Part One
Close Encounter of the Crappiest Kind
Let’s talk a bit about The Countessa (the ‘o” is silent).
We all know someone like Countessa Van Towat (again, the 'o' is silent). She is one of those people who never had a good day, and even if she did, nobody’d ever know it but her - maybe.
She takes every moment of her life so seriously that if she smiled during any of those moments – when it would seem perfectly natural and reasonable to do so – people who know her best would suspect that she was under the influence of one of those narcotics that she vehemently decries.
Take today, for example. Saturday. Something like the 29th of September. Once again, hotter than it should be, even for Austin, Texas, where this is being written at a Starbucks on FM 1825 in Pflugerville (just north of Austin) while waiting for my charge, Jacob, to finish his soccer match against the Dallas Devils or some such thing.
After struggling for nearly 45 minutes to enable the “free” Wi-Fi thing that Starbucks presently has going in conjunction with the even more retarded AT&T. First you must put money on a Starbucks Cash Card. Minimum $5.00 but it gives you two hours of “free” AT&T Wi-Fi for as long as you live, I guess. I put $6.00 on my new card, money that I’ll use tomorrow morning to buy my Sunday New York Times at the Starbucks on my corner (38th & Guadalupe in Austin). After you’ve registered your card at Starbucks.com you are directed to open a Wi-Fi account that links the Starbucks card with the AT&T system. The sign-up process requires multiple information gathering but what the hell: who in the world doesn't’t already know everything about me. Betsy, Aslynne, Kelly and Josh walked me through the process. I ordered a black eye (2 shots) and set out to hang.
Finally, after “getting it up” to the “Internets,” I decided it would be more fruitful to starting writing about the encounter I had today with my Countessa. [remember, before I digressed, everybody must surely have a Countessa or it’s male counterpart (the “o” is silent. Her male counterpart (the “o” is silent) is not exactly an asshole. He’s a perfect asshole; someone who could spoil a funeral and for whom the descriptive “petty” barely scratches the surface. Sadly, I have an overwhelmingly close relationship with one of these men, who sees himself as perfect, but not in the same way that I have just described.
Actually, in my case – at least the one I’m writing about now, I know, albeit partially, the true identity of the heretofore mentioned Countessa Van Towat. Well, maybe not. It says here, on Ticket Number 13347323, that she is Officer McGuire – no first name shown – Employee Number 5656, “employee” being a euphemism for “badge.” Her CAD number (?) is 09269078. Looking at this ticket now, in the full light of day, I realize why it took her upwards of ten minutes to fill it all in.
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DICKS HATE POLICE
I HATE POLICE WHO ARE DICKS
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Every blank, every required check box and every necessary item-to-circle has been executed with a flair than can only best be described as befitting Protocol One, which is to say, as if a robot had followed its programmed task for the one-thousandth time without fail – and with such due diligence that, except for details ascribed only to me, every ticket, summons, writ or other such document that this particular creature touches will appear to be nothing short of indistinguishable from any other in its series.
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HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A TICKET SO SKILLFULLY EXECUTED?
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I noticed Officer McGuire when I glided past her as she sat in her cruiser, perpendicular to Guadalupe Street, in front of the Mark IV Apartments between 38th and the old Rooster Andrews store next to the Valero Gas Station.
The Mark IV is where one of the Draper boys lived while attending The University of Texas in the late 70s and early 90s. His brother is Robert Draper, now a well known political author, so famous that I’ve forgotten his young brother’s name, even though we had many long and meaningful conversations in his apartment on the top floor of the IV. I met the Drapers at Raul’s Club on Guadalupe where I sometimes played doorman and sometimes sang in my band, Sharon Tate’s Baby which I have not managed to live down. Robert was friendly if rather reserved, compared to the kid brother who was one sparkplug of a dancer, and whose most appealing feature was his unbridled enthusiasm for the curious. He was also what you might call a hummie (hot urban male). I don’t know what became of him but Robert has written several books, most famously Dead Certain: The Presidency of George W. Bush. The Draper boys were grandsons of the Watergate Prosecutor Leon Jaworski. An older brother, Ely Draper, died in a motorcycle accident in 1979. Leon Jaworski passed away in 1982. [1]
Anyway, on this particular Sunday, there was no Draper brother at the Mark IV, just The Countessa, sitting in Officer McGuire’s cruiser, looking for nuggets.
I kind of shrunk down, mentally, as I cruised by, and pulled in to my usual stop-and-go spot at Valero (been stopping there it seems forever). I always shrink down when I see a cop car. Always. I was about to exit my car (soon to become known as “vehicle”) when the cruiser pulled crossways in front of me. The McGuire thing shouted “stay in your vehicle!”
“You’re not wearing a seat belt.”
“Do you have proof of insurance? May I see it? And your driver’s license?”
“Sure,” I complied, cheerfully.
The Countessa returned to her “vehicle” to do the usual checks and balances.
Ten minutes later – I’m not kidding – ten minutes later, at least – she ambled back alongside my window. She went through the litany of my sins: Not Wearing Seat Belt. Inspection Sticker Expired December 2008. She told me where to sign the ticket and that it wasn't’t an admission of guilt. She told me how I could avoid a point against my record, by taking a Driver Safety Course, and she told me the Expired Inspection Sticker charges would be dropped if I produced proof of current inspection by October 23, 2009 which, she went on, is my Appearance Date.
Although I was cheerful, outgoing and friendly throughout the entirely miserable exercise, The Countessa never once broke the faintest of grins. Her face remained expressionless the whole time, as though she truly was from Protocol One. I said to her, more than once, “gee, can you be even a tiny bit friendly?” “Look how happy I am, and I’m the one getting the ticket!”
She turned away in silence. Before I entered the convenience store I saw not only that she’d returned to her not-so-hidden lair, but immediately spun out from that lair, lights flashing; gunning the cruiser northward to pull over another driver; this one across teh street from the Austin State School Campus – the same campus that I used to walk by early in the morning and hear patients calling out imitating the roosters of dawn.
I could be sorely upset about the cited infractions, which carry a minimum of $290.00 in fines. But I was and am so perplexed about the sad, sorry, pathetic and completely wrong-headed demeanor of Officer McGuire, one of Austin’s least finest. Yeah, right.
I live my life with unspoken, unconscious and most often unmet goals. But the one destination that I must however reach at least once, and hopefully many dimes during any given day is this: reach into the lives of those around me an find for each of us a smile, a laugh, a reaction that might make the scalp tingle, or otherwise indicate that life is good; valuable; worth encountering; at least for that moment in time when their day meets mine. I use (or as the case may be abuse) this paradigm with everyone, including the most serious and by-the-book Call Center worker, banker, store-keep, employer, policeman and stranger with whom I must somehow be drawn into conversation with, no matter how slight or great the reason.
Officer McGuire is one cunt-of-a-creature. I do not wish her well. But if I should encounter (the “o” is silent) her again, I would try, again, to set her free. Oh crap, she’s already done me an unknown (to her, anyway) favor: I was inspired to do a bit of writing this weekend.
We all have our moments, yes, but every moment, every day? Not for long, I hope.
[1] I might be totally off about the Draper boy who lived at the Mark IV. He and Robert were introduced to me as brothers, and I did one day down the road meet Ely Draper when the other Draper boys came looking for a small quantity of a controlled substance. It's only been 29 years.
>103109<
Part Two
Keep Your Laws Off My Body
or
Who Hates Ralph Nader More Than Does Chris Wing?
My chance encounter with The Countessa roiled the waters by reminding me of something I have long wanted to write about but have lacked the spur to get it done. The subject is seat belts, easily the peeviest of all my peeves, domestic (pet) or feral. Actually, the use here of “peeve” is understated to the 10th power.
I hate Ralph Nader.
... to be continued ...
Working Draft
A Chapter from the autobiography
A True Story by Chris Wing