Bay City Roller

34 years old, a wife, an ex-wife, 5 kids, a mortgage, one professional license, a future New York Times Best seller list novel in the works, currently involved in discovery and case management for litigation totaling about $2.5 billion, and at least one life altering disease. For all of these experiences, it is only within the last two weeks that I have had what can truthfully be described as a "modern American experience."

My three devout readers, who have been there since the very beginning, will gleefully recall that I have been barnstorming coast to coast all summer. The culprit is a bank that has it's monied knickers in a twist, and seems to think that they can win their lawsuit by simply wearing me out. According to the movie, the erstwhile sportswriter and Cobb biographer "Stumpy" threatened to write slowly, waiting for Cobb to die so that he could publish his story about the real Ty Cobb. In my best Tommy Lee Jones cum Cobb impersonation, dear bank, "I'll die slow."

I missed my daughter's first three volley ball games because of the bank. I missed the greatest musical secret of my generation because of the bank. I missed an entire weekend of nitromethane goodness under the lights of the Dallas skyline. 17,000 air miles since mid-July. Every hour spent on a plane is an hour not spent with my family, or working on my book. Dear Bank, I'll die slow.

Despite all this, I find myself indebted to the bank, for setting the stage for this penultimate experience, nudging me as a favorite Son of the South, towards greater understanding and appreciation of today's America. This is even more subtle than usual, so lean in towards the camp fire, and pay close attention...

After a full day of whining, backbiting, lying, and general tomfoolery, I hopped a plane to San Francisco dreaming of mountains of sourdough bread, roaring waterfalls straight from the vineyards at Napa, nestled snugly on a dreamy vista while a sultry fog rolled north of the downtown area, passionately enveloping the Golden Gate Bridge, which I was hell-bent on seeing while in town. Leaving DFW, the ground temperature on the tarmac was about 168 degrees Fahrenheit. My airvent on the plane didn't work, so at cruising altitude, the ambient cabin temperature was only about 20 degrees cooler.

Enter the pattern, begin approach. Remain seated until captain turns off the seat belt light. Thanks for flying American. Stiff arm old woman in seat across the aisle. Trample passengers trying to deboard. Rush to carousel, grab 18 suitcases that all look like mine. Cut into front of the line at taxi stand, throw suitcases out of window enroute to motel until I find my bag, the remaining bags go to driver as a tip. I have this system down, done it 20 times now, I don't understand why people bitch about flying commercial. Works great for me.

Time now to settle in, enjoy the Bay area, and watch the meter in the taxi run like it is linked real-time into the national debt. Cab drivers, love them or hate, they still need showers...

My motel was spitting distance (or forceful-expulsion-of-other-body-fluid distance) from Union Square, which appears at night to be some mystical, lighted gathering place for intelligent, fun-loving, artsy Bay City types who are all out to have a good time. During the day time, it seemed to function as some exit portal for the Borg hive, people were coming out of nooks, corners and shadows too small to house even a moderate sized rodent. I still don't know where the people came from, or where they went.

The cabbie and I nearly miss the motel, it is no bigger than the store front to a pawn shop, porn shop, or check cashing store (redundant I know, but I like the alliteration of the first two items). Pay the meter, three roll-ons and a briefcase for a tip, Allah be with you. I'm on my own. For the first time in my life, returning home and hopping on a tractor feels like a safe, comforting career move.

Front desk to the motel isn't manned, lights are dimmed, and the place smells of cinnamon and freshly smoked pot. This is what I have always imagined a Turkish whorehouse would be like. Cabbie got my cash, and cell phone isn't working. Deep breath, calm down, get your hands out of your pants, this will be okay. (Gimme a minute, getting to the modern American experience bit).

The cinnamon smell comes from the deli next door, which is connected to the motel. It is connected, because, as it turns out, the deli is the heart and soul of this place. The freshly mowed blunt fumes are rolling off the 40 year old German woman, and the strapping young 18 year old blue eyed, blond-haired poster child of the 4th Reich who quietly follows behind her. I don't know if they are checking in or checking out, they smoked enough, they aren't really sure themselves. All the residents leaving the place speak a combination of French, German, and other Eastern bloc dialects I cannot quite isolate. None of the other residents smell like a Cheech and Chong scratch and sniff sticker, no one else seems to care, and, well, hell I am getting more liberal the older I get. Brother can you spare a bowl?

First glance at my room proves what I was beginning to suspect in the haze of second hand THC, this place caters to European tourists. Room was small, but tasteful, the same way the a show box from Neiman Marcus is small but tasteful. Mattress was 1 inch thick, compressed to the point that its mass/density ratio was roughly the same as that of the planet Saturn, and was laying directly on top of bird's eye maple. This was one of the selling points in the brochure.

The smell of cinnamon was all that followed me upstairs, and I haven't eaten since I polished off the 10 am Bloody Mary. Back down into the international terminal I go. Find someplace to sit, here comes the modern American experience.

If there is a Jewish Heaven on Earth, it must surely be David's Delicatessan. I am not much of a biblical scholar, but I suspect when God's tribe was roaming the desert for 40 years, it was not manna dropping from the heavens. Instead, I think Moses' followers carried around clay jars full of sauerbraten. Exhibit #2 to prove the existence of God.

The deli had a large, horseshoe shaped counter in the middle of the place. Off to the right, along the length of the entire Northern wall, was the kitchen and prep area. The only soul in the kitchen was a wiry Asian, tough looking little bastard. He worked the entire time I was there. Efficient, fluid, no wasted effort, no chatter, no bullshit.

I sat on one of the curves of the horseshoe, studying each page of the menu. The menu came with instructions, which was good, otherwise I was ordering the hamburger. I carefully ordered my sauerbraten with potato pancakes, and a branded bottle of cream soda. Instinctively I knew that I made a mistake in not ordering the only beer on the menu.

On the far end of the right hand side of the horseshoe sat the prototypical struggling artist. He was sketching in between gulps of coffee and throughtful, measured glances at his surroundings. In this environment, this guy was the Lion, the vibes in the room were flowing through him. This guy carried the juice, he was alpha male with a specialized pencil and a man-bag.

Two seats away from him, moving closer to the curve of the horseshoe, was an old man in raggedy clothes, drinking just coffee. This guy was a candidate for eccentric rich man living like a bum. During his entire visit, he poured over a little red, hardback journal. Even as far away as I was, I could clearly see that each page had been studiously written in, in a careful but tiny style. Every surface of each page seemed to be covered in writing, with no room left for even the slightest scribble. Either the guy had the collected wisdom of an isolated genius, or the collective introspection about a heartless government that allows ET to perform minds probes by way of the colon.

Seated next to Grandfather time was heavy set Aleutian quietly eating his meal. If this guy lived in Texas, he would teach civics class and coach junior high football. He ate his meal, drank his water, paid and left. Just minded his own business.

Nearly to the curve now, sat Ahmed and Alex. Both of some Arabic descent, Ahmed was young and pissed. Every time I looked uo from my menu, he was glaring at me as though I were the one with the package on the floor containing a timing device. Alex on the other hand, much older, seemed far more are ease with the world around him. He had been to the tourist stops, bought the trinkets (he had lots of bags, none ticking), and likely had his arrangements for the night taken care of.

Besides me, the only other tangible presence sitting on the curve of the horseshoe looked like an elder father who had a woodshop behind his house and never missed a televised football game of his alma mater. The only difference was that this guy spoke very little English, and I guess football means something a little different to him.

The ghost of Archie Bunker sat next to me, chiding me for drinking cream soda.

To my left now, and around the left side of the horseshoe was an old German couple. They were similarly unable to speak English, but were non-plussed. They clearly reveled in the security of having the other at their side. They each ordered one of the huge pastries, washed down with a bottle of the house beer.

At the end of the left side of the horseshoe, sat David (or his management proxy). David lorded over everyone in the deli, sizing up each customer, filing us away in some manner only he could understand. Not unlike Ahmed, David seemed to most keenly watch me. I think the fact that I had not ordered beer with my meal, and that I was the only person in the room wearing short sleeves on the coldest night of the year so far, spoke volumes to him. This cracker might be trouble...

Some Anthony Edwards looking mope was working the counter. Not Mother Goose of Top Gun Anthony Edwards, but Dr. Green of ER Anthony Edwards. I knew his career had stalled, but jeez... The Anthony Edwards look-a-like mope was exceptionally courteous. Please and thank you, whether he was serving my food, or picking up shattered pieces of tableware after one of my Turrets' like outbursts about why the country is going to hell in a handbasket. Yes sir. Please and thank you.

Behind the cash register directly behind me, stood a large German speaking Asian woman. For some reason I gathered she was David's wife. She was surrounded by a mountain of fresh pastry. Awfully cranky, to be surrounded by such a spread of baked goods.

Then, out of no where, the source of the baked goods. A provincial, dark haired, olive skinned beauty with gaunt, tired eyes, appeared from nowhere, lugging a tray of freshly baked, flaky heart attack seeds. I felt David's eyes boring in to me like the farmer keeping vigil over his Daisy Duke-clad daughter. I think he feared less for her chastity, and more for the potential loss of cheap labor. Consummate capitalist.

For all my redneck friends and loved ones, this scene, I have discovered is the here and the now. This is the new American experience. Yeah, I remember high school civics lessons about the melting pot and all that crap. But this was the real deal. No signs reading "No coloreds", no cracks about slant eyes and riki-tiki hats. Natural born, naturalized, or just here to experience big flaky pastry served with beer, we sat at that counter apart and together all at once. Our collective vibe was influenced by the lesser parts of the greater sum. Good, bad or off our medication, we sat together at a meal in relative peace and safety. David almost released the vice-like grip the scowl had on his face, as this realization must have been evident on my face.

Yeah, I know. I remember Ahmed to. Unapologetically, I do think that Rolex wearing, iPod listening, pork eating sumbitch will some day blow some shit up, and kill a lot of folks doing it. Modern American experience.

Formerly Living in San Fran.