Down in Georgia

I wear the lazy afternoon like an expensive wool sweater in summer -- once so coveted, but then so unbearably warm and itchy. I have been back in California for less than an hour and I am already restless.  It is too quiet and there is too much space and it is too goddamn hot.  It is 55 degrees outside and I want to be cold.  I want to see my breath come out of me as frozen smoke and then swallow liquid nitrogen straight into my lungs.  I want to be naked in skin tight neck-nape-clenching leg-tangled embrace with an ice-veined human.  I want to be hungry or tired or late.  I want necessity to mandate my every movement.  But instead I have space and time and freedom and the carefree Sunday turtleneck clings to me, safe and toasty warm.  

Swallowing the Daily Routine pill after a few days on the road is only slightly better than trying to choke down a grape-sized multivitamin after tripping on shrooms.  It seems wrong that this grayscale world of erganomically correct chairs and cell phone alarm clocks is the "reality" and the polychromatic world of travel is the hallucination.  I put on my tennis shoes and run down the broad and beautiful palm tree-lined streets, feeling the asphalt hammer tiny fractures into my shin bones with each stride, willing my mind to retrace the rapidly blurring outlines of the past four days...

   

Tears welled up in the valet's bony eyes and I worried for a moment that the hyena laugh coming out of him might actually break his spine.  "Dat's dee ride you want to park heeuh?" he asked in his Jamaican grandfather accent.  Apparently there aren't many bikers that visit The Hyatt in Atlanta.  Still I didn't think it was that funny.  But the fact that my bike had no brakes and that I rode it standing up because the seat was six inches too tall for me and that I was carrying a five-foot poster tube duct taped to my backpack like an arrow quiver may have contributed to the old man's reaction to my arrival at his parking garage.  I would have walked to the hotel or attempted to lower the seat or inspected the brakes if I had either A) Not woken up an hour late or B) Gotten more than three hours of sleep.  But neither of those were the case because I had borrowed the bike from Cesar, who had also given me a free tour of "The Real ATL" the night before. 

The tour started with a drive down the Freedom Parkway Overpass to see the city skyline and then to Martin Luther King Jr.'s house and the original church where he used to preach.  The next church on the tour was less traditional--a bar called "Church" founded by a transexual artist named Sister Louisa who has a passion for offensive parody.  A placard reading "Jesus wants to be inside you!" hangs over the front door.  Eighties-era paintings of Mary with an autistic trance stare from the walls next to dinosaur figurines and fluorescent cross rosaries.  Upstairs in the "sanctuary" there are pews in front of  a lectern where patrons dawn priests' robes and sing karaoke.  Two white women belted out the last words of "My Heart Will Go On," fists clenched, eyes closed, possessed by the holy spirit of Celine Deon.  Cesar gave me a sideways shoulder shrug which tried to understate his opinion that this was--no big deal--the coolest bar ever.  "This is the side of Atlanta that you wouldn't see if you followed your hotel's map."  We had not, however, seen quite enough street for one Wednesday.  Thus onward we marched to the Claremont Lounge, infamously known as the place where strippers go to die.  

Thank goodness for the free coffee in the ballroom lobby of the Hyatt next to my exhibit table.  Caffeine bathed my countenance in a pool of sunshine and extroversion as I glad-handed deans of private universities and associate professors of international relations.  "We are so excited to enable folks like yourselves to really leverage the power of this technology!  Have you checked out the swipe-to-add feature yet?"  Theatrics is my favorite part of traveling, the ability to play the part of any character I fancy.  The double role I had cast myself in--die heart tech nerd by day, vagabond street urchin by night--was especially exhilarating. 

I hoped to impress my next host with my Clark Kent transformation.  As I walked to his house (five-foot quiver in hand), I rehearsed the story of how I walked into the ballroom lobby restroom with pinned up hair and khaki pants and then slipped out only moments later wearing sunglasses and a hoodie.  I imagined him asking about the sign.  "Oh, this? I'm coming from an association event downtown.  I just threw my work clothes in my backpack."  Applaud me for my thriftiness and adaptability!  I will bow and accept your award for Most Interesting Person.  But when the door to the house swung open, thick beats of hip hop music spilled out in a gust that blew my hair back.  I didn't even have time to say my name before a young man in a classy pin-striped vest was shouting, "Get on in here!" beckoning wildly for me to dive in to the party.  

David is a hot potato boiled in Red Bull, wrapped in bacon and dipped in Fireball whisky.  Next to him Charlie Sheen looks mellow.  His house was overflowing with sorority girls clinking and tipping around in cocktail dresses and stilettos.  Beer dripping ping pong balls flew across the room; lips smooched to outstretched arms reverse-holding flashing cameras; shot glasses slammed down on countertops.  I had barely set down my backpack and I was already halfway through the presentation of David's iPhone photo slideshow.  "Check it out, check it out," he held the screen in front of my face swiping through pictures of his "absolutely insane" gym workout that morning, some "ridiculously f**kin' delicious" plates of food, his car, and an entire series of photos of him with Tina Fey, Jane Krakowski, NBA players, Dave Matthews, Wyatt Cenac, and Jack McBrayer (Kenneth from 30 Rock).   These were not OMG-here's-me-with-a-celebrity! pictures.  They were hanging-out-at-bars-with-my-friends pictures.  I still do not understand. 

I licked my fingertips and snuffed the flame of my dream to be the Most Interesting Person. Isn't California supposed to be where all the special people live?  Who knew there were so many characters in Georgia?  First Cesar, then David, and then there was Norma.

Norma pulled out her glasses from her handbag. It was actually just one half of the glasses, part the nose piece still attached to a single lens which sprouted a jabbing stick of the snapped-off ear piece.  She held the stick between her manicured thumb and index fingers and brought it up to her left eye while closing her right one, a black female version of the Monopoly Man with his monocle.  She reviewed the menu, reading every description, some of them out loud.  "Chicken enchiladas wit' sour cream for eight dallahs, burritos--what's con carne?"  The other six women at the table--all middle aged black women except for me--had already ordered and we were trying to come up with a name for our trivia team.

"Wha'd we do last week?"

"I don't remember."

"I suggested the Ho Ho Ho's but ya'll were trippin'."

"So--we have to put our name on every paper?" Norma interjected.

We had already explained the rules to her three times.  She never understood the points system or rule about not saying the answers out loud but she somehow knew the name of the German World War II general who commanded the 7th Panzer Division.  She also knew the disease treated by levodopa and the three states that house the Goodyear blimps.  The woman was a trivia phenom.  While the rest of us scratched our heads, scraping the bottom of our memories for clues of random data, Norma blurted out the answers (while we sushed her) in the same laxidasical tone she used to give advice about hair care.  "You outta try baking soda. If it's still like blah after that, you just comb it out with the blow dry.  And I'm pretty sure Sargent Shriver was the democratic running mate in '72." 

Then there was Jason, the one-armed vegetarian rock star who played a mean acoustic guitar and cooked the south's finest fried eggs.

There was Matt, the red head carpenter who out-danced all the brothers at the underground hip hop club. 

There was Miguel, the sweaty salsa dancer from Lima, 

the denture-less old man at the bus stop, 

the snoring accountant…

The initial withdrawal symptoms are dulling.  Splotches of color and silver linings resurface around the edges of the day-to-day.  The intoxicated life is not a sustainable one, whether the drug is chemical or spiritual.  But I wonder how long it will be before I'll need another fix.

The Mechanic

Craig Bedford walked around the register counter, held out his rolled-up denim-sleeved arms and nodded while his fingers said, "Come 'ere."  We hugged.   

I had only known him an hour, or rather, I had known him for an entire hour, which is a long time considering I had only come into his shop to pick up my keys.  When I walked through the door he was chatting with an Asian kid, college age with square glasses and a smile that would have been charming if it wasn't framed by flaking acne.   I didn't interrupt or even try to look impatient because I felt guilty for showing up late, right at 5:00 P.M. when the shop was supposed to close.  I stood by the door and admired the overcrowded gallery eccentrica that was his 12x12 office.  Not an inch of wall space was left unadorned.  Side by side hung two identical photographs, the size of road signs, of a man (who I assumed to be a younger Craig) standing and beaming next to a sky blue Volkswagen van.  Next to them, a water color painting of a yellow VW beetle in the center of winter landscape.  My eyes scanned the collage of postcards and car calendars and bumper stickers and they eventually landed on a poster, still in its plastic cover, of America comprised entirely of license plates carved in the shape of their corresponding states.

"She must be stoned out her mind ha ha," Craig had finally acknowledged my presence. "Just look at her over there in La La land!" 

"It's a cool poster," I said with a marijuana smile, "and so what if I am?" I am an Easter egg when I meet new people.  Dunk me in a pot of sailors and I swear, in a pot of housewives and I gossip.  I assume the color of the people around me.

It worked.  Their low chuckles baptized me into their ring. "Yeah that's a new one I got, haven't decided where to put it yet. My dad painted the one next to it," Craig indicated to the yellow beetle watercolor.  "Bona fide artist my old man." He said artist like arteest to sound... French I guess.  "I've dappled here and there myself," he pointing with false modesty to a giant canvas covered in red and white dripping swirls.  It looked like an entire bag of peppermint candies had melted on it.  He showed us a few of his other pieces, mostly "abstracts," mostly red.

I couldn't tell what his relationship was with the Asian kid.  Boss/employee? Mentor/mentee? At first I thought they were old friends--they seemed chummy--but then I realized he might just be another customer.  Craig was not a clam.  Craig's the guy that sits next to you at a bus stop or on a plane, unzips his jacket, and then unzips his chest and spills his entire heart on your lap before you even get a chance to shake his hand.

"But my real passion has always been acting."  Without warning, an angry Clint Eastwood was snarling at me to get the fuck off his lawn.  Then an angry Al Pacino was shout-asking why the fuck! was it so hard to find a goddamn sandwich in New York--heavy accent on the yawk in York.  Craig--back in jovial non-violent Craig persona--pulled up his Facebook profile to show us pictures of him in costumes and a YouTube video of a movie trailer featuring him as an albino mafia man.  Before that video finished he was already loading another one of an internet talk show featuring him as the guest star Al Pacino, which led to us watching an interview with the real Al Pacino so that Craig could repeat each sentence to show us how uncanny his impersonation was.

Meanwhile, the Asian kid was taking every possible opportunity to ask me out. 

Craig- "I do stand up comedy at some local places around here." 

Asian kid- "Cool!  I'll have to take Katie there this weekend." He casts an unrequited sideways glance.

Craig- "This girl probably doesn't even know which car is hers, she's so toasted, ha ha."

Asian kid- "I have a bowl, we should go have a light."

Me- "I should probably go soon, I need to grab some dinner."

Asian kid- "Man, I'm starving!  Am I invited?"

I put my credit card on the table.  It felt like whipping out a text book at a party, so square of me to try and conduct business when we are all having such a chill time.  I attempted to make a joke about how he could keep the change to distract them from my uncoolness.  As he was reaching for the card his hand lost its way and found a small clay dish on the table.  "My dad made this too, he's a potter."  But then he noticed the price tag still stuck to the bottom and pondered, "Or did I buy this one?"  From the Mary Poppins bag of his shelves he pulled out more and more show and tell trinkets: Santa riding a motorcycle, a giant red button that shouted "Bull shit!" when pressed, light up bottle openers, etc, etc, ad infinitum.  It was a collection rivaling even my grandmother's, a midwestern Catholic connoisseur of figurines and prank novelties.

The Asian kid, who had finally introduced himself as Jason after the first seven pickup lines failed to gain him any traction, was still interrogating me about my dinner plans.  It was rain on the parade or set up camp for the night.  I extended my arm straight out in front of me, palm up, "Keys please?" Every party has a pooper.  Craig made me close my eyes and put a rubber spider in my hand.  I laughed, but not too much. 

I promised Craig a raving five-star Yelp review and told Jason I was meeting a friend for dinner.  I drove out of the parking lot, $300 poorer, one good story richer. 

The Stakeout

"Is this your first time?" he asked.  He was already a round man but the tan down coat made entirely of goose feather pillows gave him the exact shape of a giant cream puff with a tiny black cherry on top that was his head.  He was trying to load minutes on his little Nokia cell phone with a prepaid card but his fingers were almost too podgy to push the buttons.

I thought about it... it couldn't be.  I majored in peace studies.  I am a connoisseur of all quasi-homeless activities--The Houseless Challenge of 2008 (wherein middle class college kids attempt to delve in to the plight of poverty by swearing a vow of possession-lessness for one week), dumpster diving, fasting for ceasefires, fasting of Africa, backyard camping, hitchhiking, etc. etc. 

"I guess it is, technically," I said.  "You?"

He laughed and the cream puff part of him bounced along with his chuckles.  He was Number One.  He had been there since 2:00 A.M. and it was 5:00 P.M.  Later I realized why my question struck him as funny.  Apparently there is not an insignificant population of Americans that do this sort of thing on a regular basis--food stakeouts, that is.  There is an entire community, an entire movement.  They know each other.  There are heroes and legends among them.

"There's this family of four," says one of The Cousins, "they got pop-up tents and space heaters.  I saw 'em at the Chic-Fil-A grand opening in Modesto last month."  The Cousins are in their late thirties, in between jobs, knowers of all card games.  This is only their second stakeout but they've made it clear they have been around the block (literal and proverbial) before.  They are scheming ways to get power from an extra-long extension chord and working to unite the group to share resources.  They warn us novices to strategize night watch shifts so that people can run to get food and use the bathroom around the corner.  We should exchange numbers, they say, so that we can call each other immediately in case of The Roll Call.

The Roll Call is the attendance check performed at intentionally sporadic intervals by The Keeper, the omnipotent ruler of the temporary universe we reside.  She is the employee in charge of this gig and, as any god, She is both respected and feared.  We want to win her favor and yet we burn to rebel against her the moment she turns her back.  She is The Keeper of The List, the list of The Chosen Ones (i.e. the first 25 people in line for the opening of this restaurant and thus the recipients of a year's worth of burritos).  It is The Keeper's duty to ensure that the people who get in line early actually stay the entire time because everyone knows that the whole point of a stakeout is the agony and desperation of anticipation.  If anyone could write their name down and go sleep in their beds and show up the next morning to claim their prize, it would defeat the entire purpose.  This is unquestioned.  Comfort, expedience, productivity and efficiency are not concerns here. 

Thus The Keeper, just and noble and wrathful as She is, randomly marches into our "camp", clipboard and striking pen in hand--a general inspecting the barracks--and starts shouting names. Should any name not be echoed by a voice declaring the presence of its owner, there is a fatal slash of her hand and the unworthy soul is off the list, cast from the garden. The Cousins try to coax information out of her but her ways are indeed mysterious.  "So you'll wake us up, right?" they say, "In case we're sleeping when you come… around 4:00?"  She doesn't bite the bait.  "How many spots are left?"  She clutches the clipboard to her chest and shakes her head.

She appears to call roll again and when she disappears a crowd forms around The Freshmen.  They are Stanford physics majors (one is still undeclared but his inner physics major is apparent).  One is a curly vanilla wafer the other is small-faced and brown, both are bundled and boyish.  Their labrador puppy grins never droop from their cheeks once the entire night, despite the fact they packed a box of chocolate chip biscotti instead of a tent for a drizzly 30-degree night on the streets.  The people gather around them because they used an iPhone to secretly record the audio of The Roll Call like CIA agents recording an incriminating confession.  We are counting the number of names as we listen.  The camp is fairly condensed but people keep milling around and going in and out so it is difficult to tell how many are still officially on the list. 

"That's 26!"

"I only counted 24."

"There are two Alexes."

"No, she just said his name twice."

It was 7:00 P.M.  Fifteen hours until opening.  Stragglers were still showing up, hopeful and then dismayed to see such an impressive group already gathered.  They pulled up in their cars and on their bikes and scooters, asking us how long and how often and where was this List and the Keeper and did they have a chance?  We commiserated with them like American Idol contestants hugging the one that just got voted off.  "We support you and your future endeavors!  But we are on opposite sides of the curtain now."

And for that space in time, there was a line drawn in the sand.  It was a circle and it separated all of humanity into two groups--those inside and those outside.  Those who shall eat free burritos, and those who shall not.  And for that space in time the other speckled details of our lives faded out of focus.  Our names and jobs and ages and families did not matter.  Number One was making calls on his $10 cell phone (how he dialed the number I have no idea).  The Cousins were making jokes about "funemployment."  The gaged-ear gang of high school punks had a husky puppy on a leash and the grad school couple in the REI gear had a tired golden retriever.  The old man in the Bill Cosby sweater had devious smile poking out between his up-curled mustache and his wiry beard that looked like it could scrub steel pots to a shine.  The cool teens from Sacramento (this was their seventh stakeout) seemed older than all of us, effortlessly dopping into conversations with anyone about almost anything. 

It's hard to imagine any other circumstances that might have brought this group together, huddled around a table outside at 1:00 in the morning playing Settlers of Catan. 

This was my first official stakeout but certainly not the first time I've gone to extremes to get free food.  There were the college days of attending lectures on U.S. foreign policy in Uruguay just to get the luncheon afterwards.  Then there were the potlucks hosted for the sake of the leftovers and the triathlons and 5ks run for the sake of the breakfast buffets.  There was the six months masquerading as a food journalist for the free meals at new restaurants.  I once ate a funnel cake off of the top of a trashcan at an amusement park (it was a dare but, let's face it, I wanted to).  This is insanity for many people and I have no defense.  I am not destitute by any stretch of the imagination, it's not about the money.

When the doors finally and gloriously opened at 10:00 A.M. it smelled like elation with a hint of cilantro and lime.  We were punch drunk and dizzy with cold and hunger and excitement.  The staff must have had three weeks of intensive enthusiasm training in preparation for the event.  Everyone was wooping and high-fiveing and hugging like we'd just won the World Series.  The Keeper shook each of our hands and gave us each our Rewards Card--I felt prouder than I did on graduation day--and then we all got a free burrito.   I took it to work for lunch but I didn't finish it (it's a three pound burrito) so I offered it to my coworker who politely declined.  I, naturally, put it in a tupperware and in my backpack. 

"You just won a year's worth of free burritos and you're going to the trouble of saving less than half of one for later?"

Yes, yes I am.