Self Rediscovery

[Fifty150]

It's almost been a year. The Covid "lock down", at least in this country, hasn't really been a lock down. More of a voluntary abstinence, with some restrictions. It has not evolved to martial law, with authority figures challenging your presence in public.

I've been cutting my own hair. I stopped going to donut shops. Bars have been closed. Without sit down service, I stopped buying meals at restaurants. Less than a handful of visits to a hamburger joint, eating the burgers in my car, has convinced me that to pay for the meal is to eat the meal at the restaurant. I don't want to bring home restaurant food, reheat it on my stove top or in my oven, then still have to clean up everything.

My limited cooking is learned from childhood camping trips. A more innocent time. Back when I had more hair on my head. We camped as the open road would allow. We gathered. Wild edibles were harvested - the forest is a salad bar. We packed the Jeep and hunted. We fished. It was common for the pack to ride out on motorcycles with backpacks, sleeping bags, and such......

I baked bread today. What's special about that? Nothing. It's been over a decade since I baked bread. Perhaps a lost artisanal skill. Perhaps just a survival skill. Just as I did as a kid. Flour, water, yeast, salt, sugar.....stick your hands in, feel the dough, mix it until it feels right. Wait for it. It rises. Stick it in oven. As a kid, it was a little trickier, with cast iron and an open fire.

I grew up in a different era. Where people still learned to make things by hand. Pasta, tortilla, cake, bread.....again, not so special. Mostly just flour and water.

Nostalgia. Reminisce of yesteryear, and days gone by. Yesterday once more. The actual last time I actually baked a loaf of bread. My ex-girlfriend's parents were visiting from out of town. I had a pickup truck and a Harley. So I decided that we should take public transportation for a day of sight seeing. Her father was leery when I offered him a handgun or a knife in case he needed to defend himself.

Him: "Are you serious?"
Me: "Of course not. I'm just F*cking with you. You're suppose to not like me because I'm living with your daughter. Do you think I'd really let you take one of my guns?"
Him: "Guns? You have more than one?!?!"

I had cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Long before hipsters discovered it. I bought it because it was low in price.....and I actually liked drinking it. A snide & facetious fellow, her dad made snarky comments about how we are suppose to have this great wine in our region. And he was expecting to savor our marvelous coastal and valley varietals.

After a day of taking the bus through bad parts of town to sightsee, it was still hours from our dinner reservation. I decided, for reasons I still can't fathom, to bake a loaf of bread. Just like I did when I was a kid. A loaf of bread which I haven't baked for a decade. We had been together 4 years, and the girlfriend has never even heard of me making bread.

Flour. Water. Yeast. Sugar. Salt. It only took about 10 minutes for the dough ball to form. I covered as everybody cleaned up, took showers, and changed. No recipe. I took a look, and it looked like the dough rose. Just like when I was kid. Put it on a cast iron pan, into the oven on high, and when you can smell it, it's ready. Open the door, tap the crust, it's ready. I got a cheap bottle of $2 wine, the infamous "two buck chuck" from the back of the shoe closet.

Her Dad: "Who is this guy? Jesus? Bread & wine? Look Honey, he's giving us Communion."

Her: "In all these years, you've never baked bread. You never even told me you could bake bread. What else are you hiding?"

So there it is. I baked bread as a little boy, camping with my dad and uncles. A decade passes. I baked bread as a teenager, camping with my friends.....then drift through life as an adult, in & out of different relationships with women, going from job to job, hemlines go up and down, watching hip hugging bell bottoms come back into style, stints in prison, cocaine and hookers, collecting t-shirts from strip clubs all across the country....... if I bake a loaf of bread to mark the decades in my life, I don't have too many loaves of bread left in me.

 

[Tiki Tom]

That’s actually a pretty good short story.

 

[Harp]

[QUOTE="Fifty150, post: 2777504, member: 1312]

So there it is.... drift through life as an adult, in & out of different relationships with women, going from job to job, hemlines go up and down, watching hip hugging bell bottoms come back into style, stints in prison, cocaine and hookers, collecting t-shirts from strip clubs all across the country....... if I bake a loaf of bread to mark the decades in my life, I don't have too many loaves of bread left in me.[/QUOTE]

Covid irritant alter and reflection is probably more common than supposed.

I recommend you might read Boethius' The Consolation of Philosophy. Order online Amazon.
Inner reflection and amendment to life where necessary can prove most constructive.

 

[Fifty150]

Order online Amazon

The Holy Bible is suppose to be the best selling book of ALL TIME.

Yet, it has never cracked the Amazon Top 100.

 

[Harp]

The Holy Bible is suppose to be the best selling book of ALL TIME.

Yet, it has never cracked the Amazon Top 100.

Neither has The Consolation of Philosophy.
An epistle considered against the Bible but focused inward and writ in prison.
Writ circa 524, read for the past 1,497 years.

 

[Fifty150]

My Days of Being Wild. No helmet law. Every kid on the block had a bike. The poor kids, like me, had bikes which belonged in a junk yard. Beat up Harleys which kept breaking down. You learned real fast to be handy with a wrench. We drank Billy Beer as Billy's brother was .......... we'll leave the politics out of this. We hung out in the bars in Chinatown, picked up girls from the strip clubs on Broadway, and the Punk Rock scene was exploding at Mabuhay Gardens.

Something came up. Something always comes up. For some of us, it was time to saddle up. I'm a cowboy, on the steel horse I ride.....Get out of town. Lay low. Cops couldn't find us anywhere. No cell phones to track the tower pings. No GPS ankle monitors. I donned my leather pants, pocketed my S&W Model 19 .357, and rode off with nothing more than an extra Pendleton, 2 pairs of clean socks, and a 6 pack of beer in my saddlebags.

It never occurred to any of us that we stood out like sore thumbs in Mexico. 8 kids from Chinatown on motorcycles. And we only spoke enough street Spanish to insult your mother, order beer & food, and haggle down the price of a cheap blanket sold on the side of the road. All that we cared about was disappearing for awhile, so the cops couldn't haul us in, and that we don't get shot by the real bad guys.

We headed south. Then just kept riding. Bordertown to bordertown. Cheap tacos, cheap beer...... a pretty good time for kids still in high school.

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl

El Paso has the largest Harley dealership in The US. A good place to stop. Get spare parts. T-shirts. Go to Wal*Mart. None of us had seen anything like it. Stores like that just don't exist in Chinatown. Cross the border to Juarez.

Her name was Lola
She was a showgirl
With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there

Lola: "Didn't I see you at WalMart today?"
Me: "What? You must be mistaken."
Lola: "There aren't that many Chinatown kids in El Paso. You're still wearing the same leather pants. The cops were there. Did you steal something?"

So maybe her name wasn't Lola. But that doesn't really matter. Names are changed to protect the innocent. Her Copa was a seedy, smoke filled, strip club. Located in a rural area beyond city limits, and beyond the reach of the Juarez city police. The kind with rooms upstairs in case you want to spend a little more. I wasn't old enough to be in there. She wasn't old enough to work there. Or maybe not. Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico isn't in The United States. Who knows what kind of laws they have or don't have. Nobody was checking ID. And we had US dollars, which more or less meant we were okay to be there.

No romance. Lola wan't swept off her feet by my lack of sophistication. I smelled like 4 days of pee and sweat, wrapped in dirty leather. Lola was different. She just wanted to talk. In that little corner of the world, you don't meet many outsiders. Well, you get the military, and everyone from the base fits the stereotype of an American soldier on leave. Trying to get drunk, get high, and get laid. Then there's the UTEP kids. Privileged frat boys crossing the border to get drunk, get high, and get laid. And she was right. I needed a room with a shower, and some fresh clothes.

Lola got the truth. In the days before cable TV fake news, nobody knew what was happening anywhere else. Things were too dangerous back home. People were getting shot left and right. Anyone left standing; the cops were rounding up the usual suspects. We took the money we made selling 4th of July fireworks, and left town before we got shot, or ended up "detained for questioning" in the basement holding cell - where the cops can use you as a punching bag, and you had no rights because nobody knew you were there. We weren't murderous felons. Just high school kids from a bad neighborhood.

It turned out that Lola and her brother attended a parochial school operated by Franciscan Monks. Lola was only bartending, not hooking. That skanky brothel, thinly veiled as a s**thole cantina, was owned by her dad. And the family devoutly practiced Catholicism. Which now makes sense to me, as a person who practices Jewish holidays just to get those days off from work. I eat matzo with gefilte fish at work, just to remind the human resources lady that I'm getting holiday pay for Passover.

We parked our bikes in a corrugated tin shack they used for storage. And we stayed. All 8 of us. Very generous of Lola's dad. For a price, we slept in the f**kshop beds during the off hours of the day when they weren't generating revenue. Don't ask if there were fresh linens.

According to Lola's brother, we were "good for business". In their small corner of the world, it was an open secret that a "gang" was hiding out with them. Suddenly, people who owed their dad money were expediting their payments. Lola's dad was renegotiating terms on his "businesses", and getting better terms, because people feared his "gang". Lola's brother always took a couple of us wherever he went, as if to show off his new found "connection". For the rest of that summer, we hung out in the bar drinking beer, and eating some of the best Mexican food I've ever had.

I'm monumentally naive. I thought it was completely normal that the neighborhood pimp had parties every day, where different people in the neighborhood would bring chickens and lamb for him to roast. Every day. Enough food for his family, and all of his hookers. Neighboring ranchers would offer up their farm fresh produce and livestock for our supper. It was insane. Lola's family never went shopping. They got deliveries of everything, every day, as if her dad was entitled to free food. It started in the morning with fresh goat milk and eggs, and all day long, the food kept coming. Even packaged dry goods like 50 pound bags of flour, rice, and beans. Almost like tribute. Or a bribe, so that their daughters don't end up working as b-girls.

Weird that they didn't have a maid or cook. Lola and her mom were in charge of the food. Most of it. Her dad and brother always tended to the barbacoa. As if roasting meat were a masculine task. A few of the hookers helped out with prep work. I was told that they didn't have to. It was very clear that the whores were not domestic servants. They were employees, hired for a specific job, and it wasn't to be maids. All the hookers had to do was generate revenue. They were just bored waiting for customers. And at least when they helped with, they had some influence on the menu. One of the hookers made the best mole. Another was from Yucatan, and she made Cochinita Pibil which I couldn't get enough of.

A hooker from Michoacan made carnitas, and fresh tortillas. Actually, she made the tortillas almost every day. She taught me how to make tortillas. Again.....flour, water......a little salt, and lard. To this day, I still make tortillas that way. By hand. With an iron skillet. Although I found that olive oil could replace the lard when I'm making tortillas in The City. Not that I make tortillas all that often either. About as often as i bake bread. But I can do it. If you're cute, and you take me home from a bar in Chinatown, I might make tortillas for you in the morning.

I made a loaf of bread for the prostitute. Not that romantic either. She was there for the money. She needed to send home enough to support her family of 4 grandparents, 3 aunts, mother, father, siblings, and cousins. And me? I was too shy to make a move. And too cheap to pay her for her professional services. That was a life lesson learned. There's no "free meal" from a "working girl". I have a good left hook. But no girl could ever flirt with me enough, for me to knock out her ex-boyfriend.......for free.

As the season was about to change, we had to saddle up and ride off into the sunset. Head west. Back to The Golden Gate. Lola's brother had the last laugh. "Are you f**king kidding me? Tough guys have to go back home, because school is starting."

Lola: ".....and those 3, the 1 with the leather pants & the 2 who do not drink beer, are starting City College".

I didn't have leather pants. They were leather chaps. I was wearing Levi's.

 

[Benny Holiday]

Like something out of James Ellroy, only real.

 

[Fifty150]

only real

Vignettes of my reality read like a porno mag. People who know me say that if they weren't there, they wouldn't believe it. Strange that my entire life has been one debaucherous adventure, followed by a deeper dive into depravity.....even stranger that I have witnesses. As in more than 1 witness. They actually tell the stories better than me. "Oh, yeah? Let me tell you about that time in (Vegas, NY, London, Tokyo, Singapore, or fill in the blank location), when '5150' got into......." I don't know. I stumble through life half drunk, and things happen.

Actually, I'm not all that lucky, either. We got of town to avoid the gunfire. Only to get back to The City a week before the restaurant shooting. So it didn't work. Any one of us could have been shot in that restaurant. After all, we hung out at The Buddha Bar, not 50 feet away. We didn't even know what was happening. We were downstairs in the basement at that moment. Loud jukebox. Rowdy card game. We didn't hear a thing. Then the cops came. Rounded up the usual suspects. It was nuts. Every kid on the street. They saw our bikes in front of the bar, knew we were in the basement, and scooped us up too.

What could I say? The Inspectors and the foot beat cops knew us..... "I was downstairs playing cards. You guys know that we play cards in the basement. You think I'm dumb enough to go next door, shoot up a restaurant, then come back down here to finish the card game?" Yeah. Sure. And park my bike in front of the bar, so you'll know where to find me. I got it. I knew the routine. Squeeze us. Get us to talk. We might know something. "We were out of town the whole summer. We got nothing to do with this. You think if I knew this was going down, I'd be hanging out 50 feet away?"

Every little storefront in Chinatown has a little basement where the bathrooms are, and just enough space for kegs of beer. General storage. Nothing sinister like a network of underground tunnels. We hung out @ The Buddha Bar, Li Po's, and Red's. Ate almost all of our meals at The Pork Chop House, Capital, and Sam Wo. All these places are still there, as of today, when I walked down the block. If you're a cute girl, and some guy hanging out in front lured you into a Chinatown bar during lunch hour; only for you to miss returning to your desk in The Financial District, and stay in there partying until closing time.......you've met me.

A future Chief of the department, "What the f**k were you doing in Mexico?"
Me: "Baking a loaf of bread for a hooker."

Bing. Bang. Black eye. Broken nose. 3 loose teeth. Sore ribs.
Justice was served. A 1 armed man committed the murder, and got away with it.

 

[Fifty150]

Those interview rooms that you see on television, with the steel chair bolted to the floor - they have those in real life. 1 way glass, or 2 way mirror. A camera mounted in the corner along the ceiling. Even the concrete floor. Just as I remembered it as a kid. I feel right at home.

The faces have changed. The guys who used to be in here, beating up kids to get them to confess, they've all retired. First, they got promoted, then they got to retire with more money.

Two of them enter the room. The first one gives me a barely perceptible nod. For the benefit of the surveillance equipment, in case the video goes to trial, he identifies himself and his partner. He was from the neighborhood. Younger than me. His sister was in some of my classes. Sometimes she actually wore the very distinctive clothing of their culture. They were from Ecuador. An ethnic minority from the Andes, who still spoke their own language.

We weren't friends. Still aren't friends. Now he is recently promoted. Homicide. A lieutenant. Probably the highest ranking Otavalo cop in The USA. Why the heck would he send uniforms to drag me in for questioning?

A few things have changed. They don't beat down the person of interest who is there for questioning. Not anymore. Jurors now frown upon a video interview where the person being interrogated is bleeding.

"5150, again with this. A major event occurs, you are always 50 feet away, and you did not see a thing."

Chinatown's not that big. I'm 50 feet from everything, and nothing. Besides, I wasn't even in town. I've been away since Wednesday. I have no idea what's going on. What the heck is going on?

"We don't have to tell you anything. You have to answer our questions. You've been away? Where did you go?"

Pahrump. I rode out the night before Turkey Day. I just got back.

"You spent the holiday at a brothel in the desert? Who was out there with you? Any witnesses? Or did you keep your face masked the whole time, only paid cash, and nobody could tie you to being there either? Who will tell us that they were out there with you?"

Your sister.

Bing. Pow. Bang. Just like that. The cop punches me in the ribs. Lower ribs. Right by the kidneys. I guess I'll pee blood tomorrow morning. They can always edit that part of the video out. In court, the jury will only see that my face isn't bleeding.




"

 

[Fifty150]

When a lieutenant comes into an interview room, it usually means that it's a big case. Lieutenants usually supervise. They stay behind the 2 way mirror. When this Lieutenant From The Middle of Nowhere started hitting me, the door opened: some guys in suits came in and asked him to leave. I kept my mouth shut, and they did as well. Awkward silence. But at least nobody was rabbit punching me. Finally, another guy comes into room, and sets up a camera on a tripod.

It's animal porn in live action. A dog & pony show. There's a camera in the corner of the ceiling and a camera behind the 1 way glass. The video from 10 minutes ago, when The El-Tee was hitting me, will be deleted. The digital age. As if it never happened. Now, they will have 2 cameras, recording the 3rd camera being set up, and then an official advisory statement declaring the beginning of the "official" interrogation.

One of the guys in a suit motions with his thumb, and the others leave the room. He declares his name and position for the record. He said that he was an Inspector, assigned to "General Works". That made no sense. General Works investigates cats stuck in trees, and missing hubcaps. He advises me that I am a "person of interest" in a recent event. He produces a handful of paper, which is suppose to be a warrant, not for my arrest, but to search and seize evidence. I look at it. It's heavily redacted. The entire body of the narrative of affidavit is all black ink lines. The only thing that is actually readable is the part where it states that they can take possession of any of my property which may be in connection with the investigation. With a straight face, he says, "Get in front of the camera, and remove your clothing. One item at a time. Slowly."

As I disrobe, this cop examines each item, and verbally describes it. Jacket. Leather. Long sleeves. Brown. Brand name Cock Pit USA. He said that in two words, with a pause. Cock. Pit. Like it's some gay bar.

Pockets empty. Nothing secreted in lining. Order lab work for gunshot powder residue.

Lab work? What? You're taking my jacket to the lab?

"We're taking all of your clothing. We'll be looking for sand, dirt, trace minerals, hair, sweat, blood, DNA, saliva, semen, urine..... all of your clothing will be going under a microscope. We might find carpet fibers on the bottom of your socks."

Yes. They can do that. I am fully undressed. An evidence technician comes in to collect everything in front of the camera. Then the dead body girl comes in to the interview room.

"Dr. Pale Amy will perform a cursory physical examination for things like scratches on your neck, bite marks on your chest, pubic hair not belonging to your pubis, lipstick, smudged mascara around your genitals, whip marks on your back......and she will swab your skin. We will know if you washed your hands after going to the bathroom. We know that you two have seen each other naked, and that's okay. The process is digitally documented in case anyone wants to challenge her work product."

How embarrassing. Even these knuckleheads know that I have sex with the creepiest girl in the building.

After The Medical Examiner left, the cop declares that he wants to ask me a few questions. These will be questions "outside of Miranda". I don't have Miranda rights. I have not been Mirandized. They just want to establish a timeline for my whereabouts and activity. They can ask any questions that they want, which are not direct questions regarding the crime. They can't ask me if I did it. But they can ask if I enjoy scented candles.

I'm still naked. This guy wants to interrogate me nekkid. I want this case to go to trial, so that the video can be played for the jury. No doubt, that will leave a lot on the table for challenging the evidence on appeal.

"Okay, so you're telling me, that you rode a motorcycle all night, out into the middle of a desert, to do a 'flash mob' dance, at a brothel on Thanksgiving morning? And you didn't know the other 100+ people who all showed up, because it was on social media, where everyone uses a sobriquet? No real names? None of them can identify you because you had a Covid mask? Not even the hooker in the brothel, because you had a mask on the entire time? You paid cash? Have no credit card receipts? And you didn't rent a hotel room?"

Dude. I'm still naked. This room is cold.

"And The Lieutenant's Sister, whom you knew in high school, was bartending at this random whore house in the middle of The Sand Box? How did she recognize you? How she can alibi you and vouch that you were there the entire weekend?"

That's my alibi. And if you want to know, because I know that your Lieutenant is still watching the interview, I have seen his sister naked. The Lieutenant's sister has seen me naked. We saw each other naked this weekend. I stayed with her. You do know, that any law clerk who hasn't passed The BAR EXAM, could get this piece of evidence suppressed? You're video recording a naked interview!

My bike was impounded for evidence. My clothes were impounded for evidence. They gave me a pair of disposable paper coveralls, along with some paper shoe covers. that the crime scene techs wear and throw away. Then the cops dropped me off in front of The Bar, laughing about how I had to "walk of shame" the rest of the way home. I went into the bar and ordered a delightful refreshment.

 

[Fifty150]

"So if a gang of sodomizers came to the door, right now, would you let them 'know' me?"

Sally, That Girl. A post-operation transexual. Hangs out at my place, using the computer, and performs cam shows. Her father was, and actually still is, a minister. The real deal. Makes his living by leading a church. And for some reason, Sally, That Girl, is always mixing her drug induced hallucinations with Bible verses.

I have other things going on. Slick Billy The Barrister has summoned. I grab 3 extra magazines and jam them in the front pocket of my Levis. I cock and lock the 1911 model .45 caliber pistol, and nestle it into a hip holster. An untucked Pendleton covers it nicely. A navy blue ball cap, with the brim low to disguise my profile. Dr. Martens. Cheap shoes. But price is not the issue. The Air-Soles really are the most comfortable shoes for riding a motorcycle, running from the cops, climbing chain link fences, and fighting in bar rooms.

So I bake a loaf of bread. Raisin bread. The same bread I've been baking since I was a kid. I can now do it without a recipe, or even thinking. It has become second nature. Raisin bread just means I throw in a bunch of raisins as I mix the dough. As I'm rushing out the door, I turn and say: "There's some sashimi grade Ahi in the fridge. If 5,000 people show up before I get back, you'll know what to do."

 

[Fifty150]

Slick Billy's office was on The Waterfront. Physically, it was located on property of The Port Authority. Sort of a "grey area" when it comes to governances and jurisdiction. It amplifies and multiplies his sphere of influence. Although no longer in elected office, it is an open secret that he still pulls a lot of the strings. Especially with his niece elected as a judge. Why are courtroom judges, sheriffs, and coroners even elected? That makes an office which is suppose to uphold justice, an elected office of corruption and graft. As his assistant led me down the hallway, I heard laughter.

Aisha, The Tourist, was in his chambers. Along with Big Booty Trudy. The both of them holding their bellies and tearing.

"Come on in. We were just talking about you." The crooked lawyer embraces me the way criminals hug each other on television. With a couple of big slaps on the back, and his hands quickly frisk me to confirm that I'm carrying a firearm. Acknowledged by a quick upward motion of his chin as his left hand paused momentarily over the weapon. Old habits are hard to break. This crooked, octogenarian lawyer started off his career here at The Port Authority, as an enforcement agent. Illegal cargo enters when enforcement agents are bribed. "Good. You might need that."

Aisha. Speaks with a British accent. She's Indian. A lot of 3rd and 4th generation Indians in England, so that's not exactly a shock. An uncanny resemblance to the 2nd most powerful elected person in The USA. But maybe in my narrow minded eyes, they all look the same.

The 4th of July. What was she doing here? "I was just leaving. Thanks for the drink. I'll see everyone later." Trudy leaves the room. As is customary and ordinary, The Lawyer hands me a crystal snifter with Remy Martin. Louis XIII. This is what graft, misprision of office, and dirty politics smells and tastes like. This was paid for by the scandals you see in the headlines.

"You've met Miss Peter. Introductions aren't necessary." Aisha's last name is Peter? Aisha Peter. "Her firm has a client who was recently taken into custody, and is currently being detained in Pahrump, NV. I thought of you immediately. You just got back from Pahrump." They both giggle a little. "I'll need you to go back down there with Miss Peter. This time, no 'flash mob' dancing at a brothel. You'll officially be an agent of This Office. I've contacted the facility director. You may need to remind them that your visit with Miss Peter's client is a privileged communication. Make sure that they don't monitor or record the interview."

Aisha spoke next, as I was enjoying the expensive cognac. "My firm will pay all travel and provide a per diem. You will be paid more than your fee to compensate for the inconvenience of short notice, and us dragging you away from hanging out at the bar." They both laugh. Slick Billy says, "and Little Stevie will have to do his live cam porn show without you for a few days". They laugh some more.

Sally, That Girl. She used to be Little Stevie in the neighborhood. Big Booty Trudy's little brother. Before the sex change. I remember when I took that kid to The Mall to see Tiffany perform on her Shopping Malls of America Tour.

"Take your bike over to that shop that the local MC operates. They know you. I already called them. They will fit it with a windshield, 2 up saddle, sissy bar, and some luggage. You'll be riding back out to the desert. Miss Peter's first time in The States, and she wants to see what it's like to be a saddle tramp. Miss Peter's firm will pay for it as a necessary travel expense."

Aisha crosses the room, takes my hand, and starts leading me towards the door. "We're also going shopping. You have to take me to try on leather pants." I guess the meeting is over, as she leads me out of the office. I wasn't given a chance to say no. I guess they knew that I wouldn't say no. As she is still holding my hand, and leading me out of the outer lobby past the receptionist, I notice that she has a very attractive wiggle in her hips. How is this Indian girl from England named Peter? How is an Indian girl from Berkeley, California named Harris? I thought they were all named Patel.

 

[kate.epic.history]

What a great story! You were melancholy when you wrote this, which is not a bad thing AT ALL. It can be challenging to show emotion thru the written word. Well written! Loved it so much. Thank you.

 

[Fifty150]

A half dozen blouses, a simple, yet elegant black dress, and a 3 piece suit. Tailored jacket, with matching skirt and pants. 1 pair of simple heels with red soles. She traveled light. All of it fit into a carry-on.

All of it from a very expensive tailor. One of the best in the world. This collection is worth at least 3 months salary for most people. She's wearing her wealth. Sort of like rappers with gold teeth. You can see it when she smiles.

She's living in a hotel room for 12 weeks, and this is all she brought? She is wearing the LuluLemon yoga pants, tank top, hoodie, and athletic shoes she flew in.

Who is she? What is she not telling me? So far, everything which is presented, seems presented. Large London law firm. Sends her out to California for training with an affiliated large law firm. The kind of firms who have hundreds of lawyers, handling 1 to 3, no more than 5 clients. Representing the interest of the wealthiest in the world. Forming and dissolving shell holding companies & acquisition firms, lobbying politicians.... all while hiding, shielding, laundering money, and evading taxes.

She accidentally meets me in front of my friend Mei Mei's restaurant. The affiliate law firm has a case for her, and they align her with a local, corrupt politician, who also happens to have a license to practice law - and he has my number.

I read the case file. Irish kid on student visa. Caught in a labor department enforcement sweep. Working as a bartender in an off-The Strip, strip club. Supposedly, armed federal agents raided a strip club, to audit payroll records, on complaints of violations of fair labor and wage laws. Their client was caught behind the bar with nothing more than a bikini and a bar towel. The federal agents determined that she was in violation of her student visa, as she was not enrolled in any school at the time, and did not have a permit to work in The USA. Now, she is in custody at a private correctional facility which is usually used to house illegal border crossing detainees.

Nothing makes sense. None of it adds up. Less than believable to a reasonable person. Why would a low level attorney, who would normally be doing law clerk work for a senior attorney, from England, have a closet full of clothes from a tailor in Hong Kong? Large firms usually don't send junior associates to do their bidding on the other side of the world. And no large law firms care about an out-of-work Irish nanny, pouring pints of Guinness in a tittybar. Now I'm tied in to them through an appointed Port Authority Commissioner.

She's in the shower, washing off my DNA. As I'm snooping around, I realize that there's nothing for me to find, which she doesn't want me to find. As if everything in the room has been carefully staged. An unlocked cell phone, with no security, is working on a prepaid SIM card. A tablet computer has no files, and the browser history shows that she checks the local weather. I'm in way over my head. I should just keep my mouth shut, my eyes open, and my pants down. She is just using me for sex.

 

[Fifty150]

An atmospheric river is upon us. That means it's raining hard. She did not pack any outdoors clothing. And we had to get a motorcycle jacket for the ride to Las Vegas.

"I figured going to California, I would just buy a bikini when I got here. I had no idea that you had Winter here."

Not sexy. But I give her a military surplus poncho. I always have one in the back of whichever car I'm driving. It works 100%, every time. No rain has ever penetrated a ripstop poncho. It will be good enough to keep her dry as we go shopping.

Anyone who has watched the news on television will notice that most reporters, from local stations to cable news channels, wear similar looking coats. They look the same, because most of them are from Lands End. For a company which loses money left and right, Sears' Lands End division is the contract supplier for media outlets. Their jackets and coats really do work. Waterproof shell. Insulated. Mine came my way courtesy of a local television station. It was the extra jacket that was in the back of the camera van. Ugly but functional. Just past the knees. Hooded. Plenty of pockets, inside and out. Extremely warm. Modern textiles for waterproofing and insulation. The only problem is that the general public can't buy Lands End, because Sears is going out of business and closing their stores.

With Johnson Leather, and Golden Bear, we have the leather jacket covered. This is San Francisco, so we go to Levi's. The SF store has a tailor shop on the premises. Next stop is Pendleton. They have a wool shirt for women which also has a hood. The airport after that. There's a vending machine that sells inexpensive down jackets and vest. A down vest will be the perfect heat retention layer over the wool shirt and under the leather jacket. The last stop was the uniform store. Motorcycle riding boots. A full day of shopping for overpriced, low fashion, ugly clothes which she will no doubt throw into a Salvation Army collection bin.

I hate shopping. Hours and hours of trying on clothes, and spinning around in front of a mirror. Lucky for me, I've remained the same size for a few decades, and the stuff I do buy is made to last.

"Have you got anything at your place? Or should we get some dinner somewhere?"

No. And no. I'm dropping her off at her hotel. She can get her own meal. I just want to go to the bar and have a drink.

 

[Fifty150]

The day is upon us. The day before Christmas. The road is still a little wet. But we are riding out. Down to The Desert Inn. The Fun Boy from the local MC, has 3 prospects with him. I review our planned course, map out all of our stops. The Fun Boy will have Big Booty Trudy on the back of his bike. His reputation around the clubhouse will now be that he took his own porn star to a brothel in Pahrump. One of the prospects will have to take Little Stevie on the back of his bike. Little Stevie is now Sally, That Girl. A transexual. He didn't even flinch when told that. He'll work out to be a good patched in member for them. He follows orders.

The Fun Boy, being the only full patch member of The MC, is the only one of those 4 who will really know about what we are really doing, and why we're going down there. Or at least, he'll know whatever story Slick Willy, The Corrupt Commissioner, has told The President of The MC. His only marching orders were to work with me, and make his prospects do whatever was needed. That in itself, in the world of Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs, elevates his position as he is now representing the entire club on an important job. Back in Junior High, at the onset of puberty, The Fun Boy got his nickname because he always had involuntary flatulence at the worst moments.

Just like with other holidays observed, I leave town the night before, and I leave a little food behind. Whomever has nowhere to go, no family to gather with, can gather at my place. Only without me. Chef May has generously supplied a 7 bone standing rib roast. No doubt a gift from an amorous vendor, since that's not on the menu at her restaurant. I'm amused by that. A salesman sells wholesale meat. He steals from his own company, and gives gifts of stolen meat. As if Mei Mei, or some other chef, will kneel down and give him oral for a couple of steaks. What kind of person gives out gifts of uncooked prime rib?

I debone the cut. The bones will roast separately. I then carve off a couple of pounds in thin slices, which can be grilled for cheesesteak, or slid into hot pots for Pho. Part of it I roast in the traditional fashion, and slice a few pounds off as English cuts. Grill some eggplant, drizzled with crushed garlic and ginger. Chef May May will keep an eye on the place.

With that, we make 1 final stop at an infamous local leather shop. They are open on Christmas Eve. The shop is empty. I decide not to even go in. It's too depressing watching that shop owner in there by himself, on Christmas Eve, with no money flowing in the door. I don't really need that extra saddle soap and mink oil at this moment. I'll just order it on Amazon. I hope he's making some money from Fedora Lounger members placing custom orders. Because the shop has zero foot traffic. Just a block away, a "KOREAN SOUL CHICKEN" restaurant opened. Just as empty. 1 lonely Korean Soul Brotha, on Christmas Eve, wondering why he has zero customers. And no Fedora Lounge members are flocking down there to get a bucket of Korean Soul Food.

Maybe that is what needs to happen. Some of those internet people who profess their loyalty and adulation should fly out to The City by the Bay, get fitted for some leather, and eat some Korean Soul Chicken. Try not to do the obvious, which is eat at House of Prime Rib, when you can have soul food.

 

[Fifty150]

85 miles East. A small Central Valley city. There's another Chinatown. Situated off Highway 4 and Highway 5, across the street from The Police Department, and within pissing distance of The Free Trade Zone. This little town also has a port. An inland, deepwater port, 70 nautical miles from The Pacific Ocean, which ferries shipping containers. This is our first stop.

At Chung Wah Lane, there's a Dragon Gate, guarded by Fu Dogs. The cafe under the Pagoda tiled roof is now a taqueria. A walking street, closed off to vehicular traffic, we ride our motorcycles right in just as I did as a kid., Chinatown is a pedestrian mall. Only nobody comes here anymore. No tourist. Not even the Chinese. There aren't any Chinese businesses like restaurants, herb shops, or groceries. Just a few unmarked doors, painted red, where the benevolent associations still have their social clubs which nobody socializes in.

We park in front of one of the doors. My cousin Amy comes out to tell us to leave the keys in the ignitions, and leads us directly across the street into The Police Department parking lot. We board a Port Authority 14 passenger bus, which was idling with the lights flashing. Our limo, a prisoner transport vehicle. Then swiftly transported a few blocks away to The Port.

Trudy and Sally's father, The Captain, was also conveniently one of The Port Authority Commissioners, in addition to operating a non-profit place of worship. He was there to greet us, along with Stevie Jr. Sally, That Girl, had a son when she was still a biological man.

Stevie Jr., whose mother is Hmong, a military veteran, was now in the uniform of The Port Authority. As The Captain led his kids off for their family reunion, Stevie led the rest of us to a conference room with a catered buffet line. A dozen young people, all wearing different jackets, shirts, and hats with Kansas City Royals logos immediately quieted down and stopped their socializing to pay attention.

Khmer Crips. Killer Cambodians. The offspring of Hmong refugees who came to The USA after The Vietnam War. Disenfranchised. Violent. These were Stevie's guys. They did whatever he asked.

Aisha grabs my hand, intertwines her fingers with mine, hugs my arm, and whispers, "what's going on here?"

Lady, you don't know? You are the one who hired me, to take you to Pahrump, NV, to see a client in a Federal Prison. I'm just your driver.

Stevie Jr. grabs a couple of heated plates and passes them to me and Aisha. Real plates. Not paper. And heated. Then he starts piling on food, and explaining each item. Apparently, our Christmas meal was the finest fresh produce, all raised on local Hmong farms. This was the stuff they grew for themselves, which they don't even sell. Including a whole roast spring lamb, guinea fowl, pheasant, goose. An extraordinary feast of herbs, spices, and flavors of South East Asia.

"Growing up, grandpa always made me call you Uncle. And when my dad became a girl, I was so confused. You were always there for me."

Then Stevie Jr outlined the next leg of the trip. The MC will ride in 2 by 2 formation, in the lead. He was driving The Port Authority van, in uniform, which will be loaded with wrapped gift boxes. My bike will shadow the van, and cover his back, just in case he has to take a detour. Slick Willy provided me with Port Authority credentials, and a Memorandum of Understanding. We are on a charity toy run, bringing gifts to an Indian Reservation. His guys, in nondescript trucks will follow in a tight caravan as our backup.

Aisha suddenly blurts out, "Backup? Why would we need backup? Your friends look like gang members. What's going on here? Are you really just bringing toys to poor children? What does all this have to do with me? My law firm sent me to see a client."

As everyone was paying attention to Stevie's presentation, when Aisha made her outburst - the whole room burst into laughter.

 

[Fifty150]

We pulled into an Indian Reservations at 0600 on a Christmas morning. We were met at the gate by Tribal Police, who provided an escort to a large warehouse, which was used as central receiving. Stevie Jr's guys were in a procession of cabover trucks, all crudely stenciled with names of produce companies. And all of those trucks, just like the Port Authority van, were loaded with different sized boxes wrapped in gift paper. I could see larger items like a surfboard, bicycles, a basketball hoop and backboard, with ribbons and bows.

One of the Khmer Crips comes over to the van, and begins stripping down to his underwear. I could see large black rectangles tattooed over a beautiful display of Asian artwork. Like a redacted document, with black lines. All of the gang insignia on his body was redacted. He begins donning a Port Authority uniform from a large black duffel on the passenger floorboard of the van. Corrections style jumpsuit with subdued patches. Nylon duty belt with a thigh level tactical holster. Ballistic panels with Molle attachments. He becomes Officer KC. Sergeant Stevie's partner.

All of the gift wrapped boxes were neatly stacked on pallets and being wrapped in plastic. The oddly shaped items, like the kayak, snowboard, 6' Thai punching bag, full size trike, tennis racquet - with big red ribbons - were being loaded into pickup trucks to be driven to the Reservation's community center for the toy giveaway later that day.

Officer KC tells me that he's following us to the prison in the Port Authority bus. I can see that Stevie Jr has already stripped out of his uniform, and dressed in KC's gangbanger clothes. KC ball cap. Kansas City Royals hoodie. Blue Pendleton. Oversized Dickies work pants. A blue bandana draped from a belt loop.

Aisha's face displayed her confusion. "What is going on here? What's really in those boxes that they're wrapping on shipping pallets? And why did I have to ride all this way, in the middle of the night, on the back of your motorcycle? It was cold. Why didn't you let me ride in that van, or in one of the trucks?"

Sgt. Stevie, now dressed like a Homie, has "borrowed" a bike from The Tribe. It has special license plates registered to The Reservation. Some Tribes do that. Register vehicles and issue their own license plates. A Tribal Police officer wordlessly hands me an envelope, laughs, and goes back to helping offload presents. The packet had the registration documents for my bike, and the license plates which now made my bike "exempt" from having to be in state motor vehicle system. Both Stevie and I were given leather vests with patches which identified our affiliation to The Tribe.

We ride. Another hour plus to The Prison. The 4 guys from The MC lead. Stevie Jr & I following side by side like Ponch and John. KC following in the Port Authority van. On a Christmas Day, the place was buzzing with activity. Everyone with a loved one behind bars wants to visit. At the gate, the guard said that we were expected, and to roll our caravan to the back, to the loading dock.

The Director was waiting for us at the dock. He was casually dressed in a trench coat, and his pajamas. This guy was literally standing there in loafers, pajamas, and a trench coat. He knows me from prior interactions. "I got a call this morning, from my boss, to come to work on Christmas. He said that you were coming. When I got here, there was a release order, and a note that I should personally handle the release. What the heck is going on?"

That's when I noticed that in the receiving clerk's office, drinking from a paper coffee cup, sat a very attractive girl. A black girl. Black Irish. The Corporate Warden had the brains to provide her with some fast food, instead of a prison food tray. Aisha's firm's client. Aisha finally speaks up. She identifies herself and offers The Warden her business card. I take the card out of his hands, as he's reading it, before he can put it in his pocket. He won't need it. He doesn't need to know, or have any record, of who Aisha is or which law firm she represented. The prisoner is an adult, released on her own recognizance, with a court order which arrived on Christmas Day. That's all this guy needs to do his job. Release the prisoner.

I tell Aisha to go into the receiving clerk's office, and talk to her client. Get her ready to travel. Take her to the bathroom, and dow whatever you girls do in there. Officer Khmer Crip will transport her to where ever she wants to go with the van.

"What about me? What about us? What are we going to do? Where are we going?"

Stevie Jr. looks at me, laughs, and says, "Wanna get Korean BBQ? We could stop along the way for one of those milkshakes made with medjool dates."

 

[Fifty150]

"Cut the crap. We know who you are."

We? I only see 1 guy. 1 guy. Wearing a blue windbreaker with big yellow letters. CID. And an ill fitting pair of Dockers. Not a squad. Just 1 cop. He works for The IRS. Criminal Investigation Division. They usually come to seize property for unpaid taxes. These are the people who you see on TV news, carrying out the furniture from Redd Foxx's house.

"You're from Chinatown, but you claim dual citizenship from some island in The Pacific Ocean which you've never even been to. You are supposedly employed by their Consul General, carry their credentials, and claim diplomatic immunity. You are always around The Free Trade Zone whenever something questionable occurs."

Real cops don't talk like that. Only on television. It's Friday night. Miami Vice is on. I don't want to miss it. And this guy is trying to tough talk me in front of my house. He's even got his official government Dodge K-Car parked in my driveway, with a gumball machine on the roof. And I know he doesn't have a warrant. Otherwise, he would be here with a squad. Not alone, trying to intimidate me with everything he learned from watching Barney Miller reruns.

I open the door and go inside. I leave the door open, in case he wants to continue the conversation. No big deal if he comes in without a warrant. I have nothing in plain view, and he can't conduct a search.

I grab some pork roast and start slicing it thin. It's called a picnic pork shoulder. The bone-in front leg of the pig. I tunnel out the bone and slow roast it. Ramen. Sandwiches. Or my favorite - eating thin slices of roast pork while I watch Miami Vice.

I adjust the rabbit ears antenna on my Quasar television, I got a little misty eyed over the cancellation of Knight Rider. The Fed was is standing in the doorway. Nostrils flaring. Staring at me. Incredulous that I could simply walk past him, then sit down in front of the TV with a platter of pork and a beer.

I tell him to come in. I let him know that I know, he doesn't have a warrant, he's not here on official business, and driving the government car and wearing the government windbreaker off duty could get him in some trouble. Have some pork. Have a beer. Say whatever you came here to say. Miami Vice is on in 15 minutes.

He stays in the doorway. And he says, "why are you invited to my wedding?"

What? His wedding? I don't even know this guy. I've never seen him before. He reaches into his pocket, and produces an invitation. Heavy stock paper. Gold lettering. Expensive. It had my name on it. He said that when he looked over the guest list, his fiancee was vague about my name. I read over the invitation. His name. His fiancee's name. Neither were familiar. Blank look on my face. I shrug. I don't know. I don't know him. I don't know her.

Then the guy pulls out his wallet and shows me a photo of her. Dude. You better come in and have a seat.

 

[Fifty150]

I had long hair. A lot of "styling products". That was the look back then. It might have been the 1st decade in history where brand names and logos were boldly printed onto clothing. You didn't just wear a t-shirt. The brand was written in big letters across the front of the t-shirt. Esprit. Guess. Fila. Le Coq. Men wore jewelry. Not just gold chains. I myself had a bracelet and a pinky ring. And flirting with the idea of piercing my ears.

It wasn't a good time in the neighborhood. The worst massacre in The City's history had just occurred. I, along with a bunch of other kids in the neighborhood were rounded up, given beatings, and systemically deprived of our civil rights.

He was a guy in the neighborhood, about a dozen or so years my senior. People called him "spare ribs" because he was so skinny. If he took his shirt off at The Beach, you could see his rib cage. He was everywhere. High profile. Flashy. He always seemed to appear at the moment that something was going down. If the police were covering a dead guy with a sheet, this guy would be right at the yellow tape line. He would be staring right at them, and they wouldn't look back. Years later, his picture would turn up in the newspaper. He was either a pillar of the community, in service to his fellow man by holding elected public office. Or a ruthless, corrupt racketeer. He's in federal custody now. And some people believe that the FBI set him up. I have a hard time believing that America's largest law enforcement agency, would expend finite resources, to find an elected official guilty of selling tobacco products without the correct tax registration. With murderers on the loose, an elected law maker is in a federal prison, because a corner store did not have the correct piece of paper taped behind the counter. A store owned by his brother in law.

As usual. I'm hanging out in front of the bar. Wasting away my youth. Most of the other guys were in class, or at work. I'm having a Tsing Tao for lunch. Drinking it on the sidewalk. Watching the usual street scene of Chinatown, with tourist gawking at roast ducks hanging in shop windows. This guy comes along. He tells me that his girlfriend's niece is in town. They want to take her somewhere nice. That I should come, so she wouldn't feel awkward sitting alone. You know, sort of be her dinner date. A foursome looks better than a couple with a 3rd wheel.

Why me?

"Because you own a suit. I've seen you go to court. It's a nice suit. You're smart enough not to disrespect my girl's niece. Because you're drinking a beer for lunch, dinner is tonight, and you're the only one I could find at the moment. Just be here when I come back later."

Yeah. Right. I'm the only one hanging out in front of the bar. Why not? I go home and change into a suit. I only have 1 suit. A standard blue Brooks Brothers, that I only wear if I'm going to court. I head back down to the bar, and kept drinking. Spare Ribs pulls up in his huge Oldsmobile. American cars at that time were big, wide, roomy with bench seats. He tells me to get in the back.

The girl was young. Pretty. Spare Ribs, his girlfriend, and the girl who was suppose to be my date, were all dressed in the latest designer clothes. They looked ready to party. I was dressed to enter a plea of not guilty. The car drove down to The Embarcadero Freeway. I didn't ask where we are going. I just knew that we were going south. The Captain & Tennille was playing from the 8-track.

We ended up in an unincorporated area near the airport. Just down the street from The County Jail. In the middle of nowhere, was this fancy looking place. For a kid from Chinatown, I had never been to some country club on a golf course. As we got out of the car, and walked around the trunk to open the doors for the girls, Spare Ribs says to me, "just in case". Then he shakes my hand, and discreetly palmed along a few folded bills.

The niece. Her name was Eva. A college student. About my age. As I was trying to orientate myself to my new surroundings, I almost didn't notice Eva link her arm around mine. I turned my head, we made eye contact, and now we were holding hands.

The place was crowded. the lights were dim. There was a bar. An old man in a dinner jacket was playing a piano. An old woman, in a sleeveless dress, with long white gloves, was chain smoking and singing. There was also a guy playing a stand-up bass, and a drummer. The hostess appeared to recognize Spare Ribs, and seated us in a booth which overlooked the dance floor. The house band was doing the typical "lounge act" versions of contemporary top 40, soft rock stuff. So that middle age people could feel comfortable, as they awkwardly swayed out of rhythm. More songs like Muskrat Love and Do That To Me One More Time..

The conversation was polite. Since Spare Ribs really wasn't a friend of mine. We only really knew each other in passing. I only knew that he served on some sort of board or commission. And he probably only knew me as some kid from the neighborhood that hangs out in front of the bar.

What I remember was that the room was so dim, that we really needed that candle on the table to read our menus. Our booth was a semicircle. The girls were seated in the middle. A server appeared and greeted Spare Ribs by name. He had a bottle of champagne, and said that it was courtesy of "Mr. G". After we all tasted it, the girls made comments about the flavor, and whatever else people say about wine. I lacked the sophistication to truly appreciate. Eva was now sitting close enough that her hand was in my lap, and I could smell her shampoo. Mrs. Spare Ribs teasingly said, "you two look cute together". Spare Ribs locked eyes with me, to let me know that he was serious, then jokingly said, "I only brought him along in case something happens. I might need him to watch my back." Mrs. Spare Ribs said, "stop joking like that".

"Mr. G" came by the table. This guy was wearing a velvet track suit, and a gold bicycle chain around his neck. Imagine a rapper, or a Tony Soprano associate, decades before The Sopranos was produced. Polite introductions were made. Spare Ribs got up, and left the table to speak with "Mr. G".

The rest of the evening was about as smooth or awkward as it could be. We ate dinner. We broke all the rules talking about politics and religion. The alcohol flowed. I let it be known that I did not like President Carter. Eva suddenly blurted out, "I saw on TV that all those people were shot in Chinatown, at that restaurant in the middle of the night. Did you have anything to do with that?"

Complete silence. She couldn't have timed it any better. She even said it just as the music stopped.

Spare Ribs said, "Not him. 5150 just got back from spending the summer in a whore house in Mexico." Did everyone in Chinatown know about that?

Then as if it were a badly written screenplay, the lounge band strikes up the music again. Eva blurts out, "ooohhh. Muskrat Love. I love this song. Let's go dance."

Three weeks passed. It was Chinese New Year. I'm hanging out in front of the bar. Spare Ribs comes in. In a grand gesture, he buys the house a round. Announces that he is wishing everyone a Happy New Year. Then comes over to me, says that Eva said to say hello, and passes me a Red Envelope. Later that night, on the television news, a body washed up on the beach. Police identified it as Mr. G, a respected member of the "local business community". Apparently, he committed suicide by drowning. Walked into the surf, and he couldn't swim. I wonder if 20 pounds of gold jewelry around his neck weighed him down.