BUS DRIVERS:
The bus drivers around the Bay Area, especially in the East Bay are some of the crudest people ever. That 5 seconds just as you are entering the bus is the most uncomfortable part of the bus ride -- that includes the time you spend getting tossed around like a ragdoll if you are standing and the smell coming from your neighbor if you are sitting.
The bus drivers in Berkeley are almost always female, aged 27-34, and a weave that can only be described as ghetto. You walk on the bus and they stare straight ahead and pick at their long nails that appear to be press on while you insert your money into the machine. They may lazily glance up at you with a glance that says, "what the fuck do you want?" And you better know the bus rider protocol or you'll be hit with a snappy remark.
My first time riding the Berkeley bus system, called AC Transit, I deposited my money and waited. I was waiting for some kind of acknowledgement that my payment had been received or a transfer ticket like they give you on the San Francisco busses. Well, I certain did get an acknowledgement from the bus driver. After a second or two of me standing there, she says, "That’s it." Judging by the tone in her voice it was more like, "Sit the fuck down already." Then, hurt and pissed off, I start to walk away and I hear her say, "Wake up." What a total bitch.
I guess I can take redemption in the fact that she hates her life.
DMV:
If you've never been to an Oakland DMV, read Dante's Divine Comedy for a pretty accurate description. I'm still debating on what circle of hell it is: the fifth or the ninth. The fifth circle is about wrath and sloth -- both found in abundance at the DMV. But the ninth is the worst hell -- that fits the DMV as well. I would rather go on a scavenger hunt for dirty syringes in the People's Park at night with sandals on then have to deal with the DMV.
Here's an account of my recent Oakland DMV visit:
Stand in a line that extends out the door to get a number. Sit down next to a lady with three screaming kids. Watch the monitor for an hour waiting for your number. Talk to someone finally. Receive minimal eye contact. She expects me to know everything about the process and is irritated when she has to explain something. Looks for her stapler. Says, "I can't believe that white bitch took my stapler," as I'm standing there. Tells me to get in the next line. Wait in this line for another hour. Get my picture taken but the framing is awful because the lady running the camera doesn't give a shit. Have some documents stamped.
Total time: 3 hours.
I guess I can't be too mad about these workers, though. The DMV employees may have a legitimate claim to bitchiness. If I had to work 8 hours a day in that hellhole, I wouldn't be very pleasant either.
MUSIC SHOP PEOPLE:
Music shop people can be top-notch douches, although one of my friends was one once, so uh.. I hope he isn't reading this. I walked into this place called "The Starving Musician" to grab a cable so I can play my iPod through my stereo. There is so much crap in this store and I'm kind of in a hurry so I walk up to the front desk to ask for help. There are two workers sitting at the counter; both of them playing on the computer. I stand by their cash registers and wait for a response. Nothing.
I'm not a particularly pushy person so I start rustling around to catch their attention. Finally one of them looks up and picks his ass up out of the chair. He never really said anything mean, but his body language said it all. Total lethargy. Helping me must have be such a strain.
Music shop people aren't shitty customer service workers because they hate their jobs, however. They love sitting in a music shop all day. What they hate are the customers. I always get the feeling of being looked down upon by the "elite" when I walk into a music shop.
To the two guys who work the counter at The Starving Musician: no one cares that you can play Van Halen's Eruption and that you've been in more unsuccessful cover bands that you can count. Just help me out with my purchase and hold the attitude. It's my money that allows you to sit around, read mags, and play classic rock riffs all day. Don't make me go to Target.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
A Street Encounter with a Canvasser
I was walking home from my parking spot in downtown Berkeley. I had just finished a day of work and I was talking to my father about a few things. I had good luck passing by all the street beggars without having to acknowledge them, but then I saw another guy coming up ahead.
He didn’t look like the begging variety, rather a person that tries to get money from you to support some cause -- a canvassing job. These canvassers definitely suck if you're not from Berkeley or familiar with downtown, and you don't know their scheme. They basically say, "Can you spare a minute to talk about _______ (insert global warming, gay rights, Greenpeace, proposition 8, hate crime legislation)." Then you figure, being the good Samaritan that you are, sure I have some time. He or she stops you for a while and you realize that it was all just a ploy to get some money from you. They don't really care at all if you believe in their cause or not, and I question whether they believe in it either. They just got a job as a canvasser and are trying to make some money.
...Anyways, I saw this guy standing there and I knew that he was going to say something, but I was hoping that my conversation with my father would get his hopes down. I walked by and he said, "Are you registered to vote?"
I said, "Sorry," and put up my hand, as if to say leave me alone.
Then the canvasser said, "Are you talking to your boyfriend?"
I didn't know how to react. Was he trying to insult me or did he really think that I was gay? Given that I live in the liberal city of Berkeley, I don't think that it's supposed to be an insult. I looked back at him while I continued to walk and gave him a puzzled look. He just stood there offering no explanation. I scratched my head and walked away.
I found myself still thinking about it later and then I decided how I feel about it. "Fuck you! You piece of shit! Quit bothering everyone on the street and get a real job."
He didn’t look like the begging variety, rather a person that tries to get money from you to support some cause -- a canvassing job. These canvassers definitely suck if you're not from Berkeley or familiar with downtown, and you don't know their scheme. They basically say, "Can you spare a minute to talk about _______ (insert global warming, gay rights, Greenpeace, proposition 8, hate crime legislation)." Then you figure, being the good Samaritan that you are, sure I have some time. He or she stops you for a while and you realize that it was all just a ploy to get some money from you. They don't really care at all if you believe in their cause or not, and I question whether they believe in it either. They just got a job as a canvasser and are trying to make some money.
...Anyways, I saw this guy standing there and I knew that he was going to say something, but I was hoping that my conversation with my father would get his hopes down. I walked by and he said, "Are you registered to vote?"
I said, "Sorry," and put up my hand, as if to say leave me alone.
Then the canvasser said, "Are you talking to your boyfriend?"
I didn't know how to react. Was he trying to insult me or did he really think that I was gay? Given that I live in the liberal city of Berkeley, I don't think that it's supposed to be an insult. I looked back at him while I continued to walk and gave him a puzzled look. He just stood there offering no explanation. I scratched my head and walked away.
I found myself still thinking about it later and then I decided how I feel about it. "Fuck you! You piece of shit! Quit bothering everyone on the street and get a real job."
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tapping into the Entrepreneurial Spirit
In September, the unemployment rate for the state of California reached 12.2%. In the Bay Area, it is at 10.4%. Even though there were slight up-turns on wall-street, the unemployment rate is continued to rise until the middle of next year. That being said, finding a job in the Bay Area for a recent graduate pretty much sucks ass.
I've been hearing a lot of talk on different forums about how people need to create their own jobs instead of waiting for one and other people sharing entrepreneurial examples. Seems like just talk, considering that it is harder to get a loan these days. Despite the contradiction, I have decided to switch my brain into the entrepreneurial spirit mode and came up with two different money making schemes.
Hear me out:
Scenario 1:
I'm just about to bottle my first homebrew - the darkest and smelliest hefeweizen I've ever seen/smelt. I was thinking that I should set up a home brew shop for the homeless that enjoy a good drink that surround my apartment. I haven't decided the pricing yet, as it has to be very low to compete with the crowd favorite, Hurricane High Gravity malt liquor in a can.
Here are some of the figures that are in the equation:
Equipment: ~$100
Ingredients: $30
The ingredients make about 5 gallons of brew. That is a little bit more than 53 bottles of beer. If I were to sell the bottles at $0.83 a beer, that would give me $43.99. That's a $14 profit on the ingredients.
I would also create a recycling incentive for my customers. Return or give me 5 bottles, I will give one free beer. There will be restrictions on this incentive, however, as I probably don't have enough room for all of the bottles that I would get flooded with. Also, I don't want it to eat too much into my profits, but this way I don't need to figure bottles into my costs.
Making only $14 profit on a batch isn't great, but when you consider the actual time spent making brew, about 3-4 hours spread out over days, it's not too bad. Plus, I love to brew beer. You know what they say, "The first million is the hardest to make."
So maybe this is illegal and immoral, but from what I've read in the newspapers lately, people have made billions operating their businesses upon these principles.
Scenario 2:
Step 1: Get a sex change operation -- male to female surgery
This is a huge start-up cost, but the payoff will dwarf it. Once I fully appear to be a woman, I will enter the nunnery (not the whorehouse variety). I will study the bible and all about the sisterhood while hiding the fact that I once was a man. After I am ordained, or whatever the process is called, I will spend a year or two living the celibate life - shouldn't be hard (double pun).
After this period in which I have established myself in the Catholic nun community, then I will come clean. I will come out of the confessional and tell everyone that I was once a man. No doubt this will cause my banishment from the sisterhood.
After I am banished, I will alert the media. A media tour will ensue where I will plug an autobiography that I conveniently wrote during my time in the nunnery. My target audience will be the Nancy Grace, Jane Velez-Mitchell, and E! Entertainment crowd.
The autobiography will bring in millions and by the time this endeavor is complete, the recession will be ending. I will finally get an entry-level job and continue my career, much richer.
So, what do you think? Feasible? Any other suggestions?
I've been hearing a lot of talk on different forums about how people need to create their own jobs instead of waiting for one and other people sharing entrepreneurial examples. Seems like just talk, considering that it is harder to get a loan these days. Despite the contradiction, I have decided to switch my brain into the entrepreneurial spirit mode and came up with two different money making schemes.
Hear me out:
Scenario 1:
I'm just about to bottle my first homebrew - the darkest and smelliest hefeweizen I've ever seen/smelt. I was thinking that I should set up a home brew shop for the homeless that enjoy a good drink that surround my apartment. I haven't decided the pricing yet, as it has to be very low to compete with the crowd favorite, Hurricane High Gravity malt liquor in a can.
Here are some of the figures that are in the equation:
Equipment: ~$100
Ingredients: $30
The ingredients make about 5 gallons of brew. That is a little bit more than 53 bottles of beer. If I were to sell the bottles at $0.83 a beer, that would give me $43.99. That's a $14 profit on the ingredients.
I would also create a recycling incentive for my customers. Return or give me 5 bottles, I will give one free beer. There will be restrictions on this incentive, however, as I probably don't have enough room for all of the bottles that I would get flooded with. Also, I don't want it to eat too much into my profits, but this way I don't need to figure bottles into my costs.
Making only $14 profit on a batch isn't great, but when you consider the actual time spent making brew, about 3-4 hours spread out over days, it's not too bad. Plus, I love to brew beer. You know what they say, "The first million is the hardest to make."
So maybe this is illegal and immoral, but from what I've read in the newspapers lately, people have made billions operating their businesses upon these principles.
Scenario 2:
Step 1: Get a sex change operation -- male to female surgery
This is a huge start-up cost, but the payoff will dwarf it. Once I fully appear to be a woman, I will enter the nunnery (not the whorehouse variety). I will study the bible and all about the sisterhood while hiding the fact that I once was a man. After I am ordained, or whatever the process is called, I will spend a year or two living the celibate life - shouldn't be hard (double pun).
After this period in which I have established myself in the Catholic nun community, then I will come clean. I will come out of the confessional and tell everyone that I was once a man. No doubt this will cause my banishment from the sisterhood.
After I am banished, I will alert the media. A media tour will ensue where I will plug an autobiography that I conveniently wrote during my time in the nunnery. My target audience will be the Nancy Grace, Jane Velez-Mitchell, and E! Entertainment crowd.
The autobiography will bring in millions and by the time this endeavor is complete, the recession will be ending. I will finally get an entry-level job and continue my career, much richer.
So, what do you think? Feasible? Any other suggestions?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Anxiety, Elation, and Depression on the Job Trail
Thursday Morning:
It's a beautiful morning in the Bay Area and a particularly exciting one for me because I have a job interview in South San Francisco. There is nothing that I like more in my short experience of the Bay Area than driving over the Bay Bridge. The best part happens right after you drive over the hump of the span between Treasure Island and San Francisco. The view of cars and the bridge ahead of you gives way to a breath-taking, panoramic view of San Francisco. A heavy concentration of skyscrapers lie to your right; in front of you and to the left, houses sit on rolling hills like birds resting on ocean waves.
I get to my interview 30 minutes early, but I already know what I'm going to say, so I listen to the radio. I walk in 15 minutes early, definitely clicked with the interviewers, and get back on the road. My interview was at 11. I reach my parking spot at 11:45. I head to the coffee shop and apply for more jobs. I go home feeling great for my interview with a different employer tomorrow. The light at the end of the tunnel is beginning to emerge.
It's a beautiful morning in the Bay Area and a particularly exciting one for me because I have a job interview in South San Francisco. There is nothing that I like more in my short experience of the Bay Area than driving over the Bay Bridge. The best part happens right after you drive over the hump of the span between Treasure Island and San Francisco. The view of cars and the bridge ahead of you gives way to a breath-taking, panoramic view of San Francisco. A heavy concentration of skyscrapers lie to your right; in front of you and to the left, houses sit on rolling hills like birds resting on ocean waves.
I get to my interview 30 minutes early, but I already know what I'm going to say, so I listen to the radio. I walk in 15 minutes early, definitely clicked with the interviewers, and get back on the road. My interview was at 11. I reach my parking spot at 11:45. I head to the coffee shop and apply for more jobs. I go home feeling great for my interview with a different employer tomorrow. The light at the end of the tunnel is beginning to emerge.
Friday afternoon:
I had an interview with a non-profit in the Berkeley Hills. It blew up in my face. The questions they asked me were not congruent with my ideas of what the job would actually entail. On top of that, the executive director was a real bitch, who was late for the start of the interview, played on her laptop during the interview, and did not know any details of my resume. I shook her hand and walked away knowing there was no way that I had the position, despite the fact that I did quite well on the skills test.
I spent the rest of my day in self-doubt and feeling like shit. Will I ever find a job? The good interview from Thursday had not contacted me yet, despite the fact that they told me they wanted to fill the position immediately. If I don't get that job, I'm back to square one with no interviews lined up. I'm completely broke.
I lay on my couch, turn on "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," and eventually fall asleep on the couch in the middle of the day.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Perils of a Distant Parking Spot
It's a Sunday afternoon and I have nothing to do. The conventional excuses that keep me out of the gym won't work on a day like today (e.g. no time, too tired, haven't had anything to eat). So Heather and I get ready to go work out.
I dig my basketball shorts out of the hamper, find a comfortable t-shirt, and dig out my shoes. Next, search for my iPod. It's not in the usual spots, which include counter tops, tables, the floor, under the couch, the coffee table, etc. Whenever this is the case, I know that Heather was picking up after me, and, her being a creature of organization, put it in her favorite spot, a desk drawer. Even though it is a very organized thing to do, ironically, it is the last place I usually check.
So I have my clothes and my iPod ready to go, now I just need to grab my backpack so I can safely stow my wallet, phone, and keys at the gym. That's when the deal breaker hit me.
"Shit," I say to Heather, "I don't have my gym lock. I remember seeing it my car the other day and thinking that I should bring it in, but it never happened."
"Well, what are you going to do?" Heather asks. I can feel my motivational rush start to wither down my spine - right into my ass.
"What can I do?" I say. I could walk to go get it. It's a long walk, but I mean, I going to work out anyways. What harm is there in a walk? Well, it is getting chilly out - that might suck. Plus, there are always bums on the street - I'd have to ignore them. Yup, I thought, I'm not going.
She gives me the look of disappointment. I tell myself to ignore this uncomfortable feeling - it will soon pass and then I can relax on the couch.
"I have an extra lock that you can use." Heather says, "It's right over here." She retrieves it from a well-thought out spot in her desk. She hands it to me and I look it over.
"I can't use this," I tell her.
"Why?"
"Because it is purple and pink. What will the guys in the locker room think?"
"Oh my God," she says.
"Think about it: if there is one place where the risk of homophobia runs high, it has to be in the men's locker room. I don't want to be put in that situation."
She is frustrated, but she won't say anything. She gathers her things and goes to the gym.
I sit on my trusty orange chair and kick my feet up onto the foot stool. Then I start to write a blog article. I comfort myself with the thought that atleast I'm doing something productive.
I dig my basketball shorts out of the hamper, find a comfortable t-shirt, and dig out my shoes. Next, search for my iPod. It's not in the usual spots, which include counter tops, tables, the floor, under the couch, the coffee table, etc. Whenever this is the case, I know that Heather was picking up after me, and, her being a creature of organization, put it in her favorite spot, a desk drawer. Even though it is a very organized thing to do, ironically, it is the last place I usually check.
So I have my clothes and my iPod ready to go, now I just need to grab my backpack so I can safely stow my wallet, phone, and keys at the gym. That's when the deal breaker hit me.
"Shit," I say to Heather, "I don't have my gym lock. I remember seeing it my car the other day and thinking that I should bring it in, but it never happened."
"Well, what are you going to do?" Heather asks. I can feel my motivational rush start to wither down my spine - right into my ass.
"What can I do?" I say. I could walk to go get it. It's a long walk, but I mean, I going to work out anyways. What harm is there in a walk? Well, it is getting chilly out - that might suck. Plus, there are always bums on the street - I'd have to ignore them. Yup, I thought, I'm not going.
She gives me the look of disappointment. I tell myself to ignore this uncomfortable feeling - it will soon pass and then I can relax on the couch.
"I have an extra lock that you can use." Heather says, "It's right over here." She retrieves it from a well-thought out spot in her desk. She hands it to me and I look it over.
"I can't use this," I tell her.
"Why?"
"Because it is purple and pink. What will the guys in the locker room think?"
"Oh my God," she says.
"Think about it: if there is one place where the risk of homophobia runs high, it has to be in the men's locker room. I don't want to be put in that situation."
She is frustrated, but she won't say anything. She gathers her things and goes to the gym.
I sit on my trusty orange chair and kick my feet up onto the foot stool. Then I start to write a blog article. I comfort myself with the thought that atleast I'm doing something productive.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Berkeley Sidewalk Tales - California Life (continued)
It is 11:30 A.M. and I am just heading out to grab a coffee at Tully's. I walk out the front door of my apartment complex and head toward Shattuck. At the bus stop I see a bicycle cop talking to someone who is sitting down on a bench. They seem to be having a polite conversation. Then I see the cop grab something from the bench. It is a can wrapped in a brown paper bag. He pulls out the can to look at it. It is a Hurricane High Gravity. The guy at the bus stop stands up to repossess his malt liquor. The cop gives him the Heisman and pours the beverage on the pavement. "WHAT'RE YOU DOING!?" the guy shouts. "I think you've had too much," the cop calmly says. "Na, I jus had one," the guy slurs, "but iv you wanna be an ASSHOLE about it." I take a wide sweep around the action. I don't look back. A guy in front of me rubbernecks the whole thing. He looks at me in the face. Is it okay to laugh I wonder? I stare straight ahead and smirk.
Heather and I walk out of the apartment to get to my car. As soon as I close the door to our apartment entry, we notice a guy coming toward us shouting at apparently no one. "Imma kill that nigga. Imma fuckin' kill that nigga." Heather and I are careful not to make eye contact, but steal glances, none-the-less. He passes us and we turn the corner. "Geez, someone was mad," Heather says.
I'm walking back from my car - a recurring theme. A guy is walking down the street yelling. I'm not sure if it is directed at anyone but he is pissed off. He gets closer to me so I pull out my phone and put it to my ear, pretending to be busy. "It's fucked up," he says, "Man, fuck you all." I don't look at him. I pass and put my phone back in my pocket. I'm not sure, but I think he was the guy from the other day.
Heather and I are at a coffee shop on Shattuck. It is the nicer part of Shattuck, not the zoo Shattuck down by our apartment. We get up from our patio table and Heather goes inside to drop off our latte glasses. I look down the street and I see a person talking to himself and making gestures with his hands. I walk inside the coffee shop to try stall Heather, so the guy having the one-way conversation outside can pass. Unfortunately, Heather is near the door and ready to walk out. We enter the sidewalk and begin our trek home. I can hear the guy talking to himself behind us. I can hear him mumbling but I can't make out what he is saying. I wish he was in front of us so I can keep an eye on him. Heather is talking about her practicum in group therapy and how the diversity in the bay area is giving her such great experience. We get to a stop light and the self-talker is standing next to us. The light turns green and I start slow, letting the man continue on ahead. "There's someone right there that you could do a case study on," I tell Heather.
I am walking back from my car and I hear a crowd ahead. I wonder what it is. I get closer and I see protesters crowding up against a barricade. They are chanting, "Education must be free, no cuts, no fees," in response to a recent 45% increase on tuition as well as job layoffs at UC Berkeley. People are holding signs, beating drums, and waving their fists in the air, while some people chat calmly with one another. They are blocking the traffic on Shattuck, one of the largest streets in Berkeley. I continue on the sidewalk taking it all in. I still see the same old characters that talk to themselves, panhandle, and beg that I always see, but they are somewhat subdued. Finally something is happening that makes these characters seem a little less out of the ordinary.
Heather and I walk out of the apartment to get to my car. As soon as I close the door to our apartment entry, we notice a guy coming toward us shouting at apparently no one. "Imma kill that nigga. Imma fuckin' kill that nigga." Heather and I are careful not to make eye contact, but steal glances, none-the-less. He passes us and we turn the corner. "Geez, someone was mad," Heather says.
I'm walking back from my car - a recurring theme. A guy is walking down the street yelling. I'm not sure if it is directed at anyone but he is pissed off. He gets closer to me so I pull out my phone and put it to my ear, pretending to be busy. "It's fucked up," he says, "Man, fuck you all." I don't look at him. I pass and put my phone back in my pocket. I'm not sure, but I think he was the guy from the other day.
Heather and I are at a coffee shop on Shattuck. It is the nicer part of Shattuck, not the zoo Shattuck down by our apartment. We get up from our patio table and Heather goes inside to drop off our latte glasses. I look down the street and I see a person talking to himself and making gestures with his hands. I walk inside the coffee shop to try stall Heather, so the guy having the one-way conversation outside can pass. Unfortunately, Heather is near the door and ready to walk out. We enter the sidewalk and begin our trek home. I can hear the guy talking to himself behind us. I can hear him mumbling but I can't make out what he is saying. I wish he was in front of us so I can keep an eye on him. Heather is talking about her practicum in group therapy and how the diversity in the bay area is giving her such great experience. We get to a stop light and the self-talker is standing next to us. The light turns green and I start slow, letting the man continue on ahead. "There's someone right there that you could do a case study on," I tell Heather.
I am walking back from my car and I hear a crowd ahead. I wonder what it is. I get closer and I see protesters crowding up against a barricade. They are chanting, "Education must be free, no cuts, no fees," in response to a recent 45% increase on tuition as well as job layoffs at UC Berkeley. People are holding signs, beating drums, and waving their fists in the air, while some people chat calmly with one another. They are blocking the traffic on Shattuck, one of the largest streets in Berkeley. I continue on the sidewalk taking it all in. I still see the same old characters that talk to themselves, panhandle, and beg that I always see, but they are somewhat subdued. Finally something is happening that makes these characters seem a little less out of the ordinary.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Thai food incident
Setup - Move to Berkeley, CA from Grand Forks, ND
Sunday:
In a gruelling day of driving, Heather, my parents, and I drove from Billings, MT to Winnemucca, NV. We started driving at 9 A.M. and ended at 3 A.M. Monday.
Monday:
We woke up at 6 A.M. in order to reach Berkeley before the apartment rental office closed. So on three hours of sleep in two days, we finally park the Budget rental truck.
The incident
We finished filling out all of the paper work and decided to grab a bite to eat before the heavy lifting began. The East Bay is known for its incredible diversity, so finding a place to eat that is friendly to my white-never lived out of North Dakota-50 year-old parents was quite a task. We walked down several blocks looking for something that was appealing to everyone. I suggested a pizza place, but Heather thought it was too boring. We almost ate at a Persian restaurant, but I didn't know what they served - all they displayed were the ingredients and names of dishes we couldn't pronounce. We began to walk down streets that we had already checked. Finally out of desperation, and arm bending on my parents part, we decide to eat at a Thai restaurant on Shattuck.
We were the only people in the restaurant, which made me nervous. I thought something had to be up if this place was empty in downtown Berkeley, but it was about 4 o'clock so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. The prices were cheap. The beer was cheap - that was a relief. So I got a beer and ordered a rice curry dish. The food wasn't bad.
But here's where the story begins.
We leave the restaurant and prepare to move in. Our apartment is on University Ave, which is a very busy street. There is typically no parking to be found even for a compact car, let alone a 16 foot rental truck. The plan is to double park and unload as quickly as possible. So Heather and I walk to grab the rental truck that is parked a couple of blocks away while my parents wait outside our building. I begin to notice stomach discomfort..
We reach the truck and I slowly, through a series of back and forth movements, pull the truck out of the parking spot. My stomach is definitely bubbling at this point. My anxiety is on the rise as well. "I think I'm gonna have to take a crap," I say, "like, soon."
I pull onto University and keep one eye on the road with the other scanning the store fronts, looking for my apartment entrance. I see my parents waving me down ahead. I look in my side view mirror - there is a long line of cars behind me. My father walks into the street near the parked cars, "Park here," he says.
I am aware that I never stopped to find the hazard lights before - this causes me added anxiety on top of the shit storm brewing inside of me. I slow the truck down to a stop. All hell is breaking loose in my stomach. I fear that one fart is all it will take. I look for the hazard lights button. I can't find it. Cars are stacking up behind me and speeding by my side. I look. I look some more. I don't know where it is. I'm going to shit my pants. I had to make a decision.
I stepped on the gas, leaving my mother and father behind with no explanation. "What are you doing?" Heather asks.
"I'm going to shit my pants! I need to find a bathroom, now!"
She is pissed and doesn't understand why I didn't just stop the truck and run upstairs. I turn the corner and drive down some side streets, looking for a gas station. I'm thinking about how disgusting it will be walking up the steps of my apartment with a wet brown stain on the back of my pants and the horrible smell. It will make a great first impression upon any neighbors I will meet.
I find a gas station and park the truck rental. As I'm running inside, I see a sign that says no public restrooms. That's just to keep the bums from using and leaving without buying anything, I think. I walk up to the counter, continually moving my feet as if it will keep the storm inside my body. "If I buy some gas, can I use the bathroom?" I ask.
"No public restroom," she says.
I groan and run back outside, turn the ignition, and get back on the road. Strangely, I'm beginning to feel okay about the situation, but then my parents call and bring back my frustration. I hand the phone to Heather. "I don't know what he's doing," she says, "he has to go to the bathroom... No, I told him to do that. Here, Perry, talk to your mom. She's yelling at me."
"Mom, I'll be there soon. Bye."
I pull up to another gas station and I see my salvation - a public bathroom. I squeeze the rental truck into a tight spot at the pump, which takes considerable maneuvering and excellent bowel control. I run inside and ask for a key. My stomach is at a roiling boil.
"Good luck in there," a random customer says in front of the clerk. "Be thankful that you are wearing pants."
I turn the key. Relief at last.
I'll spare the details regarding consistency and amount, but just know that it wasn't pretty. I finished up, found the hazard lights, and double parked the rental truck.
Lesson learned:
Don't eat food with exotic spices that are unfamiliar to your digestive tract before operating a large vehicle.
P.S. Does a bathroom exist in California without graffiti scrawled all over it?
Sunday:
In a gruelling day of driving, Heather, my parents, and I drove from Billings, MT to Winnemucca, NV. We started driving at 9 A.M. and ended at 3 A.M. Monday.
Monday:
We woke up at 6 A.M. in order to reach Berkeley before the apartment rental office closed. So on three hours of sleep in two days, we finally park the Budget rental truck.
The incident
We finished filling out all of the paper work and decided to grab a bite to eat before the heavy lifting began. The East Bay is known for its incredible diversity, so finding a place to eat that is friendly to my white-never lived out of North Dakota-50 year-old parents was quite a task. We walked down several blocks looking for something that was appealing to everyone. I suggested a pizza place, but Heather thought it was too boring. We almost ate at a Persian restaurant, but I didn't know what they served - all they displayed were the ingredients and names of dishes we couldn't pronounce. We began to walk down streets that we had already checked. Finally out of desperation, and arm bending on my parents part, we decide to eat at a Thai restaurant on Shattuck.
We were the only people in the restaurant, which made me nervous. I thought something had to be up if this place was empty in downtown Berkeley, but it was about 4 o'clock so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. The prices were cheap. The beer was cheap - that was a relief. So I got a beer and ordered a rice curry dish. The food wasn't bad.
But here's where the story begins.
We leave the restaurant and prepare to move in. Our apartment is on University Ave, which is a very busy street. There is typically no parking to be found even for a compact car, let alone a 16 foot rental truck. The plan is to double park and unload as quickly as possible. So Heather and I walk to grab the rental truck that is parked a couple of blocks away while my parents wait outside our building. I begin to notice stomach discomfort..
We reach the truck and I slowly, through a series of back and forth movements, pull the truck out of the parking spot. My stomach is definitely bubbling at this point. My anxiety is on the rise as well. "I think I'm gonna have to take a crap," I say, "like, soon."
I pull onto University and keep one eye on the road with the other scanning the store fronts, looking for my apartment entrance. I see my parents waving me down ahead. I look in my side view mirror - there is a long line of cars behind me. My father walks into the street near the parked cars, "Park here," he says.
I am aware that I never stopped to find the hazard lights before - this causes me added anxiety on top of the shit storm brewing inside of me. I slow the truck down to a stop. All hell is breaking loose in my stomach. I fear that one fart is all it will take. I look for the hazard lights button. I can't find it. Cars are stacking up behind me and speeding by my side. I look. I look some more. I don't know where it is. I'm going to shit my pants. I had to make a decision.
I stepped on the gas, leaving my mother and father behind with no explanation. "What are you doing?" Heather asks.
"I'm going to shit my pants! I need to find a bathroom, now!"
She is pissed and doesn't understand why I didn't just stop the truck and run upstairs. I turn the corner and drive down some side streets, looking for a gas station. I'm thinking about how disgusting it will be walking up the steps of my apartment with a wet brown stain on the back of my pants and the horrible smell. It will make a great first impression upon any neighbors I will meet.
I find a gas station and park the truck rental. As I'm running inside, I see a sign that says no public restrooms. That's just to keep the bums from using and leaving without buying anything, I think. I walk up to the counter, continually moving my feet as if it will keep the storm inside my body. "If I buy some gas, can I use the bathroom?" I ask.
"No public restroom," she says.
I groan and run back outside, turn the ignition, and get back on the road. Strangely, I'm beginning to feel okay about the situation, but then my parents call and bring back my frustration. I hand the phone to Heather. "I don't know what he's doing," she says, "he has to go to the bathroom... No, I told him to do that. Here, Perry, talk to your mom. She's yelling at me."
"Mom, I'll be there soon. Bye."
I pull up to another gas station and I see my salvation - a public bathroom. I squeeze the rental truck into a tight spot at the pump, which takes considerable maneuvering and excellent bowel control. I run inside and ask for a key. My stomach is at a roiling boil.
"Good luck in there," a random customer says in front of the clerk. "Be thankful that you are wearing pants."
I turn the key. Relief at last.
I'll spare the details regarding consistency and amount, but just know that it wasn't pretty. I finished up, found the hazard lights, and double parked the rental truck.
Lesson learned:
Don't eat food with exotic spices that are unfamiliar to your digestive tract before operating a large vehicle.
P.S. Does a bathroom exist in California without graffiti scrawled all over it?
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