I remember one of the first few times I have stopped at Martinez, CA, en route to Stockton, and quickly took a picture of the Amtrak station, noting the beautiful trusses and strangers I had encountered. I updated my Tumblr and mentioned one of these fleeting moments; how unique and wondrous it is to be absorbed in a stranger's tale or in a familiar place with a different you. Most of my stories begin on public transportation--seeing Berkeley for the first time as I arrived on the train under an overpass on 3rd Street, taking the F line to Emeryville to buy that Ikea table that currently sits in a Warring Street apartment--the only physical remnant of myself in Berkeley, or those Bart rides to a memorable night with some of the best people in the world. Maybe it's just the romantic in me wanting to find the perfect encounter with the perfect stranger. Wouldn't that be great, though? To have these little anecdotes to share with people. For what it's worth, you might be the story of someone's day. However, these brief recollections are of a few weeks in November when I creeped around the bay doing some backroom temporary job thing for an agency. (Sorries, I have this affinity for increasing sketch factor through very poorly chosen words.) Temporary job: I worked for two weeks right after the World Series at the Giants store and met some people from all walks of life. Although the time came and went without me talking much, I would observe them from afar...like a rapist would, I suppose. This is turning into a bad story. No, I did not rape anyone—since size and strength would also be my demise--I simply admired them. There was a marriage counselor who gave hysterical retorts to anyone teasing her, an older Filipino women who had just arrived in the U.S. searching for a “better” life, a sassy mom who rubbed my back telling me times were going to get better, and a tall black guy who, after sensoring hats with me, decided to give me the nickname of “AutoCAD”. Quickly, the jobs ended, people parted ways without really saying goodbyes (inconsistent work schedules), so I never had the opportunity to assign back nicknames or have longer conversations with these people. They were kind and helpful—planning a time they’ll phone their sister who works as an architect to see if anyone is hiring (I never had the chance to pass on my number), joining me for aimless walks in one direction to finally settle on some surprising lunch spot, passing on astonishing words of encouragement, and leaving me inspired for my next little journey in life.
I finally thought of a name for tall guy. “Maserati”. Okay, I only know what a Maserati is because I’m sort of obsessed with Lil Wayne (A Milli?!). And plus! His name almost sounded like the car…I think. NO, I did not name a black guy after a car in a black rapper’s…rap. I think. I remember his quiet “belief” in me, that with every highly paid sports person that passed by the backroom where we worked hanging clothes, he said to me, That's going to be you, AutoCAD. You're going to be doing big things. And without knowing, his words became my story of the month.
Truthfully, I started this post a couple months back. Never finished it because…I can’t really blame it on being busy. Maybe I was distracted. I am still distracted. I’ve kept little notes on my phone to keep tab of what happened as I was flitting back and forth between the bay and home.
On the Muni (post World Series): a hardcore Giants fan noticed the amount of haterade coming off my t-shirt for the LA Dodgers. (The store gave me the t-shirt for free to wear while I worked.) He asked to trade for it---and I kind of don’t think too much about it, like, OH maybe he’s just making conversation. No, this person started digging into his bags and bags of paraphernalia to look for something to trade. I later leave the Muni with a new baseball cap I intended for my dad (which turned out to be too small for his head) and had, for the first time in my life, undressed on public transportation underneath a sweatshirt. Wait, was that man a perv? At the Amtrak in Richmond, CA: I missed my 7 AM train. I don’t understand how my brain could have possible considered an hour that was 4 hours before my wake-up time, to run 5 blocks (with duffel and bags upon bags in tow) to BART, wait for BART, get to Richmond, and catch the train to go home that morning. I got to Richmond 10 minutes after the train had departed the station. So, three hours wait for the next train, which would be nothing right? WRONG? I was starving and could not summon the strength to lug my bags around again in search for food. An hour in, a man approached me asking for the BART. I motioned over the tracks to the other side of the fence to tell him he was on the wrong platform. I realized my mistake as the man started to find a way across the tracks to reach BART. Fortunately, our eyes meet again and he headed downstairs, avoiding a catastrophic accident and “murder guilt” on my conscience. Within the last hour, a man, who was poorly dressed and holding nothing but a bag of—wait, is that prescription meds—came up to me. I smiled at him, even encouraging him to solicit me for money. But he didn’t. Instead he approached me and asked me to point in the direction of Sacramento. I almost hug him. I tell him the train usually head north but, You should go downstairs—there is a Kiosk. It should have the times for when the next train is coming. Do you have a credi—
He interrupted me and gazed into the direction of Sacramento, I just got out of jail…
I’m heading to the bay again this week. To play, to look for jobs, to propel myself in that direction again almost indefinitely. Hopefully, there will be more stories to share and anecdotes worthy of remembering! In the meantime, we started a new blog of our daily fails…in the adult world. No, not the ADULT XXX WORLD. It really is just a copy/transcription of our rejection e-mails/calls/letters to people who just don’t want us to work for them.
