The Marcado on the way to deliver breakfast tacos and cigarettes to my son on the day labor site did not sell cigarettes or the ornamental plates they used to display their festive cakes. The pleasant security guard smiled when I asked in English. “Are these plates for sale?” Many confused faces. “Platos son vendas?” I approximated Spanish from my college days. I do love the Spanish poets, Spain ones as well as Mexican ones. And some of the other countries of origin as well. I think Spanish is the most widely used language on the planet after Chinese, but they are sort of cheating.
“Al lado,” the cashier said. Pointing left. “Dollar Store.” Finally some English. The Dollar Store did have Marlboro Menthol Shorts, my son’s current poison. It’s hard to get people to stop using drugs. Harder, I hear, to get them also to quit smoking cigarettes. Seems like the reason AA meetings used to smell so bad, they let the poor bastards smoke. “Welcome to the noon meeting… ” Poof. The entire place lit up. I exited to the milder rooms of the people trying to recover from being in relationships with alcoholics. I was gifted with this Al-Anon program when I returned from my failed escape attempt to prep school. Al-Anon rooms were non-smoking all over town.
It was the best we could do.
Juan 3:16. De tal manera amó Dios al mundo
And that’s a quote. Given to me by Livia the lady at the Taco Joint on Riverside Drive. I also needed tacos. My son doesn’t like cheese on his breakfast tacos. Probably something to do with my failing him as a father. Not completely my fault. Still.
I have no idea what that quote means. I do know “Juan” is not the originator. Nor is John. That’s my name, however.
Dios al mundo, I understand to mean God of the World. That is all I need.
Three stops in, I deliver the heafty bag of bacon, potato, and egg tacos to my dejected son.
Just a minute ago:
Yep, “anything is fine” except this. I added that last part. He’s in the dumps. A trajectory he unspooled over the last several years. A life, so far, of not having to get a fucking job. Redic. I know. That part would clearly be my ex-wife’s responsibility. After I was jettisoned I had little sway over my son, except near birthdays and Christmas where he would straighten up a bit so the booty was better. Once he had a car, even living with me was too much. He retreated into his mom’s morass. Got hooked up with a stepdad who was less empathetic than his mom. Hard for me to imagine that, but it is what it is. So I’ve been told.
What is the point of this life? Crime pays for a bit. Then you get a speeding ticket on the way home from an outdoor concert. Wreckless driving the officer said. He was just pissed that I wasn’t drunk. A DWI would be so much more entertaining. Rather, he said, “I’ve got another call or this could’ve gone down differently.” Um, yeah, officer small britches. “Fuck yourself.”
I’m logging into Comedy Defensive Driving right now. I’ll let you know how it goes. The band, Cake, was fantastic. There was this young woman there, in the row just ahead of us, thin, lithe, dancing wildly. One problem. It was as if she couldn’t hear or feel the music at all. Her movements weren’t grotesque. They were not rhythmic or in any sort of relationship to the music coming from the band. I was both intoxicated and repulsed. She was listening to a completely different channel. Maybe in life there are others who are tuned in using a different kind of radio. It was me. It was all the rest of us listening to “The Distance” and this priestess was swaying to a different drummer. Or something like that.
Anyway, the disappointed officer took his time back in his patrol car, spotlights aimed directly at my eyes via my mirrors. My car was off and my windows were down. I just wanted to arrive at my bed asap. He just wanted to see everyone slow down and admire my dumbassness. That’s a cop’s greatest pleasure, aside from protecting all of us from a drunken driver. That would not be me. Maybe his next call would be more fruitful.
One thing he said puzzled me, and I’m going to look into it. “With your driving history, it seems like you would change your ways.” My driving history should be clean. I don’t know what the actual fuck he’s talking about, unless there’s a police driving record that shows all of your infractions even if you got them dismissed. As part of my defensive driving class, I think I have to order my driving record from the state of Texas. I’m not sure. Maybe that’s just when you protest it.
This morning, my biggest decision is whether I should do defensive driving or simply ask for a trial date. DD you can only do once every two years to remove a ticket. The court route is just as effective but takes a few more trips to the DPS and a lot of waiting. It takes them like three months to schedule your court date. For a bogus reckless driving ticket. At least Little Lord Fontleroy wrote the ticket for 90 in a 65, thus keeping me under the legal limit to actually dismiss a ticket with defensive driving.
I won’t learn much from the videos and pop quizzes today. I will learn, in a few minutes, how much my ticket is going to cost me. That’s really the point officer nobody was trying to make. Revenue.
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