The Court of Slim Pickins

The Court of Slim Pickins

by André Baca-Acosta

We’re floating through the streets on pontoon boats of Christmas rum. Our city putting on a show, we’ll get on right through that as long as we can pass that down the drain, get it moving and loose. A monsoon like this is welcome, I’m enjoying the sound of it while the rest of the car warms up. I’m struggling with the dinosaur assigned to me for the night, amongst a yard full of dilapidated machines mainly there for parts. I was told this one runs. I’m struggling to see any damn thing in a radius of near.

On this night, Frisco has been at play for a full day. Friends are easy to be made anywhere when you’re all wearing the same boring costume that is bare minimum and no thought but a mobile festive. It’s Halloween without any of the creativity. They even skip the pillow to fatten up the Santa gut since they have lots of walking to break up the massive booze fest. Winter is tame and well, keeps the ranks of citizens and those visiting to engage in a day for Papa Noel. As sunset hits, you’re left with the remnants of youth who haven’t mastered the fine duty of meter and hydration. Knowing when to call home and a short journey to a near couch for a rest on social times.

If only we could encounter rain every time this year to wash away the crumbs of foul, the juice du jour and cumulus clouds pulling ripcord, go home now or seek shelter nearby but the night calls for modicum.

All my most critical buttons worn to the wear, for the simple effect of where exactly to aim the hot air on a monsoon night. So I tap those keys and coax out familiarity as I’m watching the lack of progress on the windscreen in patches of small circles.

No wing Wednesday, no hydroplanes for me and the good shoes are passing the test as I tap for pressure. Time to leave this junkyard. I find gaps in the rain to lower all windows and grab all the oxygen that I can, so that the cabin gives me a fair shake and I’m not associated with the foul errands that may linger in the seats behind. I won’t be framed for foul play.

Any good sense should let me know this is pointless on this night. Passing 850 casually. A building known most definitely by its number, far more years before that became a trend for restaurants on the rise whom, let their address be the bold statement. It landed them on top 5 listings nationwide but, were gone within 10 years, always hardest to serve 35 years and become an icon serving egg salad sandwiches. I guarantee they’d love a solid egg salad in this place, worth at least five packs of menthols.

Usually this building is hopping with energy yet, not always a positive bustle. Lawyers, court reporters, judges, sheriffs, detectives, run of the mill cops, organizations serving the incarcerated. Family in attendance, to support the framed or learn just how long they’ve lost kin to the gears, the system of San Pancho. Santa season and a monsoon coalescing on the same day mean you absolutely don’t know what is going to unfold or how it will, twas the single exhilarating factor to keep pushing this jet ski.

Where do all these cities find the time to build these monstrosities? Only to be ditched at a later date when they realized they built a relic and didn’t study the needs of concrete. All cities need storage lockers, a place to store bad apples. They’re totally ripe and retirement may be a solid 5 away. So you find places to stash a sour male plant. In ancient times, SFPD had reign over Cabbies. If this sentence seems like a mistake, it hinged on one oddity, fingerprints. All cabbies had fingerprints on file, but the privacy of said files created a minor dilemma. Cops solved this puzzle. They didn’t want to have to deal with a few thousand Cabbies whom, didn’t even carry guns. They were overruled.

Desk duty is a great way to wind down the clock on a career, or to slap a wrist and get the minimum value on someone who chronically broke rules. Broke noses, arms and budgets costing cities millions in hush money. The guy on stage loved what was left of his testosterone at his age and the way his voice reverberated in the hall as he spoke. He’d bypassed the memo that we, were not in fact rookies from the Academy. Had he heard the murmur before his arrival he could’ve counted off the languages of major continents galore. Eritrea, Urdu, Punjabi. The Russian guy next to me missed the show of this guy who did indeed, have great stage presence. He waxed poetic about his tales of “Mo’gumbo”, the winks from women that told him there were other ways to weasel out of their panties.

Every red light I approached is a search for which, of these faded buttons actually control the defrost button in this relic of a Ford. A solid car that is no longer made for dew. As I’m passing the well lit bail bonds joint, my screen pops with an order. I’m sure it’s a mistake since I’m around the corner from the city clink but I have nowhere else to be so I swing back around. He gets in and he’s full of gratitude. Young, with dreads, a backpack and no jacket. My inner bells are sounding a minor alarm. His timing is good as the car seems to finally be pushing around heat for his cold bones.

Java: Where we headed?

Slim: 7th Street

My inner bells again. I’m wondering why doesn’t he just walk since we’re already on 7th St. but if I was freed from City jail on a stormy night, I’d accept any free vouchers doled out by the Cops to disappear too.

Java: Got your voucher?

He’s tapping the only two pockets he’s got and returning to them again. My 3rd bell is beginning to ring out and this ride is deflating me.

Java: What’s your cross street?

I’m nearing Market street and none of what he muttered makes any sense. I’m awaiting the pulp as cash, monopoly money that comes on down the line and is note heaven singing rent blues. It’s good to hear them tones when you see no body language headed that way you’re in amazement at what exactly this could be. A man with no reflex to sort, its just there him and his non moving body the depth of relax.

Slim: “Yeah that right there, STOP”.

Those awful kind of flat chords, key of 7th St. salute to bid adieu. He doesn’t do cabs often. He’s getting very close to walking 7th St.

Java: “That right there is the end of 7th street so what’ya want me to do?”

He’s looking out of every window.

Slim: “Nah man, I live in Oakland. 7th St, the Town.”

Java: “Well that changes everything. You didn’t tell me that. You’re gonna need cash or card to pay me ahead of time. Now would be good.”

By now I’ve pulled over and fully expect to go our separate ways.

Slim: “They gave me something, I just remembered. Hol’up”.

Now he’s checking the backpack. That’s usually when the nerves really start barking since you have no idea the inner contents. Except, where he’s coming from, they’ve searched every pocket stitched on his person. I sense his excitement and lo and behold, his pockets provide. As I stare at the address written on it begins to make sense, finally. Both of us exhale.

Java: “You were in there all day?”

Slim: “Nah they had me at Williams. I uh’know if you ever been locked up before but that place is cold as fuck. No blankets, we don’t got no jackets, no heat on and left outside while we was getting prepped for a transfer to where you picked me up.”

Java: “I’ve got the heat turned up all the way so it should be making its way to you”.

Slim: “Thanks man, I’m just so happy to be outta there. Since it’s the weekend they was saying all of us gonna be in there until Monday.”

We’re coasting on to the bridge with ease now.

Java: “I don’t know if irony is at play here, but the Santas might have done you a solid.”

Slim: “Shitttt and that’s the reason I came over here with the homies. We was having a good time peeping all the shorties….”

I don’t dare interrupt him, he’s afloat in giddiness that a good luck charm found him.

Slim: “Hell yeah, I’m so happy to be going home to sleep in my own bed tonight. I’m hella happy you picked me up, I thought for sure when you made that turn in the rain, you weren’t coming back around and I was gonna be standing there for a few days. (He pauses, then continues.

“I’ve got this huge TV in my room and I’m…..I’m a gamer. I always be telling my Mom I don’t be going out, I stay in, playing my PS4 and watching movies. The one time my homies convince me, this shit goes down.”

On the bridge I’m feeling sorry his day in Frisco has welcomed him this way but it’s an extremely busy day for Cops who are pulling overtime hours. I’m sure many of the Vet badges schedule Santa Con as a definite day off. Most badges want to skip hauling in drunk white kids who assemble en mass, in the name of Papa Noel and tarnish his image with bruises & brawls.

Slim: “My homies I met up with had gotten into something before I arrived — but they didn’t tell me. One dude be gettin’ hyphy, so I usually be trying to stay away from him.”

Java: “Why’s that”?

Slim: “Since I don’t know you, I will say that I was holding a piece. But…. if you from West Oakland, I’m forced to be holding if I’m outside. My get out of jail is burned through on some asshole that started the whole problem. Me and my partna had already bounced and were getting away from him since we know he has priors on him. One these Santas must have said we were all together cuz that patrol rolled up on us quick.”

I can only imagine the cold that begins in your blood when you are being patted down with a pistol on your person.

This kid was so different from every other young kid I’d come into contact with. I can only imagine the Cops may have picked up on some of the same cues going through my head. His name in their database pulls up a zero file. But they’ve found a loaded pistol at the bottom of a backpack in Frisco. It’s unregistered and part of the daily headlines for kids from the burbs who are full of rage and too much time to learn how to terrorize.

Slim: “Took them awhile to find it. Luckily my shit was never cocked, the clip was in but it was in my backpack, at the bottom buried under clothes. Not having it on my waist probably saved my ass.”

Java: “My question to you is…why not get a registered piece?? They all have guns registered. They pull that from your backpack, they gonna run it and see that you speak their language. You’re allowed by law. Having it at the bottom of a backpack probably helped a bit. Damn bro, you are lucky as hell.”

Slim: “Wellll, that and they were shocked to find zero record on me. When I say I stay in my room, I mean…I be stayin in.”

Java: “If they see no record on you and a registered pistol, Cops see more of themselves.”

I inhale for a second

“I hope you’re not playing Call of Duty or some crazy violent shit”

The laughs barrel out of both of us.

Slim: “Nah man, I’m into Anime, shit like that. Got me a tattoo on my left arm that I love so much, I be trying to learn to draw in that style.”

He attempts to show me but it’s far too dark and I’m the driver. We’re moving fast at this hour, no traffic, he gazes out the window and floats off the sight of our elevated view. I ask him to tell me which anime I should check out and he’s got all kinds of recommendations of Japanese ambiguity.

Upon pulling up, I feel both his excitement and the tension of arriving back to West Oakland.

Slim: “Much love, you got everything you needed?”

Java: “Yup yup, limo courtesy of the SFPD tonight with this voucher. You all good. Stay safe man”.

Slim: “I don’t got any cash or nothing, a dead cellphone, my Mom has no idea where I’ve been. I gotta get back inside. Peace dog.” Looking every direction before he jets.

I don’t stay too long as I follow his lead. As I’m headed back over the bridge, I realize I never got his name. The irony hits me that for him to stay out of prison he’s built himself a lavish cocoon of imprisonment. This kid, he’s got his own hair to deal with and all the weight that mine doesn’t carry. Dreads, a backpack and all the right Jordans come crossing this river, a slight pond of seals and serpents.

When I returned the taxi at 3 AM, I had a strong sensation that this was the end of the road for me behind the wheel. I felt a perfect circle closing down after 10 years and Slim had gifted me positive energy to walk away from the late night lessons of Cops, Cabbies & Carnage. The tentacles of what the biggest, little city in the country will serve up to you on any given witching hour in a city of Peter Pans who don’t want kids, but do want a long leash, to go-go howling at their own moons.

• In 2015, the FBI charged Ofc. Makavekas for taking bribes from cabbies who knew zero English and were automatically passed on the SF Taxi test if they They were funnelled in the backdoor via corrupt taxi school owner who turned snitch, Bill Hancock