was, what block he was on. He knew she was a man because, in this town, the whores without dicks never looked that good.

“Nah, I got a regular sized dick. Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Choo wanna date me? Choo ever fuck one of us?” she said and, without missing a beat, showed him two perfect breasts. Surgically altered perfection. He thought about the rest of the walk up Polk Street. He was tired. Those bitches up there were mean. They’d go through your pockets while they sucked your dick. Did he really need a pussy? Wouldn’t a blow job be enough?

She could see him hesitate. It had been a long dry spell tonight. Too much competition. There were more trannies on the street than Johns. She hadn’t turned one trick all night.

He was looking right into her eyes, past false eyelashes, gobs and gobs of mascara, into her eyes, into her soul. Trying to check the gender there. He kept his eyes leveled at hers and decided.

“Let’s go.”

She walked ahead of him. He watched her surgically enhanced fat ass shift from side to side as she led him down Ellis Street and up Larkin to her hotel. It was a shithole just like his. They passed the front desk and the East Indian gentleman with the sneer on his face.

“That’s another six dollars,” the man called out after them. “I’m counting you. I’m counting you.”

Just another statistic. He followed the fat ass up the stairs, his CDC inmate number rolling rhythmically through his head. J-58624. Jay dash five eight six two four. She led him into her room. The walls were covered with sheets like some cheap harem tent. Christmas lights added a soft red orange light. The smell of mildew, lube, and incense choked the air. She went right to the clock radio on the nightstand and turned up the volume on some anonymous disco and the beat throbbed into the air.

She turned to him and said, “What you want me to do, pappy?”

“You got a cigarette?” he asked.

“Choo nervous? It’s okay; I only bite you if you want to be bited.” She smiled revealing one immaculately shined gold tooth.

He sat down on the bed and watched her wiggle across the room, moving her hips to the tinny sound coming from the clock radio. He tried to let himself go. To forget where he was; the sheets pinned to the wall, the implants shaking at him, the thick pancake of make-up, it was the worst façade. He wanted that Kentucky whiskey.

“You like some party favors?” she said, pulling out a tiny square plastic baggie.

“No,” he said, and watched her pour just a little into a glass bowl no bigger than a grape on the end of a glass stem. He’d done meth in the old days, before he went away. A line here and there, punk rock nihilism, when losing a night of sleep felt like getting away with something. Industrial strength stuff that would keep you up way longer than you wanted to be. He’d never seen anyone smoke the stuff. It seemed half the new guys who were getting sent up said it was behind someone smoking meth. He watched her lips wrap around the glass stem. Her lips looked good. He liked her lipstick.

She stood still as she inhaled and then began to dance again as she exhaled and turned toward him.

“You wanna touch them?” she said, squeezing her breasts together. He shook his head, but kept looking at her tits, then at her eyes, and then at her tits. She danced a little closer and bent down and touched his knees. He fell back and let her do her job. She did her job well. He tried to focus on some fantasy that would take him out of that room, that situation, but couldn’t; the sucking was too intense, too focused. His mind wouldn’t let him think, it was all instinctual sexual reflex. He unloaded with ease. Long and satisfying.

Afterward he watched her go back to the pipe. He noticed for the first time the tiny whiskers on her lips, how the pancake-make up really didn’t cover her acne scarred face. He thought of those bitches in the joint. Kool-aid make-up, charcoal eyeliner, knotted shirts and no eyebrows. He felt a little sick.

She motioned for him to join her by holding out the glass pipe. He didn’t even think, he stood up, reached out and let her hold the Bic lighter under the glass bowl. He inhaled, held it in, and felt nothing. He exhaled and felt the euphoria rush up to his brain. He was instantly regretful. His mind began to race and he wanted to get out of that hotel room.

“What’s wrong, pappy? You no like the tina?” She smiled at him with those big metal teeth. He could feel his lip quiver. He wondered if she could notice it. He shouldn’t care. He needed to leave. “Do you have a cigarette?” The sound of his voice was far off and tinny, he wondered if he had said it out loud.

“Choo wanna stay? Choo wanna smoke this?” He noticed her thumb run lightly over a bulge in her panties. Her attitude had changed; she was bolder now, teasing him. He felt his teeth clamp together.

“Do you have a fucking cigarette or not?” He knew he said that out loud. The smile disappeared from her face. Slowly she pulled out a pack of Benson and Hedges Menthol. He might as well be sucking dick, he thought.

She glared right at him while he took out one of the long white-tipped cigarettes and, with the lighter she was using for the speed, lit it for him. He watched her. He could feel his heart beating. For one quick second, he saw himself on top of her, knees pinning her arms, holding her eye open with one hand and holding that cigarette against her eyeball with the other. He felt goose bumps all over his body. He could almost hear the sizzle of the cherry pressing up against the white of her eye.

He took a long drag off that cigarette. Menthol. He needed to buy some real smokes.

“Thanks,” he said. “I gotta go. I gotta be at work in the morning.” It wasn’t true. It was still Saturday night; he didn’t have to be in till Monday morning. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever go in again. But if he did go in Monday morning, that fucking Eduardo better not be hung-over.

The sights and sounds of the Tenderloin night assaulted him when he hit the sidewalk. He took a right on Larkin and walked through little Saigon. Homosexuals, hobos, fish markets, massage parlors. He stopped into a small market and bought more cigarettes.

“Matches, please.”

The clerk stared at him like he had no idea what matches were. There was strange music playing in the store. It was like having an insect buzzing inside your ear. He reached across the counter and grabbed two packs himself. The clerk recoiled and wrinkled his noise like he had smelled something bad.

Outside, he stood in a doorway and lit his cigarette. He stood looking out into the street, the night, and tried to separate himself from the person who was just in the room with that whore. He thought again about those freaks in prison, the blue shirts tied in a knot, the high-pitched whine of their voices. He shuttered. A car slowed down in front of him. Then it stopped. The tinted window did not roll down; the car sat in front of him.

“Fuck off,” he said to the window. He was staring right into his own reflection.

The car pulled away. They were cruising. They were cruising him. He had stopped too long in the wrong spot. Fucking freaks. He kept walking. He walked up Polk Street, up and away from the Tenderloin.

He was all the way to California Street when he saw her. She was beautiful. She was alone. He wondered what she was even doing out here. She didn’t belong. He saw her look up and down the street and watched the wind blow black her shoulder length blond hair. He knew she wasn’t lost. Was she working? Who was she looking for? Her pimp?

What was wrong with him? She wasn’t a whore. She was too good looking to be a whore. Too smart. She looked as though she would talk to him directly, speak her mind, be opinionated.

Suddenly she turned and walked up toward Van Ness. He looked across the intersection and saw a police cruiser. Is that why she is on the move? Or was it him, standing across the street, staring?

He started walking right after her. He didn’t even think about it. He wanted to know her. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted her to make him forget this day, his life up until this moment. He wanted her to be the one to invite him back in to world, into society, the one who would say, “He’s all right, he’s with me. He’ll be fine.”

He could hear his own footsteps. The rhythm quickening, coming up on hers, overtaking them.

He didn’t know what he would say. He wasn’t sure what he would do. He just wanted an opening. He reached in his pocket for his Marlboros.

“Excuse me. Do you have a light?”

She stopped, turned and looked directly into his eyes.

At first he thought that she’d recognized him. There was a glimmer of warmth. Perhaps they did know each other. That was why he saw her, connected with her. What did they call it? Serendipity? She was relieved that he’d finally spoke up.

But the warmth in her eyes cooled fast. She was smiling now. Laughing. She knew this approach, knew he has matches in his pocket. Heard this line before, heard them all before.

Is that all you got?

She was no whore. No whore would have laughed at him. She was a stranger, a bitch. He’d never seen her before in his life. There was no way she knew him. Yet she kept smiling right at him. She knew where he’d been and she wasn’t afraid. It made him feel like a child. She could never be with a man like him. Hardly a man at all.

“No,” she said. When he didn’t look away, she offered him a polite smile.

He reached into his pocket and felt his keys. He held them tight in his fist. He could feel a key between each of his fingers, the key to his mailbox, the key to the front gate, and the key to his room. He pulled his fist from his pocket and, with one quick motion, punched her on the side of the head as hard as he could. She went down instantly.

She looked up at him, confused; blood had started to flow from her hairline. He gave her no chance to respond. He got down on top of her, pinning her arms with his knees, and began to hit her, again and again. He hit her in the head, but his fingers began to hurt from the keys hitting the bone. He switched to her neck. There he could feel the keys puncture her skin. Her body was done fighting; she’d already lost consciousness. He could hear shouts and screaming. Now he could hear sirens. He kept punching her, keys fixed in his hand; no one was stopping him. There were no heroes tonight. His hands were hurting. Part of him was outside his body, wanting him to stop, pulling on his shirt, urging him to run.

It was too late. The sirens were now drowning everything out. He could hear the shouts of police commands, the crackle their radios. It was all over now.

Let’s see how that fucking Eduardo likes packing those trucks by himself.

If You Leave Me Now

Exiting at Eden Canyon Road, the Driver’s Education instructor had her pull over in a dirt patch. She put it in park and got out of the car. The instructor looked at me and said, “You’re up.” I was in the middle of three students in the back of a Ford Granada. The car was outfitted with an additional break on the floorboard of the passenger side, for the sake of safety. The instructor used it liberally. I pushed way my way out and sat in the driver’s seat.

This was the last stop in obtaining our driver’s license. Our course work was over. We had already been scared straight with Red Asphalt; simulators taught us to watch out for old bag ladies who were prone to leaping into traffic and manuals explained the correct speed limit when approaching train tracks that were 40 yards from an elementary school. It was a long process, but it was worth it – the end result was a driver’s license.

It was winter of 1980, a dreary Sunday that leant more to depression than religion, a time when businesses still closed for the Sabbath and streets were relatively empty, due to a slower pace of life.

I turned left and followed the frontage road back into town. Driving under the speed limit, the instructor told me to speed up. At Foothill, a road that claimed at least one student a year, I made a right, passing my high school. Decades later, often on Sundays, I found myself driving this stretch of road, looking up at the familiar burnt East Bay hills and squat oak trees.

Knowing the history of the road, and being an inexperienced driver, I hugged the shoulder, wincing anytime a car would pass. When the sound of the tires went from pavement to gravel, the instructor would gently grab the steering wheel with his left hand and steer the car back on the road. With a ten and two death grip on the steering wheel, this road scared the shit out of me.

We drove around town, up near the church, then back to Foothill on our way to Sunol, the adjacent town where the cowboy kids at our school lived. I always liked Sunol and knew the streets were relatively free of cars. This was good for a new driver. I’d had enough passing cars on a two-lane road.

Clipboard in hand and writing God knows what about my driving, the instructor told me to make a left onto a dead end street. I figured I would be tested on a three-point turn. Instead, he said to pull over. This was not uncommon. There lots of starts and stopping, and changing of the drivers. I figured my driving time was up.

I sat in the driver’s seat waiting for instructions. The instructor glanced longingly out the passenger side window at a country house that was parallel to the car. The A.M. radio played “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago.

If you leave me now, you'll take away the biggest part of me
No baby please don't go
If you leave me now, you'll take away the very heart of me
No baby please don't go

Without taking his eyes of the house, he broke the silence by dramatically turning off the radio and saying: “I hate songs like this.” Not knowing what to say, all of us sat stone faced and silent.

Seeing the looks on our faces, he attempted to explain why were parked, looking at a farm house in Sunol: “My ex-wife lives there.”

Even at 15, I knew this wasn’t right. He was a stalker, a man in a pain over bad love. It was moments like this that I started to put together that my charmed life could easily turn to shit and that it could be me driving by the ex’s house.

He turned around and looked at a girl with glasses in the backseat: “You’re up, Four Eyes.” His attempt at humor diffused the situation. Four Eyes took over and I moved to the back.

Friend of Skinhead or Not

Izzy and Trevor were an odd pair, a Texan and a Filipino German. Only in a work environment could they exist. What they lacked in common ground, they made up in fast food. Both loved Taco Bell, McDonald’s and Burger King, but KFC was their favorite.

At the corner of Ellis and Polk, KFC shares a space with Taco Bell. Next door is Brenda’s, a fancy Cajun place that TL hipsters and tourists from the Phoenix and other mid-to-low level hotels in the neighborhood frequent.

Izzy and Trevor, by my observations, dined at KFC every day. The 3 piece plated chicken was their favorite; however, if the Pot Pie was fresh, they would get that. Only if it was fresh.

Like a sales associate at Neiman Marcus calling to inform you that they just received new shoes from Marc Jacobs’ resort wear line, Izzy and Trevor built a similar relationship with the employees at KFC. Instead of shoes, they would call them when Pot Pies came out of the oven.

One day around lunch time, after morning duties, I heard Izzy’s phone ring. He answered and quickly left through the back door, yelling at Trevor: “Let’s go, Trevor. Fantasia called and said the Pot Pies just came out of the oven.” And off they went.

Izzy asked Fantasia out. Years of seeing her everyday bolstered his confidence. She agreed and he bought tickets to the Halloween cruise around the bay. Before the date arrived, he learned that Fantasia had a night job: hooker. Of course, he shared this with us. Since it had been a long, long time since he had a date, let alone sex, we counseled him to continue on with the date, as long as he didn’t pay for it at the end of the night.

Izzy didn’t take our advice and went stag to the cruise.

On this day, Trevor went to the KFC alone. While in line, a local crackhead entered from the street and started yelling at Trevor. As much as he wanted to tell her to fuck off, he ignored her, as this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. He was versed in the Tenderloin and knew engaging her would be pointless.

Sitting at a corner booth, a skinhead sporting the uniform - bomber jacket, Fred Perry and 18 eyelet Docs with white laces – stood up and yelled, “Get the fuck out of here, bitch.” The room froze, preparing for drama. The crackhead acquiesced and left quietly through the same doors she entered. The room breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the skinhead, who was still standing. The anger in his face had not subsided.

Trevor made the mistake of looking at him. The skinhead looked back, saluted and yelled, “Sieg Heil.” He calmly sat down and went back to eating with his skin chick girlfriend. With the skinhead out of the way, eyes now turned to Trevor, whose own eyes showed fear, knowing that the customers assumed he was associated with the skinhead.

Whether he knew it or not, the “Sieg Heil” was thrown his way. If it were a bullet, it would’ve hit him in the chest. Like a scene from a Woody Allen, Trevor looked around with a half-smile, silently attempting to convey to the predominately African American customer base that he was not with the skinhead. He appreciated that he got the crackhead to leave, but he didn’t agree with the his politics or supported his tactics. He knew this was futile, though.

Instead of following the crackhead out the door, he stayed in line, feeling the derision and stares encircling him. But he was hungry and this was his place. The Pot Pies were fresh. He’d earned his place in line and wasn’t moving – friend of skinhead or not.

The Evolution of the Douchebag Tattoo

Chris’ mom claimed that anyone with 3 or more tattoos was a sexual deviant. By definition, Chris and her husband were sexual deviants. According to my observations, anyone with one tattoo is a douchebag. By definition, I’m a douchebag.

While wading in the extensive pool at the Grand Hyatt in Maui last week, I had lots of time to observe women and men in various stages of undress, with various tattoos. It was a moneyed bunch and tended to skew on the “older” side - 35 to 55 - so most tattoos were run of the mill tramp stamps for women and bicep tattoos for the fellas. A few hipster women and men – the new yuppies – were covered, branding them as members of the creative class, the ruling class. In this scenario, the tattoo becomes “work,” a digestible euphemism.

In my UV protection swim shirt, Target floppy hat and white sunglasses, it was clear that the first wave of douchebag tattoos for women – the tramp stamp – had not evolved. Generation of women were still adorning butterflies, angels and various winged entities on their lower back and as long as alcohol is served and tattoo shops stay open on the weekend until 2 am, the tramp stamp will survive.

However, I’m not comfortable commenting on tattoo trends among women because I tend to consider myself a women sympathizer, who knows at least 3 alternative spellings of the word women – womyn, wimmin and wymyn - and probably wrote a paper at the age of 21 that used the word herstory over the traditional history. I’m way more comfortable being a dick to men. You know, men on men. It’s easier and I very knowledgeable of the breed.

As I waded in the pool, I realized that my tattoo – a large carrot on the outer calf of my left leg - was the first douchebag spot of tattoos for men. I looked around and men in the general vicinity of my age, who showed a propensity for tattoos, sported some elongated symbol/object that stretched up their outer calf. It became clear - it was the tramp stamp equivalent of guys. This wasn’t a huge revelation because I was a trendsetter in the arena of douchebaggery. Remember, I was wearing a swim shirt.

Once I eliminated the older set and their calf tattoos, I looked at the younger guys, with their muscles, pretty girlfriends/old ladies and good looks. In envy and jealousy, I was harder on them, meticulously scouring their tanned bodies for a trend. I didn’t have to look long.

Like the late 80s/early 90s tattoo trend of tribal bands, barbwire, dragons, suns and graphic designs, the local and haole men of Hawaii adorned some sort of tribal tattoo pattern that ran from their shoulder to their forearm. Since we were in Hawaii, it was assumed that every one of these patterns had some sort of historical meaning. Meaning or not, they were everywhere, given the fact that these fellas preferred tank tops over elbow length polos.

Treading water in the deep end, I crowned the one arm tribal tattoo as the new douchebag tattoo. I was a bit sad that my carrot on the outer calf was no longer relevant, but I found solace that I was douchebag when douchebag was cool.

Commuter Habits

The relatives needed the minivan to go to Santa Cruz, so I was stuck with the clown car, the VW Jetta. Bought in 2003, it is the first car that I (we) ever owned.

The pride of ownership never took hold. It always needs a wash, a vacuum and is continually a few thousand miles behind an oil change. What it has going for it is a birthdate in the 2000s (not the late ‘80s or early 90s) and reliability. It’s my wife’s car, not mine. I only drive it when I’m forced to.

Paid off in 2008, it has heavy-ass doors and a trunk that requires all your weight to close. On the freeway, when I drive it, I find myself in the fast lane going as fast as I can, longing for driving gloves with holes in the knuckles. Because of this midlife crisis behavior, I prefer the low-and-slow of the minivan, taking corners in a leisurely manner, and pissing off Sammy Hager types in the slow lane. On this day, I didn’t have a choice. I was in the VW with the Old Lady, commuting to San Francisco.

The commute is mine, a time when I’m by myself, listening to sports talk (during baseball season), thinking about stories to write and drinking Diet Pepsi. I should be on BART, but like others who prefer traffic to a crowded train, sometimes driving vs. the train isn’t a decision, it’s about addiction, habit.

Keeping me in the daily commute is a nasty Diet Habit; for most it’s coffee and cigarettes. Boredom while commuting has led to this assertion. 10 years of incessantly looking into the cars of commuters leads to me to believe that this is true. Anything to break up the monotony.

Because the relatives were using my vehicle and I’m using the wife’s vehicle, she’s with me the whole week, copiloting the commute. I’m not happy about it. She’s pushy with the radio, preferring pop stations and she’s chatty. I remind her that I’m the Captain of the ship - ruler of the radio and purveyor of conversation.

After dropping her off at work, I run a few errands, ridding myself of $600 dollars in cash to shady work vendors who refuse to bill. Shady is always a cash transaction.

Once I finish outside business, I return to work and park in the alley, dropping off some crap before moving the car to a paid lot. One the space is available, next to a junkie on the sidewalk, hiding in a recessed doorway.

While putting a quarter in the meter, I hear what appears to be a question. I turn and look at the young woman in the doorway. She’s sitting down with her left pant leg rolled up to her knee and her shoe off. Her exposed leg is swollen, bruised and littered with open sores. A needle in her right hand hovers over her foot.

“Excuse me,” I reply, looking confused.

She repeats the same indiscernible question, accenting the last word.

“Excuse me,” I say again.

She lifts the needle from her foot and focuses on articulation.

“You don’t have a problem with what I’m doing, do ya?”

I chuckle, not expecting this.

I looked at her in disbelief and reply, “Of course I have a problem with what you’re doing - anybody would, but I’m used to it.”

“Oh, ok,” She replied, going back to sweeping her leg for signs of flowing blood.

As I crossed the street, I decided to give her some advice.

“Hey,” I screamed, looking back. She met my eyes like a scared raccoon, still trying to be polite, selling me on her plight.

“Why don’t you just jam it into your thigh,” my right hand pantomiming jamming a needle into my thigh.

While walking away, she muttered something. I assume she was educating me on the difference between a muscle high and vein high.

White Dope on Punk: Epilogue. Get With The Military Of Ideas

I’m walking down College Avenue with my sister, her new girlfriend Anita, my wife Alex and our little boy. We had just finished eating at Shen Hua and the ladies wanted to enhance their post dinner stroll with a little coffee.

As we crossed Ashby and headed toward the coffee house, I spy a young woman approaching us with a clipboard and stack of political flyers. We successfully avoid eye-contact, so she turns her attention to a couple walking in the opposite direction—though not before shouting at us, “Get with the Military...the Military of Ideas!” Nice.

I’m intrigued, so while the ladies stood in line for lattes, the boy and I strolled over to her literature-strewn table and check out what she was pushing.

As I walked over I realized that she wasn’t alone, there were three more just like her on adjacent corners of the intersection. All of them were extremely aggressive, following people up and down the street belligerently and verbally accosting them. It was obvious the locals were not happy about their presence, but the Berkeley liberals were too passive-aggressive to confront them. They’d rather call the police on them for a “quality of life” issue than for being assholes.

A banner on their table identified them as the LaRouche Youth Movement, supporters of Lyndon LaRouche, the old conspiracy theorist who was prone to running for President. I knew nothing of his real politics and solely judged him by the actions of his “good street soldiers.” I approached with caution.

“Military of Ideas” was sitting at the table, taking a break from the action. Feeling feisty, I put the stroller in park, pulled down the canopy to block the boy’s view—just in case things got nasty—and smiled, hoping to elicit another catchy slogan. Thinking she had a live one, she blurted out in a pissy voice, “What are you doing to stop the war?” Prepared for a question like this, I responded in an affected voice, “Well, what are you doing to stop the war?” I could have easily said, “I know you are but what am I?” “Voting for LaRouche!” she sassed back. Without missing a beat, I responded, “Voting is stupid.” My old anarchist days were resurfacing and I was ready for a fight. Circle the “A” motherfuckers, I’m back!

This response usually elicits looks of astonishment and bewilderment. “You don’t vote?” she asked, more perplexed than angry. “No, do you?” acting like I was the one that should be astonished that she does vote. Her astonishment bubbled to anger and she unleashed a diatribe of hate. Not wanting to subject the boy to this, I grab the stroller and turned away. But not before getting in one last jab: “Voting is for pussies. Go back to Pleasanton!” I reverted to the taunt of my youth: still a classic!

Returning to the café, I found my sister and wife out front enjoying the late October evening, oblivious to the verbal sass match that had just ensued. We wanted to continue our leisurely stroll, but of course to get back to the car, we had to once again cross Ashby, where two new LaRouche youth waited for us in front of Wells Fargo. Feeling a little paranoid that Military of Ideas had tipped them off that an enemy of the voting revolution was heading their way, I gave Alex the stroller and lagged behind, running through my witty come-backs and clenching my fists, just in case.

As we approached, they launched into their spiel. I tried to ignore them, but they were being too rude and aggressive.

I turned around and demanded, “Are you RCP [Revolutionary Communist Party]? With your catchy slogans and fancy paper, somebody must be funding you.”

A little perplexed by the RCP comment, and definitely appalled that I would question who was paying for their literature, he continued talking about the war, ignoring my question, or possibly not understanding it.
I continued, “What are you peddling and what do you want from me?”

He said he was voting for Lyndon LaRouche and also asked me what I was doing about the war. At that moment I hated these kids, and I wanted a little piece of this guy. But I had learned some restraint over the years, and it wasn’t worth getting angry.

As I reluctantly walked away, he said, “Your silence is culpable for the war!”

I whipped around and quickly walked back, staring directly into his eyes. “What the fuck did you say?”

He instantly shrank back, but threw out a defiant, “Well, what are you doing against the war?”

My restraint went out the window. I said, “How dare you assume? You don’t know me. Fuck you, I’ve worked the last 12 years in non-profit, feeding people with HIV. And you? You’re just a privileged white boy with a trust fund attending Berkeley. Trust me, I know you’re driving back home in your mom’s diesel Mercedes to the Berkeley Hills, after being rude and annoying the fuck out of everybody on this street. Why don’t you peddle this shit at 98th and International, you fuckin’ douche bag?”

I was lost in myself. It was like looking at me 20 years earlier. He was like a mirror image of me back in the day: dogmatic, righteous and running far away from his homogenous upbringing. I pushed every button I could think of; called him every term he thought he was farthest from. It was so easy to attack him because I had been him.

Finally, he broke down and said, “What are you gonna do, hit me?”

Still very worked up, I said, “No, but I’m gonna throw you into traffic, you fucking idiot.”

A woman getting money at an ATM five feet from us chimed in, “Fuck you, get out of here!” referring to the LaRouche kid. She looked at me and said, “Fuck you, too.” I softly laughed. Her candor defused the situation.

I left and returned to my family. My wife looked scared and annoyed. As with all interactions that may or may not lead to violence, I felt like shit afterwards. I didn’t feel vindicated, I felt...stupid.

My sister looked at me, laughing, “Little brother, you looked like you were going to beat the shit out of that kid."

“No, I was just going to throw him into traffic,” I mumbled.

Lisa was about to respond, but I stopped her. I knew she was going to make the correlation between me as a young man and this kid.

“Fuck off, Lisa. I know what you’re thinking,” Lisa and I laughed. Alex and Anita exchanged a glance, understandably questioning their involvement with our family.