Upon entering into the reveal and revel of the morning's face, one of Jack-o-lantern saw tooth and smoking man cigarette flare and flame in the eyes of the smoker, I knew, I knew more so than any other time, that the day held my completion, not closure, of an evil act and Godly end of what presents to one’s self of consequence.
I figured I would take this opportunity to sum up what has been the extraneous cast and crew of my experience known as CWP. The incarceration characters that may or may not have found themselves into your minds as well as they burned themselves into mine.
These are the instances that were missed, or left roadside as rubber kill, the last week. These are the ones that will leave my mental belly full after the consumption of the act.
First off, would be the man known as ‘Biggun’ of Black Star (we jokingly call it Black Tar). He works the mulch gate at the Black Star Canyon facility that helps support the private trailer park and picnic area found within the sand molestation of canyon walls hardened by time. Biggun lived in a trailer next to the mulch keeper’s gate and made me look like an anorexic Umpa-Lumpa looking to be fed and cuddled. Biggun worked in the entrance shed with the bugs that had 'wanted' posters. He wasn’t very concerned about the bug or the ‘Have You Seen Me’ milk carton sign on his exterior workplace wall. On my third day of CWP, Pedro and I rolled up with a stake bed truck full of hay with Rogelio and Rogelio had to honk three times. Biggun was not at his gate. He came from his adjacent trailer/home with a plate of two burritos and corn and mashed potatoes, and said he was sorry as he just wanted lunch. This was Biggun. He wore a vest like ours, mostly out of security, and had a bent over biker mustache that did not attach at the chin as a Fu-Man-Chu would. He was very concerned about his lunch as his stomach would imply. His home was a rusty trailer; with an even more rusty air conditioning unit projecting from the roof as if it were to point out of the canyon to God, himself.
I came across Biggun again last week while depositing some branches in trade for a load of mulch. He smiled big and hearty through his lonely Black Star Canyon smile and asked the fellow vest wearers (although for very different reasons), “Are you with the County?” We were convicts in a truck with a huge County emblem on the side with a driver wearing a County uniform. I wondered who he thought we were. I wondered if there was a gang of hoodlum mulch stealers trying that hard to pass themselves off as County employees. Biggun said, "Ok" upon the response of yes and then told me and Yames to “Have a good day.” You have many a good day Biggun. Smile when you do it, just as you always have.
There are others as well. Let me lay them down to rest in my mind.
There is the ultra drag net duo of either Fed or Detective status that carpool in their ‘unmarked’ squad car, complete with side light spots and a raming grill in the front. Nothing says undercover like a Crown Victoria. Anyway, the two of them carpool and often when I arrive at the Hill they are awaiting each other’s company. They like to carpool. I think they like intimidating convicts awaiting their sentence completion and promptness even more. I called them Fric and Frac.
Upon this past week, they had neighbors. A buick with Washington plates was parked out front. A Hispanic man and a Caucasian woman, who was very, very thin, lived there. Based on the debris that they left behind, they enjoyed smoking and flossing. I watched them bathe and change clothes one morning behind their open trunk lid. California makes strange bed fellows. At least they are serious about dental hygiene. I think they were meth heads looking to get from one deal to the next.
In the parking lot we also found a couple of other agents of surreal chopsticks, trying to pick up foods that would be considered impossible to consume with two tiny, thin sticks of rubbed down splinter sharpening:
There is the dog walker. A very beautiful Mediterranean woman who would smile at me as I swept the front walk. During the last week she arrived late. She then proceeded to smile and wave at the same time as she ran into the back door of her job. I guess some people can over look the day glow vest of being a criminal.
The other dweller of the back alley is the owner of ‘Bagels and Brew’ who sits in the back about every ten minutes in a plastic chair smoking cigarettes and gossiping about her beyond pathetic life at very loud volumes. You would think that this woman thought her world to be that of television quality - not necessarily reality, but rather sitcom. I thought her chatter to be obnoxious and over bearing to the sensory perception of her clientele. However, her over priced chateau of morning get together was and is always packed and, in the end, who am I to judge?
An that brings us to …
The most recent addition to the work crew was a CWP, not CRP, Hispanic man that I originally coined the “Buena Vista Social Club’. He wore a floppy bendable and placed wicker hat of almost Soupy Sales quality. His head was shaved. His fingernails and the end segment of his digits were swollen and bizarre - they were like that of an Alien pod-sucker. His name is Mario. For his first two days he stood at the bottom of a ladder doing nothing except watching Conception hang Halloween lights on the various buildings of the Hill for their big Hollow’s Eve Gala. I then abbreviated his name down to ‘Buena Vista Gilligan’. He was the new Latino lil’ buddy, the Pedro part Deux. He became a over animated nightmare of snot rockets, lung butter, and lots of over emphasized inhales and exhales. His English was ok, but it became muddled as we repeatedly covered the same subject of his second DUI and his recent trauma of serving 60 days inside and having 240 hours of CWP. He shook my hand today and wished me well. I gripped is over bearing alien mitts and said, "Thanks". I wished him luck back. He was, at the very least, an odd fellow. I also warned him of continuing to drive without his license, which I had with Pedro. It fell on deaf ears, selectively dead ears. He’ll keep driving (and probably drinking) and I am done with my service to society.
Again, another fabulous mention is the Ace Hardware store stock receiver on Friday mornings. He is a burly fellow with long hair, both on head and face. If Biggun and I were related, this man would and could be our cousin. He likes to crank the outside sound system speakers full blast at 5:45 a.m. while listening to Howard Stern on Serious Satellite radio. If I were the owner of a house across the street from this crap-out high volume public fart of audacity and animosity, I would have John Madden by the balls until that Ace Hardware was shut down. Ace is obviously not the place on Lake Forrest and Serrano in Lake Forrest, CA. I saw him one day on an afternoon break combing his beard while sitting in his truck. Man, I was tempted, so tempted, to tell him where to shove the volume knob. I didn’t. I do know wrong from right. It is a shame he does not.
One more little side step is the elderly fellow that we became to know as J.I. James Irvine was the owner and proprietor of the Irvine Ranch for many Joad decades. He made millions and his name is synonymous with the town and the corporation. This elderly man was his ranch foreman. He was touring about the other day as a group of high school kids (guided by a food bank worker who looked and acted, as well as sounded and laughed, like Bill Cosby) picked avocados from the trees. This ancient gent was relaying the tales of J.I. and him on the ranch. The were of a devious nature, as we all assumed, as farming in California for many decades, following the dust bowl era of the Midwest, was racist and down right violent. Hence, Caesar Chavez. We coined this man J.I. and we talked in almost the same gravely deep Biggun voice to make fun of the enormous garden gnome of Black Star. Funny how hatred, bigotry, and violence can be almost cute and very, very surreal when spoken from the lips of a 900 year old man with a walker. I think they are looking to wax his elderly ass into an animatronic display when the museum of rusty equipment is up and running. Funny how everything rusts.
That is it.
I am not looking back.
Done. Finished. Finito.
I learned a lot of Spanish.
I ate a lot of good produce.
I was agriculturally educated.
I walked more miles than Forrest Gump.
Over 200 as of tonight - so maybe not as many as Gump.
I rather be a Gimp than a Gump anyhow.
Bring out the Gimp.
I will be around on Saturday to celebrate and say a hoo-rah or two.
Politics resume on Monday.
I will have a few more bonus’ pieces in store before everyone begins the Roman feather tickle of reaction from reading my political opines.
Hold strong young man, the trough is not that far away.
This weekend I will study hard to get down the rhythm and knowledge that I have only glimmered and glammered.
4:30 a.m. hikes are fine …
