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.

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?

Berkeley Sidewalk Tales

I'm standing at the intersection of University and Shattuck. I have my headphones in. I press pause to hear someone to my right. He is talking to himself. It is unintelligible, but he continues and I continue to listen. The light turns green. I push play.

I'm sitting in a chair outside Berkeley Espresso with my laptop in my lap. A man walks by with unkempt, long gray hair. I look up and make eye contact. "I know you and you don't even know it," he says. He walks past me and tries to bum a cigarette from two people down the street. He is unsuccessful.

I'm walking near Shattuck Square and I see a man jog up to a large pillar from a nearby building. He appears to be jogging in place facing the pillar and staring into it as if it is a mirror. He bends in for a closer look and throws his hands into the air. He dips into a crouch position and pops back up. He leaves the pillar and continues down the street with a wobbly walk.

It is night time and I am walking to Blockbuster. I am slightly anxious and very attentive to the sound of footsteps behind me. I hear the footsteps pick up into a run. Internally I flinch with fear. A young boy, maybe a freshman in high school, runs past me. I feel silly.

I'm at a head shop on Telegraph checking out some posters. A guy walks in and starts asking questions. He is in constant motion. He talks very fast and finishes his dialogues with "thank you". He asks me to move so he can grab a product near my leg. He is polite but also pushy. He buys what he needs within one minute of being in the store and hurries out. After he is gone on the clerks says, "Drugs are for losers."

I am walking down the sidewalk and a blind lady is walking toward me. Her walking stick is way out in front of her. In a preemptive maneuver, I move out of her way near the wall. She makes a b-line for me. I'm trapped against the wall as her stick swings side to side. I time the stick and step over it. I straighten up and squeeze past her on the wall side.

My father and I are walking back to my apartment from my parking spot. We are near Half-Priced Books when I see a middle-aged man in a wheel chair. He is cruising. He uses his heals to push the sidewalk under his wheels. "Did you see that?" my father asks. I tell him that I did see him. "Something seem odd about that?" my father asks. I look at him, not sure of what to think. "Why did he need a wheel chair?" my father asks. "Good point," I say.

home is where the fart is

Heather (my fiancee) and I went out to an "Irish Pub" in down the street from our apartment the other night. This was an Irish Pub in the downtown district, which really meant that there was a wall made of bricks, the roof had the appearance of being wooden, portraits of famous Irish guys hung on the wall, and they make sure to serve Guiness on tap; that is where the actual Irish ends.

I grabbed a Chimay Trappist Ale. Heather got a Harp Lager. We found a small table upstairs and grabbed two stray chairs from nearby tables. Conversation was strained over the band who cranked it to eleven downstairs. "That guy definitely looks like a politician," I said as I pointed at a portrait of an 18th century man in a wig, "or maybe like a large land owner."

We took turns trying to figure out the occupation all of the men in the portraits on the wall. We mostly agreed on everyone. There was a soldier, more than one politician, possibly a biologist, a drag queen, but there was one guy we could not agree on. The guy that is pictured here.

To me, this was a no brainer. Look at that scowl, that serious, contemplative look. Look at his scraggly beard, like he just didn't give a shit. This man was definitely a writer.

But Heather thought he looked Freudian - some kind of scientist. Another biologist perhaps? Or a psychologist. It figures that she would believe that, her being a budding psychologist, but I was sure I was right and I don't like to lose debates. Ever.

So after 4 days of obsessing over it in the shower, I Googled it. George Bernard Shaw - a famous Irish writer. I probably should be ashamed because I studied literature, but whatever, I won. I was right. I made sure to rub it in Heather's face. That's not pathetic, is it?

When we left the pub that night, we saw a shopping cart full of bags on the sidewalk. As we walked around the shopping cart I snuck a quick glance out of the corner of my eye. It was a man rolled up in a sleeping bag. He looked fairly at ease as he stretched his legs out. Then he ripped ass, like 5 times. It was loud enough to hear over the general hum of the streets. I looked over at Heather and I could tell she had definitely heard it. A couple of paces later, it was cool to talk about it.

"Oh my God," said Heather, "that was so funny."

"It's like he doesn't even care," I said. As the initial shock ran through, I realized that for him it wasn't like anyone else walking down the street. That was his home, damnit, and if he had to fart, well then, he was going to.

"Well," I said to Heather, "Home is where the fart is."