FINGERLESS TOUCH

A noticeable aspect

of the underground economy

is the omnipresence

of panhandling

For reasons that vary greatly, panhandling will probably be with us until the end of time as we know it.  The demographics cover all ages, both sexes, and motivations that range from deliberate choice, to running out of any other option.  The disabled and disenfranchised make up most of its ranks.

Oftentimes you will see locations staked out, for as you know in real estate, it's location, location, location.  One such spot is the busy corner of 43rd & El Cajon, where the southbound traffic emptying from this section of Mission Valley dumps into the northern part of City Heights.  Holding court on this corner is a gentle fellow by the name of Andrew, who drew a short straw by being virtually fingerless.

On each hand, Andrew has but a first-joint thumb and little finger, and is missing all other digits.  How he conducts himself is no small wonder.  On top of these handicaps, Andrew is also blessed with a noticeable speech impediment.  Not to worry; he methodically and dependably works his corner, come rain or shine, to bring home the bacon.

I am never at that intersection for more than a moment, but I have observed Andrew both open, hold, and drink a can of soda, and more surprisingly, actually dial a number on a cell phone.  Who he might be calling is none of our business.

All I know is he works his job like any other dutiful citizen, and not relying on government largess to get him through his day.  It’s always an honor to drop him a five when I’m in close proximity, which he gratefully accepts, a returns at once to his business at hand.

Who knew you even needed fingers to make a phone call?

TOUCH & GO

It only

takes a moment

to touch and go

While finishing my grilled salmon taco on the end of the pier, and minding my own business, in walked a group of three ladies, ages 35-40, who looked like they were visiting the TinFish for the first time.  After placing their order, they proceeded outside to commandeer a table.

Two of the three not only looked like sisters, but possibly, twins.  Since we had engaged in no conversation during our first encounter, the observation went unconfirmed.

After finishing of my lunch, I told Juan, the chef, it was awesome as usual, and headed outside to hike back down the pier, which would take me by the girls seated at their table.   Making an abrupt turn as I approached, I interjected myself into the middle of the ongoing discussion between the sisters, crossed my arms to point at each of them separately and asked,

“Twins?”

“HOLY CRAP!” exclaimed the one.  “You scared me.”

“Yes,” responded the other, smiling.

“I thought so.”

I proceeded to give a light tap on the shoulder of the frightened twin as I quickly made my exit.

Just a little touch & go on the fly-by.

PARTY WHEELS

It is always amazing

to experience

the quality of spirit

that can reside within

packages of damaged goods

Some of the most exemplary characters that role up onto the bus are ones who have physically drawn a short straw in life.  One such friend rolled up on a very hot Friday evening, I thought, on his way home.  I soon learned otherwise.

This kid, probably around thirty, rolls around unabashedly in a racing-style wheelchair, all under his own power, with arm strength that is compromised to boot.  His short, stocky body is further handicapped by an enormously protruding abdomen, so much so, that it causes his head to be thrust back in his chair, requiring his eyes to be cast at a downward angle in order to see where he is going.  He is also adorned with a pair of legs that look like they have never been used as intended.  No problem; this guy operates like his status quo is as normal as anyone else.

I greeted him as usual, strapped him in, and inquired how he was doing.  Responding with a pleasant smile, he said he was no worse the wear, in spite of the warm weather.

While passing through Hillcrest, a popular uptown entertainment area of San Diego, the stop-request bell for wheelchairs chimed on the bus.  Fully expecting my wheelchair friend to exit his usual stop in southeast San Diego, I turned in my seat at the stop to confirm he was getting off here.  He confirmed that he was.

“You planning on partying the night away?” I inquired.

“Heck ya,” he smiled.  “It’s Friday!”

“Good for you.  Have one on me.”

There was obviously no reason in his mind why a pair of wheels and a short straw should get in the way of a good time.

Party on.

GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN

Hiking the beach

and heading for fish tacos on the pier

I crossed paths with a group of

50-70 year old surfer-girl wannabees

in the middle of a photo-op

There were four of them, adorned in suitable swimming attire, and brandishing colorful boogie boards overhead, to go along with their big smiles.  While facing seaward, they all had their heads turned back at the fifth participant, who was about to capture the moment on digital.

I happened to pass in back of the paparazzi moments after the shot was taken, and quickly announced, with arms high overhead and pointing out to the surf,

“Hit it, girls!”,

to which they all broke out into laughter at the suggestion.

I never thought that this was anything more than a ‘poser-moment’.

Little did I know the joke was on me.

Thirty minutes later from the end of the pier, where I was involved in whittling down my taco, I looked toward the area of beach where the girls had posed for posterity, only to be surprised that all were engaged in boogie boarding what surf was available.  I was very impressed.  The water temp was a very cool 64 degrees, and the ladies were braving it without neoprene.  Not only that, they weren’t just taking a ceremonial dip.  From the time I first noticed them, until the time I hiked back down the pier and onto the beach, they had been frolicking for at least thirty minutes.

There were still two of them in the surf as I reached the camera crew to gather more intel.  They were all San Diego county residents, who gather together in Imperial Beach for a week once a year.  I made a few suggestions for increasing their ‘fun-quota’ by surfing earlier in the morning before the wind beats the crap out of the waves, or in the early evening, when the wind tends to die off a bit.  They were all appreciative for the info, but still conceded that they had a great time just the same.

Girls just wanna have fun.

LEOPARDING

San Diego

is host

to one of the world’s

most spectacular zoos

While visiting the zoo on a balmy, overcast evening, shortly after tourist season, where the place is almost deserted, is a recipe for great animal interaction.  Oftentimes the hosts will be hunkered down during the heat of the day, napping away their captivity, only to arise in the early evening and look for some entertainment.

One of the best opportunities and a personal favorite is cat-canyon, home to wide variety of felines from around the world.  Always impressive are the local variety of mountain lions; tall, gangly and amazingly agile.  Their display found them initially inactive, until I announced my presence with an invitation to engage.  The enclosure offers you an observation opportunity that is up close and personal, where, if you chose, you could stick a finger inside the cage only to have it removed.

The large male, who was initially out of sight in a small depression right up front, slowly arose, and returned my greeting with a slightly annoyed attitude, and began to pass close by and circumnavigate his entire domain a number of times.

From above and perched on a large fallen tree limb, was his female sibling, lounging on her back, and offering only a roll of her head, a flop of one paw, and a gentle whip of her tail.  That was all she could muster.  After a brief commentary that they should be more receptive to the stimulus I was offering, I continued down the canyon.

New arrivals in the last year are three Amur leopard siblings from northern Asia, around a year old, and generally quite playful.  This was no exception.  One usually takes up a spot in the upper right corner of the enclosure on the end of a fallen limb, to scout out visitors and dream about catching the many squirrels that scamper about out of reach.  A second was asleep high up in the rear of the enclosure and not too engaging.  But, it was with the third that the fun began; this guy was ready for action.

Since his/her siblings offered no stimulus, the moment was ripe for an encounter.  It immediately responded to my vocalizations with eye contact and an expression that said,

“Let’s play!”
And so we did.

I began to make a quick lateral movement along the length of the cage, only to be followed just as quickly by this impressive cat, whose response was as graceful and beautiful as a 250 lb. spotted coat could demonstrate.  Darting back and forth for the entire length of the enclosure, which was probably sixty to seventy feet in width, the leopard followed me like my shadow.  I would stop at one end for a moment, make eye-contact with my playmate, and quickly move to the other.  This went on five or six times, until we were both panting in the warm evening.

The interaction was about as much fun as you could have with a big cat, who would otherwise consider you a potential meal, had it not been for the fence that kept us separated, but not disconnected.

BENCHED

One

never knows

where a seat

on the bench

will take you

Seeking out a landing spot on a warm summer evening overlooking the bay on Coronado, I spotted an available seat next to an older gentleman preoccupied with a phone call.  As I was making my approach, we made eye-contact, smiled, and I proceeded to land safely.

He quickly concluded the call and immediately informed me that he had been touching base with a sister who lived in New Orleans, who was being pounded by the rain of Hurricane Isaac, but otherwise, was safely weathering the storm.  I asked him if he had lived there, which he had, and for 18 years.  Inquiring about his line of work is where we took off.

Doug had spent his entire life in law-enforcement forensics, going back into the mid-50’s, long before the popularity of CSI and NCIS.  His career had begun with the NCIS, on a naval airbase in the middle of Texas in the 50’s, investigating sabotage by our own guys on training-planes.  They had lost about six planes that had mysteriously lost power and crashed, fortunately, without any loss of life.  He was able to track down, through maintenance records, the same two mechanics that had worked on all the planes involved, but was never able to produce enough proof for conviction.  As soon as the men were reassigned, the crashes stopped.  That was proof enough for him.

He received additional training from the FBI, and with dental forensics at LSU. This lead him to work for the City of New Orleans for many years, and his talents saw him get farmed out to many of the local parishes and small towns in the surrounding areas that lacked similar resources.  He discussed some of his more bizarre cases, describing many gruesome details which will be omitted from this account.  All in all, he loved ‘working the mystery’, despite the context.

After a long and storied career, he took up bench-warming in Coronado.

Who knew that an open seat next to Doug would secure front-row seats inside the Crime Scene tape.

HONKY-TONK

Scotty and I

have continued

our relationship

with a honk

and a wave

A couple of years ago, a guy rode up on his bike at the Old Town Transit Center and threw it onto the racks; nothing new about this.   But, it was the big smile and greeting, as he hopped on board, that demonstrated something might be different.

Scotty works as the maintenance man/overseer at a do-it-yourself car wash on University Ave.  He has been employed there, and at other associated locations, for more than a dozen years.  The owner apparently has numerous facilities spread throughout the central San Diego area, and Scotty is his main go-to guy

Scotty is also an avid bike-rider.  Originally from the Northeast, he has not only ridden his bike up and down the East coast, but most of the way across country.  He has also had his fair share of crash-&-burns, and is a little worse for the wear.  When I first met him, he had just received a $175 ticket for blowing through a stoplight, a ticket awarded him by the same cop that had warned him on a previous occasion.  He owned up to the fact that he earned it, but still bemoaned the fact that he had better uses for the money.

I had Scotty on my beach-run, once a week for three months, a couple of years ago; I have since to have him on the bus.  The continuation of our friendship has been relegated to drive-by status, where, as I pass by his carwash once a week, I send out an identifiable horn-cadence from the bus, which always gets his attention, and is responded to by a high-wave and a big smile, something I used to enjoy closer up.

For the last couple of years, our relationship has been perpetuated honky-tonk style.

SCULLED

Spring break

in San Diego

sees a large influx

of college students

looking to blow off

some steam

Among a steady stream of out-of-town college kids hitting up the best beach watering holes, was a solitary soul with a more serious countenance.  Assuming he was part of the overall invasion, I asked him what college he was from, to which he replied,

“Not from any college, just the Bay area.  I was just eliminated from the Olympic single-scull tryouts after losing in the preliminary trials a few hours ago.  It was the culmination of the last four years of my focus and efforts.”

“Oh,” I responded, weighing the ramifications of what he had just told a complete stranger.  I could now process the distinction in his countenance from all the other spring-break revelers.  His deflation was understandable when comparing his investment and its return.

“So, what’s next?” I inquired.

“I don’t know.” he responded.  “I’m still processing the whole thing.”

This kid, who was 26, had scrimped, saved, sacrificed and trained for the last four years, without any significant support from his family, who viewed his efforts as a waste of life.  He was now wondering if it had been a waste himself.

“How many were competing for how many spots?” I asked.

“Twenty were competing for one spot,” he answered.

“And how old was the oldest competitor?” I continued.

“Thirty-nine years old,” he replied.

“So, if you wanted, you have a few more Olympics left under your belt at your age should you choose to give it another shot, or, you can reapply that focus and drive in another direction.  What may seem like small consolation now, is the fact that few have or ever will do what you just accomplished, and that is, getting close enough to actually making an Olympic team.  Whether or not you succeeded is secondary; just to get as far as you did is an outstanding accomplishment all in itself.  That focus and drive, whether reapplied or not to another Olympics, is applicable to any venture you wish to pursue, and will carry you a long way.  That may not seem like much now, but you will see the value of it as you move through your life.”

The perspective seemed to cause a small adjustment in his attitude that will only play itself out as his life unfolds.  As for the moment, he was faced with driving back home to the Bay area in the morning, and sorting things out accordingly.

One never knows what direction your life may take after hopping on a bus.

SAM & DAVE

For those

old enough to remember

back in the ‘60’s

there was a soul duo

known as Sam & Dave

That was the segway used to initiate my relationship with a shooting star/personal shipwreck passenger by the name of Sam, who, upon learning my name, immediately made the connection to the aforementioned duo.  I don’t know about this Sam, but this Dave can’t sing, so we will not be offering any competitive efforts.

Sam first jumped onto my bus about three years ago on a busy Sunday, and I thought I had boarded a tornado.  He immediately hung over my right shoulder, and launched into the a soliloquy of rapid staccato, using no punctuation, and seemingly not stopping to take a breath.  This went on uninterrupted for at least five minutes, making little or no sense, with Sam referencing his age, family history, medical condition, job resume, weather, friends, enemies, what’s right with the world, what’s wrong with the world, etc.

In addition to the verbal filibustering, he segwayed into grasping both overhead bars on the bus, projecting himself into the air with his knees to the ceiling, and began to do upside down pull ups.  This all done by a man in his 60’s in front of a stunned crowd.

It’s amazing what a few drugs will do.

I was able, during a pause in the onslaught, to ask him his name, which he countered with the same question, and thus was born, the Sam & Dave connection.

I have since seen Sam, off of whatever he was on in our initial encounter, and he is polite, aware of his surroundings, and really quite engaging.  I have heard from other drivers about some guy who must be a meth-head, is out of control, and who fits Sam’s description.  It must be him.

I went for more than a year without seeing Sam, until recently he showed up for a ride.  I inquired how he was doing, and he replied with a smile that he was currently residing under an Interstate 8 overpass.  In spite of camping out, he was well-groomed and didn’t look any worse for the wear.

A month later, while stopped at a light, I spotted him walking the sidewalk, honked my horn to get his attention, and opened my front door to say “Hi.”  I happened to have my bus in the left-hand turn lane, and expected him to just stay on the sidewalk, which he didn’t.  He unexpectedly crossed one lane of traffic and came right up to the open door.  In my surprised response, I said, “Hey, its great to see you, but you need to out of the street before you become road-kill!”  He was, of course, unmoved by my admonition, returned the greeting with the postscript, “Really love-ya, brother,” and safely returned to the sidewalk unscathed.

Hopefully, he will be around long enough so we can cut another album together--without the pull ups.

ANNIE OAKLEY

NOT

the REAL Annie Oakley

of course

but perhaps

a reincarnation of her

This Annie has all the piss and vinegar of the aforementioned one, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a distant relative.

Our first encounter was about eleven o’clock on a quiet Sunday morning in Hillcrest, San Diego’s renown gay area.  She arrived at the stop with a big grin and an impressive hello.  Being the first and only passenger to board the bus while I waited to begin my run, I struck up a conversation.

“So, what do have going this morning?” I inquired.

“I’m just going to meet a couple of my friends and throw back a few of cold ones,”

she responded almost automatically.

Somehow this seemed true-to-form for the countenance she sported.

Annie is of slight build, probably 5’2”, barely over 100 lbs., with a short, cute haircut, and is the ‘male-persuasion’ of the lesbian component.  She did her stint in the military as a Seabee, and traveled the world doing some pretty heavy lifting.  Her hardest job was probably keeping her sexual-orientation under wraps.

We would run into each other every six months, the most noteworthy and fun being a time when she was stinking drunk, but in a good mood, and noticed me exiting my bus heading for the bathroom during Gay-Pride Weekend.

“HEY DAVE!” she bellowed, and started walking awkwardly towards me, kind of stooped over with an arm bent overhead to give me a high-five before a hug.  I immediately began to mimic her by stooping over, and waddling forward with a bent-arm overhead to meet up with hers.

She happened to be with a male friend who began to take offense at me, thinking I was making fun of her.  She quickly intervened, our high-fives meeting, followed by a big hug, and a loud exclamation to her companion,

“HEY, it’s OK.  This is my favorite bus driver of all time!”

Annie Oakley to the rescue.
 

BALANCED BUDGET

San Diego proper

is covered with

wonderfully distinct neighborhoods

many of which are defined by

hills and canyons

Most of the areas near the downtown are sprinkled with quaint, antique homes, many dating back 80-100 years.  One bus route, which begins downtown, winds its way through four of these neighborhoods, from one end of the route to the other.

For four weeks running, there was one particular four-way stop in which the same cop would camp out for three to four hours, pulling people over and writing them tickets.  It was unclear for what reason, but it was probably for either rolling through the stop sign, or the more popular law enforcement ‘meal of the day’, cell phone use while driving.

After witnessing this trap for four weeks, I pulled my bus up next to the cop as he was re-entering his car after writing yet another ticket.  Upon opening the front doors of my bus, I exclaimed,

“You must singlehandedly be balancing the city budget.”

He laughed, and replied, “I just do it as a hobby.”

Returning to the same intersection later that day, but going in the opposite direction, I once again came upon the cop just getting into his car after doing ‘you know what’.  This time I was across the street.  I tooted my horn a couple of times, stuck my arm out the window, and pointed it at him, displaying a huge grin.  He returned the favor with a grin of his own, only to continue with his hobby.