The Dumps

 Loris is an old tobacco town. At least I think it is. I’ve never inquired about its history. If I were driving with someone- someone local – when we passed Loris, I’m sure they’d repeat, “Loris is an old tobacco town.” It gives it status and pity.

 

It has two long roads lined with gas stations, banks, and fast-food restaurants. CVS and Walgreens compete for pharmaceutical supremacy and locals sell everything and nothing out of storefronts that used to be Halloween, beauty supply, and smoke shops. The optimism of when they first received a small business loan is long gone and weighing heavily on their wallet.

 

The one-block downtown starts where the long roads intersect. Bojangles and Hardee’s restaurants occupy one corner; a new chicken wing restaurant and maternity store compete across the street. The maternity shop rents outfits for Instagram shoots. To the north is what downtown used to be: thriving in the 50s and 60s, deserted in the 70s, antique shops in the 80s and 90s, and now a mishmash of “for lease” and “coming soon” signs.

 

Paralleling one of the long roads is a defunct railroad track. Brick warehouses line the old track. I look at the warehouse and think, that’s where the tobacco ended up. In one of the warehouses is a film production company. Their arrival made the news. Their arrival required workers to sign non-disclosure agreements before the announcement in the local paper. For $39 you can tour the facilities. The tour includes lunch and a chance to be an extra in a movie. The last film they produced was A Carolina Christmas in 2020. 

 

4 blocks from downtown is the recycling center, or the dumps, which it is known locally. There are two of them. One is closed on Tuesday, the other on Wednesday. Everyone knows this because everyone talks about the dumps. Are you going to the dumps? Can you go to the dumps? It’s Wednesday, so go to the Longs dump.

 

Until recently, I thought the dumps was the only game in town. Wrong. There is garbage pick-up but it costs money. The dumps are free. 

 

I saw my only South Carolina friend, Randy, at the dumps; I talked to a woman for 10 minutes about her love for Mercury Mariner vehicles (we both have the same vehicle) at the dumps and some of the dirtiest men in the county visit the dumps.  The junk is overflowing, and people are happy.

 

On the way home from Loris, I stopped at the dumps. Before leaving for Loris, I heard this: “Hun, you going to Loris? Take the garbage to the dumps, OK? As I said, it’s a common refrain.

 

The Loris dump sits on a square acre, surrounded by a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence is open space, which helps makes the dump appear bigger and cleaner. I don’t know why. Lining the exterior are large, open-air dumpsters with signs denoting the kind of junk it likes. Nestled between the dumpsters is a shack where the dump overlord resides, watching. Their car is usually parked nose-out next to the shack. The overlord never shakes ya down if you accidentally put Styrofoam in the “commingle” dumpster.

 

Near the entrance are the heavy-use dumpsters and one trash compactor. The heavy-use dumpsters handle cardboard, and packaging cardboard, glass, and plastic (commingle), and the compactor squeezes household trash. They are the big three of recycling.

 

In front, a 90s Chevy truck with a tall, white plastic barrel – its top sawed off – sits in the bed. I walk past and heave my one bag of trash in the compactor.

 

“Hey, do you mind helping me with this?” 

 

I turn and the owner of the 90s Chevy is pointing at the white barrel.

 

“Sure, no problem.” As many times as I’ve asked people if they needed help with their trash, I’ve never been enlisted as a helper. I like helping. 

 

The asker is in his 60s, lean, wiry, and wearing a sleeveless t-shirt. I get the vibe that he has at least one domestic, a couple of drug priors, and has never had a job that requires him to be indoors.

 

The barrel teeters on the bed, slightly breaching the gate.  We both grab the bottom with our right hands and the top with our left. The barrel is heavier than the trash. We slowly tilt the barrel over the lip of the compactor. The loose trash slowly slides out, brushing against my clenched fingers. As the barrel lightens, we raise the bottom higher.  The last dregs of trash is dirty liquid. It drains against the fingers on my left hand. My stomach flinches. 

 

The sleeveless man takes control of the barrel. Without looking at me, he says thanks and exclaims, “Americans working together.” This catches me off guard. 

 

I drive home with my left hand out of the window.

 

 

 

 

Face, Church, Daisy and Red

After talking about UTIs, thyroid problems, meds for dizziness, and kidney issues, a memory test was given. The nurse practitioner left, and another nurse came in with one piece of paper that resembled a children’s worksheet. I could see animals and numbers on it and immediately reminded me of something you see in a children’s Highlights magazine. I wanted to play but the test wasn’t for me.

 

Next to me in the examination room was my 85-year-old mother. We sat in two boxy mid-century chairs, with her walker in front of us. Her purse hung from the arm of the walker. The nurse sat on a chrome industrial stool. The room was unremarkable, small, and as common as the parking lot out front. The American examination room has withstood trends, renovation, and the Home Depot remodeling wave. It’s a force of consistency.

 

The nurse scoots over and holds the sheet like a menu. Connect letters and numbers in sequential order. Correct. Kinda. Draw a rectangular 3-d box. Correct. Draw a clock at 10 past 11. Fail. Identify a horse, rhinoceros, and giraffe. 2 out of three. Remember the words face, church, daisy, and red. 2 out of 4. What is 100 minus 7? 105. Wrong. The date? Correct. The year? Wrong.

 

The nurse was conciliatory, giving off  “not bad” and “I would’ve missed some of those” vibes. I tried to keep score in my head while playing along, and it appeared she was in the D+/C- category. The nurse leaves to get a urine hat for a sample.

 

“How did I do, Hun?”

 

“You did fine, mom. You missed a few but it’s easy to get a Rhino confused with a Hippopotamus. I think you got confused with the clock because you drew a very intricate grandfather clock. You did fine.”

 

She scored 20 out of 30.

 

The test was irrelevant, though. The real test -the test she failed - was on the ride to the appointment. A simple trip of one road for 10 miles and then a left, turned into a right, a few lefts, a U-turn, and a few miles the wrong way. I pulled over and googled the address. It was a sobering moment. It was death’s doorbell.

 

On the way home I softly repeated 4 words: face, church, daisy, and red. Most of my family have died or are dying from Alzheimer’s. When I forget these 4 words, it’ll be my time.

I Love it When He Calls Me Gregory.

I love watching Gene perform volunteer orientations. With his gold necklaces and rings, Steven Segal tight ponytail, and a designer shirt tightly tucked into slacks, he is an imposing figure at 6’ 4” and 200 plus pounds. Always immaculately dressed and with a determined scowl that says he is a serious man, he has a flare for dramatics. All of this in expensive loafers.

 

Standing at the head of a boardroom table, he grows more animated as time goes on, often punctuating sentences with “OK?”  I stand in the back of the room with a blank expression, waiting for my favorite part. He knows why I was there, and glances at me and quickly looks away, annoyed.  I know the words he’s thinking. He says it to me every time.

 

When it comes time to talk about delivery, I perked up. It is time. 

 

OK, so all the meals are labeled. Your route sheet will tell you who gets what. It’s extremely important the clients get the correct meal.

 

It’s coming. I smile in anticipation.

 

 If not, they can die, OK?

 

Gene peeks at me, annoyed. My smile hits maximum levels. Gene pauses. The prospective volunteers, uncomfortable with this admission, question if this is a good fit. They’re noticeably agitated. Gene reiterates.

 

They can die if you give them the wrong meal.

 

I sneak out and return to the office I share with Gene. I wait.

 

15 minutes later the door to our office opens. Gene enters and hangs his jacket on the back of the door. My smile returns to maximum. He looks at me with feigned annoyance. He dramatically turns and walks to his desk, and leaves me with three words:

 

“Fuck you, Gregory.

We laugh.

 

I love it when he calls me Gregory.

Heyy Mister

 It’s a little after midnight in Richmond, El Sobrante or wherever. Cities off the shittiest part of I-80.  I never lived north of Emeryville because of this.  Never lived in Berkeley because of the college students and boomers who call the police when you park in front of their house, and because of the freeway. I guess freeways play a part in my choices.

 

My phone vibrates. I accept the ride and follow the directions, down the hill, past the old mall, and into the vast darkness of a city I don’t know.  Dim lights have no effect on the dark night.

 

Midnight marks the shift from regular rides to drunk rides. It’s mid-week, though, so I should be ok. I never work weekends because of this hazard, and because weekend rides usually involve two or more people in the back. During the week it’s primarily solo riders. If Uber could guarantee

solos riders only, I’d be on board.

 

The app says 4 minutes away. The phone buzzes. I look over while looking forward. It’s never easy to read, even in the daytime. The distance from eye to phone is in the grey area of vision. It’s the 18’ to 24” zone where distance and reader glasses are ineffective. I squint and look more at the phone than the road.

 

“Can you take us to McDonald’s?” I pull over. I’m not taking them to McDonald’s. I resist the urge to reply, “Fuck no!” 

 

I click through the app trying to figure out how to cancel the ride. I’ve canceled other rides, but it’s a process, a process I don’t remember. I give up and Google it. First up is a video - a 2-minute video of how to cancel a ride. I fast-forward through it and figure it out.

 

My phone vibrates. “heyy mister?” The two “y’s” bug me. I cancel the ride.

Listening to Freebird at a KOA in Iowa

 Before the 2300-mile drive to Michigan, I print out a letter to keep with me while I travel:

To Whom It May Concern,

If you’re reading this, you pulled me over for some sort of moving violation.

For the past 2 summers, I’ve driven to Jackson, MI from Oakland, CA to visit in-laws. My wife and son fly to Michigan. My dog accompanies me on these trips. He should be in the back. He’s big but he’s very gentle and friendly. If you like dogs, feel free to pet him. His name is Sam, and he’s a good boy.

After a week in Michigan, the whole family jumps in the van and travels to South Carolina to visit my mom. We stay for a week and then my wife flies home, and my son, Sam and I take I-40 home. It’s a lot of driving, but I like having Sam on vacation. That’s why I drive.

While circling the country the past 2 summers, I’ve been pulled over 4 times – twice on I-80 and twice on I-40. Oddly, I’ve never received a ticket. Not once.

After being pulled over a second time, I got the feeling I was being profiled: out of state plates, driving an older mini-van with a dented bumper and no backseats, and traveling with a large dog (for protection?). And, as you can see, I’m a little disheveled and homeless looking. So, I assume, you’re pulling me over for suspicion of transporting drugs. A drug runner, right?

I mean, I can see this, but, as you can see, my eyes are clear, albeit a little sleepy looking.  The van is old and bruised but it once shined, transporting my kid from school to playdate to whatnot. It still runs well, so why get a new one? And the dog is a pet, not some viciously trained attack dog. Say hi.

If you must, search the vehicle. The last row of seats is missing to allow more room for Sam and me to rest at rest stops when I’m sleepy. Besides one suitcase and whole lot of dog hair, you’ll find some summer toys for swimming and whatnot. That’s it. I travel light.

If I were speeding, looking at my phone or driving like an ass, disregard the above and give me a ticket.

Sincerely,

Greg Kim

***

2 nights and 3 days of traveling is the goal. It sounds adventurous, but this is the way I travel – from point A to B as fast as possible. Since I have Sam and I can’t stop for a sit-down lunch or dinner, I eat very little and keep moving, sleeping for a few hours in a KOA or at a rest stop. The tent is the van, and the van is always hot, even with the windows down. This means little sleep.

30 minutes before sunrise, the first rays of light appear in the eastern sky. The night begins in Salt Lake City and ends here -- at the Wyoming/Nebraska boarder. I put on Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska and try to have a moment between music and geography. I’m not on the Garden State Parkway and there’s no factories billowing smoke, but mellow, haunting music is appropriate for sunrise. And it’s called Nebraska.

The light exposes a transition from arid, rocky plains of juniper and sagebrush to the lush rolling hills of the great prairie. When the welcome sign of Nebraska appears, it feels like the transition was immediate – rocks to prairie, like going from the garage to a warm living room.

The soft light ombre of yellows and oranges give way to bright, hot Midwestern sun. The mood is gone; I kill the music. It’s already hot and my face and eyes are dry. I’ve been traveling for 22 hours and I hope to make it to North Plate, Nebraska, 1343 miles from where I started. It’s a goal that comes with bragging rights.

I pull off the highway into a rest stop on the east side of North Platte. A sprinkling of cars dot the parking lot, most with their windows half-cracked. Most likely sleeping. I find a shaded bay, park and jump in the back with Sam. It’s hot, uncomfortably hot. An hour later I’m back on the road, air conditioning on full blast. Before leaving North Platte, I go through a McDonald’s drive-thru and get two English McMuffins – one for me and one for Sam. I give Sam the ham on my McMuffin. His eyes are saucers of delight.

Driving almost 24 hours straight is easy when you start from the comfort of your home and a good night sleep in your bed. Easy? Well, you know.  When you sleep for an hour in the back of hot fan, seat locks from the removed bench seat jamming into your hips and a 120 pounds of Sam leaning against me as I try to sleep, every mile of road from the upcoming drive is a burden. No theme music or fantasizing about buying a corn farm in Iowa, just an internal math problem of how miles to go and what time I will get there. There is eastern Iowa, 520 miles away. Short compared to yesterday, but long and grueling if you’re driving on one hour of sleep. 

Unlike the day before, where it felt like a road trip, full of optimism and discovery, today felt like I was driving with the parking brake on. No matter the music, no matter the beauty of the rolling hills, every mile was torture. I stopped constantly, drinking diet soda, stopping for McMuffins and taking catnaps with the driver’s seat back and the AC on. Windows up. 

Temporary traffic signs warn of traffic from an event at the Iowa Raceway. It is 11 pm and I assume the race is over or starting tomorrow. I exit I-80 and get gas and some snacks before sleeping at the KOA on the other side of the Freeway. I get a bottle of water, cashews and peanut M&Ms. The clerk asks if I’m here for the race and I say yes. No need to tell the truth when you’re traveling.

The KOA is crowded and I don’t have a reservation. I arrive late and leave early so a reservation is not needed. Of all the times I’ve stayed at a KOA, I’ve never been awakened by a camp host knocking on my window. 

I go to the bathroom and wash-up. Someone’s taking a shower. A shower would be nice but that requires a towel.  Old, round speakers built into the ceiling plays Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. It’s surreal. I take out my phone and take a 5 second video of the urinals, while Ronnie Van Zandt sings:

If I stayed here with you girl

Things just couldn't be the same

'Cause I'm as free as a bird now

And this bird you cannot change

I’ll post it on Instagram with some witty copy.

I take a cursory look at the camp map. It’s dark, very dark and I can’t see a thing. Sam and I get in the van and drive slowly through the camp, running lights on. I don’t want to draw attention. Most campers are asleep, wispy smoke from their extinguished campfires gently disappearing into the hot, wet night. I find a grassy area, roll down the windows and park. 

Too hot to sleep, I stare at the ceiling and incessantly check the time. At 5:30 am I give up. The horizon is changing and first light is near. I ball up my sleeping bag and stuff it in front of the front seat. Before starting the van, I notice I’m parked in an open tent area. Tents are all around me. It feels like I drove up on someone’s lawn and spent the night.

 On the way out, I stop by the bathroom to brush my teeth and let Sam out to go pee. No one’s up, so I let Sam off-leash.

Half expecting to hear Stairway to Heaven, I’m a bit disappointed with the DJ’s choice of Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple. The kitsch of last night’s Freebird was refreshing, but Smoke on the Water at 6 am in a KOA bathroom, on 4 hours of fitful sleep, was no fun. There would be no video or witty Instagram post. If I were a dick, I’d leave a negative Yelp review of the campsite: Camp’s ok but they have to stop playing classic rock in the bathrooms at 6 am. No one, and I mean no one, wants to Smoke on the Water at 6 am. 3 stars for being near the freeway.

At the exit of the camp, a large group is up and sitting around a campfire. It appears that they never went to sleep. A 70s El Camino and two large trucks are parked on grass, a race car on a trailer hitched to one of the trucks.  As I approach, a thin, balding man in his early 50s runs to the El Camino and grabs a chequered flag from the bed and waves it as I pass, to the delight of his friends. I assume he will do this all morning. It’s a good joke, a good drunk joke. I toot the horn.

The in-laws house is 400 miles away. I should be there before 6 pm. 2 more McMuffins and we’re back on I-80. With 4 hours of kinda-sleep and the destination on the horizon, I’m optimistic and dreams of buying a farm return.

We cross the Mississippi into Illinois and I think of Jeff Buckley drowning in the Mississippi with his boots on. He literally died with his boots on, albeit wet boots. 

K on the radio dial changes to W and we enter into the eastern half of the United States. The woodsy rest stops of California, and the concrete rest stops of Nebraska and Iowa are behind us, replaced by red bricks in Illinois. Each state tends to have their own rest stop architecture, a job no architect wants on their resume.

Sam and I stroll around at the first red brick rest stop, sitting on benches and looking for plaques that say something interesting about the area. I’m bored. 3 hours to go and I’m exhausted. We go back to the car, rollup the windows, put the AC on and take a quick nap. 

Before leaving I go to the bathroom. I pee a lot, I know. Belly-up to the urinal, a man in his early 20s is next to me. I glance over, eye’s up. I have Cal plates and I don’t want some homophobe calling me out. He’s wearing a new, yellow Banned in DC Bad Brains t-shirt. It catches my eye. Should I acknowledge it – say something like “Bad Brains” and give him a thumb’s up. I could tell him about HR climbing red velvet curtains behind the stage when they played SF. I think he’d like that.

The internal battle of whether or not to say something raged. Ultimately, I stayed quiet. There was a 30-year age difference and no young person wants an old man talking to them about punk rock.  (When I worked at a record store in high school, some cowboys were calling me fag, faggot, gay and, possibly, lesbian because they didn’t like the way I looked. I took it. After they eventually left, a man in a Vietnam army jacket approached me and said that in the 60s he was harassed for having an earring. I looked at him with a forced smile and thought, “Fuck off, Hippie.” I think of that anytime I want to tell a young person that I’m somebody…I used to be somebody.)

As we near Chicago, Audis, Mercedes and BMWs become more ubiquitous. Fords and Chevys still run the Midwest, but, with every passing generation, devotion to “American Made” wanes. And with foreign cars comes city traffic. It feels like home.

Past Joliet, Illinois, I-80 turns into a 4-lane highway, divided by a grassy median and “emergency vehicle only” turnouts every half mile. From experience, this is where cops park and wait for passing scofflaws. 

This is where I was pulled over last year. 

Traffic loosens and speed increases to 55 – 65 mph. I follow the speed of traffic in the slow lane and stay “two Mississippis” behind a semi-truck. A Crown Victoria with Michigan plates passes me, signals right and merges in front of me. I pull off the gas and idle until I’m a safe distance behind them. As this car-play is going on, we pass a cop who is parked on a turnout. As I pass, I monitor the sideview mirror to see if the car moves. It does. It pulls into the fast lane and accelerates, no lights.  I watch, hoping it will fly by. The car jerks right and the lights go on. I pull over and remind myself not to be combative or do anything stupid. I’m on mile 2200 with 200 to go, and sitting in a Chicago jail for being mouthy is not preferable to seeing my family and sleeping in a bed.

I put the car in park and take off my seatbelt. Pushing my hips forward, my left hand grabs my wallet.  I take out my ID and place it on the passenger’s seat, along with my wallet. I lean over and open the glove compartment, retrieving my insurance card, vehicle registration and I’m-not-a-drug-runner letter. I put them on top of my ID and return my hands to the steering wheel, 10 and 2.

I watch the cop through my sideview mirror. He slowly exits and walks toward my car, his gear heavy on his sides. It’s familiar. Even if you’ve never been pulled over, you know the scene from movies and TV.

“License, insurance and registration, please,” he says. His delivery rehearsed and automatic. 

I nod and say nothing. I grab the letter on the front seat and fold it in half. I move it to my left hand and grab the requested documents and place them in the folded letter and hand it to him. He takes the documents out of the letter and hands it back to me, thinking it’s a makeshift envelope to hold the items. I hand it back to him and say, “No, it’s for you.” Game on.

He slowly reads the letter and I return to 10 and 2, anticipating his response. I want a positive response, like an affirmation from a teacher.  Well Greg, that’s a very nice letter. Well written. It could use some editing, but it’s a good first draft.

I look up and my expression changes from frustration to resolve. My head pivots from front to side, my hands still 10 and 2. The space in-between us is long and unsettled. I have no idea how he’ll react. Will he think it’s funny? Will he blow it off and continue the dance of pulling me over for a moving violation? 

He takes my information and returns to his vehicle to call it in, looking for warrants and more information. This always unnerves me, no matter what the situation. 32 years prior, I jumped bail in Chicago over a rioting charge. A stranger bailed me out (and a few others) and said we didn’t have to stick around for the court date, so we immediately left town. When I was stopped last year in Illinois, it didn’t show up, so I feel confident he won’t return with bad news and cuffs.

He walks back to my van, papers in hand. “You were following the car in front of you closely. That’s why I pulled you over.” Dick!  No mention of the letter. 

Before responding, I have an epiphany. My head stops pivoting and I look up at him, my mouth slightly agape and a slow smirk sweeps across my face. Any fear that I had is gone. My eyes are confident.

“I know you,” I exclaim, accenting every word.  He stops, his left-hand falls to his side. 

“Excuse me?”

“I know you. You pulled me over last summer in this exact spot.” I’m busting. I can’t believe this is the same cop. His body tenses and his face blank and pensive.  I’m like a wind-up monkey wearing a fez and banging cymbals together. I can’t believe my good luck.

Not aware of our meeting last summer, he pauses. I can see him thinking. He read the letter and I assume his mind is working backwards to remember the interaction. I remind him.

“Last summer you pulled me over in this exact location. Do you remember Sam? The dog?” Sam is standing between the front seats, intrigued about this deviation. 

“We talked a little and I said you looked like Shane from The Walking Dead.” This appealed to his vanity and he perked up. He was a good-looking guy – strong chin, olive skin and thick, dark hair. He did look a little like Shane.

“Um, you told me you live near the border of Wisconsin and Illinois, near your parents.”

He slowly nods as the memory returns, his muscles loosen, his face softens. He probably can’t remember the exact interaction but he knows what I’m saying is true.

“I do, I do,” he said excitingly, a smirk on his face.  “That’s odd, I remember what you said about Shane. I don’t remember you but I remember parts of our conversation. When I got off work that day, I told some officers about it and they said I do resemble Shane.” He obviously liked the comparison. I had him.

What I didn’t mention was the drug running component of the story. When he pulled me over last summer, he asked me to get out of the car and sit in the frost passenger seat of his vehicle. He accompanied me to the car and sat in the driver’s seat. It was unnerving being in the front seat, computer screens and various electronics crowding the space. Why wasn’t I in the backseat? 

 “So, have you seen the TV show Cops?” It was the last thing I could imagine him saying. Why open with Cops?

I nod and say, “I’m more of a Dateline/America’s Most Wanted guy, but, yes, I’ve seen Cops.” A bit snarky but my confidence abounds. 

 “So, ultimately, they pull over someone and ask if they’re drugs or weapons in the vehicle, right?” He continues. 

I nod again, knowing where he’s going. “So, do you have any drugs or weapons in the vehicle?” 

I shrug and say, “No.” 

“Do you consent for me to search your vehicle?” 

I nod, dejected.

“Let me leash Sam before you search the vehicle,” I tell him. He agrees and I exit the vehicle and leash Sam, standing in a ditch while he searches. It’s very Cops.

The vehicle is basically empty except for one suitcase and lots of McMuffin wrappers.  He opens the back hatchback, the pulsating rhythm and noise of passing cars adding to the tension. 

I’m worried that he might plant drugs in my car. I watch intently, ready to yell, “I saw that!”

He closes the hatchback and walks toward me in the ditch.

“There’s a lot of dog hair in your car.”

“Yeah, he sheds a lot. Some people make sweaters out of their hair.” I don’t know why I said the latter. I was nervous, not as confident as before. 

“Really?” He seems appalled at this thought.

There is no mention of this interaction, only his resemblance to Shane from The Walking Dead. That’s OK.

He stuffs my information back into the folded letter and hands it to me.  It looks like there will be no search or ticket, this time. 

“Slow down and keep your distance from the car in front of you, OK? Have a good day.” I’m a bit indignant that he’s still pushing the moving violation narrative. We both know it’s a lie.

One step toward his vehicle, he stops and slowly turns. A slight smile on his pretty face. “Nice try with the letter. Be safe.” 

“You too, Shane. See ya next year.” He smiles and we have a human moment.

2 weeks later, Sam and I are traveling home on I-40, near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.  My son decided to fly home at the last minute. We spend the night at a KOA, leaving early the next morning. Before getting on the freeway, we stop for gas at an independent gas station and convenience store. 

I lean against the van, watching the numbers on the pump spin, clanking with every turn. Old, round speakers in the overhang– like the ones from the bathroom in Iowa – play a Catholic radio station. Trucks with 6 wheels come and go, off to do “man’s work.” 

Flimsy plastic chairs line the front of the store. Most seats are occupied, occupants sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and talking to each other. Inside, I buy a bottle of water. At the cash register, they’re fresh vegetables in a wicker basket with post-it note that says “Mary’s Farm.”

This gas station is like a café for this small, rural community. It’s a warm scene, even though the place is a wreck, inside and out.

I enter the freeway and I’m pulled over almost immediately. It’s 6:30am. Nothing bad should ever happen at this time of morning. The cop exits and slowly walks to my vehicle. He’s more Robo Cop and West Texas -- mirror shades and a straw cowboy hat -- than Shane and the community policing of urban areas. I hand over my documents and the I’m-not-a-drug-runner letter. The letter is a bit worn. And the dance begins again.

Part-time

Not to be confused with Jamiroquai, the floppy hat wearing, floor sliding ‘90s singer, Jobriath, the first openly gay artist to sign a 2 record, $500,000 recording contract with a major label – the most lucrative contract of its time -- was positioned to be the next big thing. Full-page ads were taken out in Rolling Stone, Vogue and Penthouse; posters were affixed to 250 NYC buses and a huge banner hung from Times Square, announcing Jobriath to the world.  He was going to be the next glam, theater rock Bowie.

A tour of European opera houses was planned, elaborate sets built and lavish costumes designed. However, poor record sales and mixed reviews of his two records halted stardom. He was dropped from his label. So much for advertising.

Jobriath quit music and moved to the notorious Chelsea Hotel in NYC in 1975, working as a lounge singer, bit-part actor, and augmenting his income with prostitution. I don’t think I’ve ever read that someone was a part-time prostitute. In the written word, it normalizes prostitution, offering no judgement. This is good. However, more times than not, prostitution would be the main job, and eventually everything else would go away. You come for the money, and stay for the drugs that helps you deal with the profession. Either way, Jobriath was way ahead of the world with his side hustle.

Unfortunately, Jobriath was one of the first musicians in the world to die from AIDS in 1983. 

                                                               ***

In-between batters of a baseball game between the Giants and Mets, Jon Miller, broadcaster for baseball’s San Francisco Giants, told a story about Cal Ripkin breaking Lou Gehrig’s 2,130 consecutive games played record.  Parked, I sat in my car and listened to the story, the tinny hiss of AM radio and crowd noise forming a soothing backdrop to his familiar voice.  

The game was temporarily stopped after the 5th inning, to recognize the historic accomplishment. Players, coaches and umpires took to the field, and fans stood, cheering. Cal acknowledged the crowd, tipping his hat and putting his hand on his heart. He returned to the dugout. 21 minutes later, fans were still standing and cheering, with no intention of stopping. They wanted more. His teammates pushed him out of the dugout and he took a lap around the park. Play was resumed.

My blue paisley face mask sat neatly folded in the middle of the passenger seat. It was late in the pandemic and the face covering had been with me from the start. It was barely holding on, though, the cords having lost most of its elasticity. A stranger told me that the mask brought out my blues eyes, so I was taking good care of the mask, elasticity or not. In the backseat on the floor, old soda cups were nestled together, pushed under the driver’s seat, and food packaging and wrappers were wrangled into a fast food bag, to be thrown out. It was tidy trash. 

Miller finished his story. I vacantly looked out the windshield. It was Sunday morning and an indestructible, brown plastic garbage can on the sidewalk was overflowing with the spoils of the night before -- fast food and alcohol bottles. Its pointy lid pulled back, to accommodate more trash. It’s always like this on the weekends.

Through the passenger side window, I looked at a large Stella Artois advertisement straddling the east side of a convenience store. It sits on a small, triangular dirt patch. The patch is used as an unofficial dumping ground of elaborate advertisement displays from the store. In the past, a large Icee cup display tempted me. I took it and gave it to my son. It hangs on his wall. 

The Stella Artois display was large, very large. A 24” square lightbox, 4” deep, positioned on a long, flimsy carboard tube, and supported by an even flimsier Christmas tree-like stand. The front and back face of the light box showed 3 people in block colors cresting an ocean swell in a vintage wooded boat – something you’d see JFK navigating around the Cape. A Caucasian couple sits in the front seats and an African-American woman sits sideways on a bench seat behind the man. Hmmm. The seat next to the AA woman in the back is vacant…for you, the person who enjoys the Stella Artois lifestyle. I liked the boat but my fair complexion deems such an excursion as torture.

Standing almost 7 feet high, its shape resembled the world’s largest protest sign. If you replaced the boat scene with BLM, it would slam down nicely on a Proud Boy’s head. That was one use for it. I was thinking more of a project, an art project. Yes, project, a dirty word to some. I thought of planting it in our front yard, replacing the boat scene with the words “We’re All Doomed.” It was late in pandemic, and homemade signs of hope (We’re All in This Together, We’ll Get Through This, etc.) were frequenting highway overpasses. I was more “We’re All Doomed.”

This creative urge subsided and I came to my senses. It was tempting, and I was sure it could be useful, but my message of doom would be exposing to the whole family, not just me. I decided against it, my wife’s sentiment echoing in my head: “Think of the family.”

Wilmer Flores homered in the top of the 2nd to give the Giants their first run against the Padres. “Adios, pelota,” Jon Miller yelled. It would be their only run of the game. I turned off the car, grabbed my face mask and went into the convenience store.

Two employees were behind the counter: the new owner and a clerk. I knew them both. 

As I dispensed my soda, I watched them though the reflective plastic advertisement that stands above the soda station, a space usually reserved for the big boys -- Coke or Pepsi. Today, however, it boasted a bear riding a wave with the words “Cool Chill” patterned across the graphic. 

I took a sip of soda from my cup and topped it off, the soda bubbling over where the straw is attached. I slurp the dregs from the lid and walk to the checkout. 

The owner stands at the left bay and the clerk the other. I belly-up to the owner’s bay and glance over at the clerk. He standing eerily still, alternating between looking straight ahead and through the front window to the small parking lot. He repeats this behavior, like he’s on a loop. 

I steady my soda on the counter and reached for my wallet.

Dressed in pleated Khakis, a jean color button-up with the company’s logo on the breast and gaudy, gold jewelry on both hands, he looked like the person in charge. "How are youuuuuu,” he says, holding the “oooh” for way too long. “Fine, and you?” I reply, making sure not to hold the “fine” too long and adhering to my policy of niceties only in retail situations. His facial skin was orangish from artificial tanning and his balding palette was dyed an unnatural color of orangish brown. His sing-songy speech and propensity to accent the last syllables of words in a high flourish was annoying, but he’s very friendly and might be on the spectrum so I give him a lot of rope. I try to remember it’s probably not his fault. 

He replies to my nicety: “Fine. Working…hardly working.” He laughs and I force a smile. Jokes like that will eventually change my opinion of him, spectrum or not. 

I place two dollars on the counter and look over at the clerk. He’s still dancing between looking straight ahead and out the front window. His blank expression has turned to annoyance. What is he looking at?

I scoured the parking lot for the answer. He wasn’t hard to find.  Pacing in front of the windows was man in his mid-20s. Like the clerk, he toggled between looking forward and looking in the store. Dressed in oversized jeans, dirty, black sneakers and a black bomber, his clothes were stiff from dirt and wear, a sheen emanating from his pants like they were a special kind of wash. His disheveled, wavy brown hair fell across his forehead. He knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted, and the clerk inside had what he wanted. No one was fooled.

The clerk quickly scurried behind me and announced that he’ll be right back. I put the change in my right pocket and wished the owner well. He replied, “You toooooo.”

I follow the clerk out the door and watch him. He gives the man a quick look and the man stops pacing. His eyes and face a mixture of anticipation and furtiveness. The clerk walks toward my car and disappears around the corner. The man follows.  I breach the corner and the clerk is standing next to the brown garbage can, his right hand digging in his pocket. His hand stiffens, he found what he was looking for. I surreptitiously watch from the car, my dark sunglasses protecting my anonymity.

The clerk takes a step toward the garbage can, pauses, looks into the garbage can, and gently places something below the rim. He closes the plastic lid and walks away, shaking his head. Hovering behind him, the man stands slightly stooped, palms forward and mouth agape. He intently stares at the rectangular opening in the lid. 

Following along with the drama, I’m concerned that closing the lid could’ve dislodged the “something” from its precarious place. I quickly chastised myself, knowing that the stooped man would dive head first into the can if that happened. 

On cue, the man moves quickly to the garbage can, finds what he was looking for and disappears into the late sun. 

I take a long pull of my soda and think about the part-time drug dealing clerk and Jobriath supplementing his income with prostitution. One man in the Bay Area, the other in New York City. Both working but not making enough money to live, so they look for alternative income sources -- something I desperately need but I call it passive income. 

Estonia to Emeryville and In-between

Marikka’s path to the United States started in Estonia. From there, she moved to Singapore, Paris, England, Miami, Silicon Valley and, finally, to Emeryville, CA., where she lived with her boyfriend. When I met her, she stood outside of the Oakland Airport on the third curb, waiting for an Uber.

No luggage, she had been in LA for the weekend, enjoying herself after being in a coma for 5 weeks at a hospital in Walnut Creek, CA. She told me this right away. Of course, I was interested.

“What happened?” I asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror.

She was young – probably under 25 – and reminded me of Elizabeth Holmes, the CEO of Theranos. Sans the breathy, baritone of Holmes’ speaking voice, they were similar in their calculated use of words, insightful responses and forced humor. Like Holmes, you could tell this woman had a vision.

“It was my own fault. I guess I took too many psychedelics over a 4-day period. It made my brain swell. It was in the tea, the psychedelics. I took it at the congregation ceremony. Other people did too, but I was the only one…” She paused and didn’t finish the sentence. She wasn’t reflective or pensive, she just stopped talking and took a moment to look out the window. Very matter of fact.

I had a lot to digest, but I focused on her use of the word congregation. To me, congregation is used when talking about church, but it would be a reach to assume she went to a church where a subset of the congregation dropped acid together. 

I did a little math. She said she got out of the hospital 5 weeks ago. Assuming she was hospitalized immediately after taking the acid, that would put her start date at the hospital right after Burning Man. Of course, Burning Man. She and her tech-druid friends probably adorned capes and ritualistically took acid on the playa. 

I didn’t press her on this new disclosure, but I looked at her differently. Until then, she seemed like an ambitious techy, raddling off impressive credentials with every place she lived: Singapore: internship; London: London School of Economics; Paris: fellowship; Walnut Creek: swollen brain and Silicon Valley: failed start-up. At 25, it was impressive and probably not all true. Either way, she seemed driven – not a visionary CEO, but definitely upper management.

The smell of Oakland’s sewage treatment plant permeated the air at the freeway interchange of 880, 580 and 80. Regardless of the time of day, it hung over the interchange like foul fog, deflecting blame for the smell to imaginary passengers in passing cars:

“Who farted?

“It’s the area.”

“Yeah right.” 

Passing Ikea on our left, I signal right at Powell Street and exited. If she were a tourist, I would’ve told her that before Ikea, the last steel mill in the Bay Area occupied the land, and behind the old mill were large mounds of oyster shells from the Ohlone Indians. This was more cabbie talk than Uber talk. There’s a big difference.

“What were you doing in Los Angeles?” I said, knowing it would be something good.

The light turned green and the 10 cars ahead us slowly idled forward, making the right at the intersection. I looked left to the shoulder and thought about my father recently dying. I had learned of his death from my sister on this ramp, pulling over to take her call. I didn’t cry but my body language to passing cars must’ve been a concern. One car pulled over at the intersection and walked back up the ramp to see if I was OK. It was a sweet gesture.

Marika told me she was in LA with her boyfriend, who was the CEO of a vegan dog food startup. They were doing TV and print interviews for the company. She said she worked at the startup too but didn’t tell me her title. 

Used to people questioning the validity of vegan dog food, she went on verbal bullet-point defense of why vegan dog food is better than conventional dog food, before I, and everyone else, asked, “Aren’t dogs carnivores?” I stayed silent, though. Vegan and conventional dog food was not my wheelhouse.

Maybe she thought I was a little too friendly, so from this point on, every sentence started with, “My boyfriend…”  This wasn’t unusual for women, nor was it odd for men to hear this. It was a simple way of saying “I’m taken, back off.”

Waiting for the light at Hollis and Powell, I look left to a gas station. They have an open bathroom that I use when I’m in the area. I know where all the public bathrooms are. It’s a gift.  An old sushi restaurant resides on the other side of the street. A large billboard and train tracks border the back of the building. I thought about watching Pavement through the open front door of the restaurant. I was late and the show was sold out.

We sat in silence for a bit. Red lights and silence can be awkward. Marika taps me on the shoulder. I slightly turn, craning my neck. She shows me a picture on her phone.

“That’s my boyfriend. He’s 40, but doesn’t look it, right?” Leaning slightly forward, her right hand gripping the head rest of the front passenger seat.

“You’re right, he doesn’t look 40. He’s handsome.” I threw her bone with the latter.

She leaned back in the seat, going through her boyfriend’s CV in detail. Like her, he was impressive on paper.

I pull up to a modest, pre-war bungalow with a yellow door. We exchange pleasantries. She quickly exits the vehicle, disappearing into the front yard.

Before pulling out, I Google her boyfriend and find his Instagram. Swiping up, I peruse 100s of posts as quickly as possible. Not a photo of Marikka.