South of the Pumphouse. Les Claypool
in the good old USA. “Those gaw’damn Volkswagen drivers” were always a particular source of irritation for the old man.
As usual, the van fired right up. A small initial puff of blue smoke from the exhaust reminded Ed that it might be time for a valve job. Throwing it into gear, he cruised through the streets of his modest West Berkeley neighborhood. He wore a big army coat and beanie cap to cut the chill on this late fall morning, but the van’s trusty heater was his savior.
“God bless the Volkswagen heater,” he muttered as he cranked the fan on full blast. Ed had always been amazed at how fast the rig warmed up. The Germans clearly had Detroit beat in the automotive heater department.
Ed parked in front of a bookstore on Shattuck Avenue. His destination was Peet’s Coffee on Walnut. As he strolled, he observed the images around the area. He came upon the local flower cart where a young woman, Terry the flower girl, was setting up for the day. She arched back and stretched before bending over to pick up large bucket of gladiolas. Ed admired the seductiveness of the movement and became enthralled when her buttocks pointed toward him as she reached down.
Terry was a fixture around Berkeley, and Ed had always had a soft crush on her. Before he was married to Tasha, he used to come to Peet’s in the mornings to socialize with the locals and to look at Terry. Ed was not the unfaithful type, but like most men on the planet, he found the urge to procreate that comes from millions of years of instinct hard to suppress.
He imagined her nude, with her round white bum pointing up at him. He was fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss her soft cheeks when he heard a high-pitched staccato pulse in his ear. It was the alarm on his wristwatch. The sound startled Terry, who turned around quickly enough to catch Ed staring at her ass. Realizing he’d been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, Ed flushed with embarrassment.
“Hey, Ed,” she said with a little smile.
“S’up, Terry?”
Walking past, Ed reached down and fumbled to turn off his watch alarm. He then continued on his way to the coffee shop.
“Fucking watch,” he muttered to himself.
Outside Peet’s, Ed was greeted by an array of colorful characters: bicyclists in full gear meeting for the big ride up into the hills, students sitting on steps across the street, an old Rasta man who had been there as long as anyone could remember, tradesmen, lounge-abouts, wanna-be hipsters. They were all present and somewhat accounted for, slurping away at their cups of warm brown liquid. The talk was of many things, some newsworthy and some not. From speculations about Ross Perot to the racially tense debates over O.J.’s recent acquittal to the latest flavor Cliff Bar, the air around Peet’s buzzed with caffeine-induced rhetoric.
After saying his good mornings, Ed got his fresh brew and headed back out to the street. He walked kitty-corner toward his VW, doubling back to Terry, who was moving a rather large bucket of lilies. She let out a stressful moan in reaction to the weight.
“Hey, Ed, what are you doing up so early on a weekend?” she spouted as she straightened her back.
“I’m gonna go fishing with my brother.”
“I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
“Yeah. He’s older. My big bro.”
“He live around here?” she asked as she arranged some flowers in a bucket.
“Naw, he lives in El Sobrante.”
“El Sobrante? Isn’t that out near Stockton?”
“Stockton? Hell no. You don’t know where El Sobrante is?” He was mocking her now. He repeated the name in a pseudo-hick drawl, “Ol’ El Sob?”
“Nope, can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Well, you’re not missing much.”
“Where is it then?”
“It’s about twenty-five minutes or so from here. North on 80. Actually, it’s just over the hill as the crow flies.”
“The crow flies?” she laughed. “Damn, Ed, you sound just like my Missouri grandfather.”
“Yep, I’m a regular old shit kicker.”
Terry had known Ed for some time, but she suddenly realized that she didn’t really know much about his past. To her knowledge, neither did many of their common friends.
“Is that where you’re from, El Sobrante?”
“Yep, born and bred.” He didn’t like talking about El Sobrante much, in general. But this was Terry, and he liked talking to her. He took another slurp of coffee and continued. “It’s mellow—if you’re into the KKK.”
“Really? It’s like that?”
Ed chuckled at her reaction. “Naw, I’m just clowning you. It’s actually not a bad place to be if you’re a kid, I guess.” After pondering for a moment, he spoke again. “Too many rednecks for my taste. I had to get the hell out of there, man. Eighteen years was plenty for me.”
“Sounds scary.”
“Eh, ya know, it really ain’t that bad. In fact, it’s probably better now, more ‘integrated.’” He took a sip of coffee. “I just needed to step away. You know, hell, everybody trips off where they grew up. Know what I mean?”
“Kinda, I suppose.”
“Well, you grew up here in Berkeley. Good coffee, good tunes, people that don’t eat their dinner on trays in front of the TV.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” she laughed.
“Well, that may be a bit exaggerated.” He paused for a moment. “I’m actually kinda looking forward to going back to the ol’ stomping grounds. Hookin’ up with my big bro. Shit, I ain’t seen him in a couple years at least. Well, except for my dad’s funeral last month. But we didn’t hang or nothing.”
“Oh, sorry about your dad.”
“Cancer. Everybody’s dying of cancer these days.” Ed felt awkward talking about it. Death is always awkward.
“It’s all those cell phones, I bet.”
“Hell, my dad probably never even used a cell phone once in his life.” He paused to take another sip from his coffee, staring blankly at the sidewalk for a strong moment. He then looked up at Terry and half smiled. “Well, I’m out.”
Ed turned to walk away. Terry stopped arranging the plants.
“Hey, Ed?”
He turned back, “Yeah.”
She leaned over toward him. “You got any weed? I mean for sale.”
“I didn’t know you still smoked.”
“Sometimes. It’s good to have around if I get stressed.”
“Naw, no bud right now. I can get you some ’shrooms, though,” he said with a sly grin.
“God no. That’s all I need,” she laughed. “No pot at all? It’s midterms.”
Ed reached into his jacket pocket. “Here. I got a shit-load of these things.” He pulled out a bag of mushrooms and dipped in to grab her a pinch. “Tasha’s uncle grows ’em out in Bolinas.”
She shuddered. “Oooh, no thanks. I can’t stand the taste.”
“Sure?” he asked, raising his brows.
She pushed her