by Vago Damitio
“My car broke down right over there on 99 and I need a ride to it.”
“Vhy don’t you valk?”
“They won’t let me through the yard.” I told him.
“You’ll have to ride in the backseat. I’ve got a bunch of stuff in the front.”
I was grateful. He drove me to my car while telling me about how he hitchhiked 30 years before when he first came from Germany. He still picked up hitchhikers, but there were fewer of them in recent years. He dropped me off and I waited for the truck to tow Turtle back to the house.
It took me a day and half to figure out that my ignition points had closed. It took 15 minutes to replace them. My future home was running strong again. I drove to register the bus at the Licensing Department. I told them it wouldn’t be driven so that I wouldn’t have to get a smog check. They didn’t ask what I’d driven to the licensing department.
Once I had the plates, it was time to do some maintenance. I replaced the plugs, rotor, air filter, and cleaned her up a little. I started her up. Perfect.
I took a trip to the junkyard. It was incredible. Dozens of VW buses lined up and ready to give up whatever I needed. I felt like a kid in Candyland taking things apart and digging through the waste. I love junkyards. Infinite possibilities within a budget. I bought a table, a latch for the engine, a glove box, and a few odds and ends that the bus needed like taillight covers and door handles.
Later that day I adjusted the valves, put in the table and christened my bus with some sage since, after all, I was a stupid fucking hippie.
Suddenly the bus felt like home. Visions of the nomadic life lit up my brain. I became aware of the possibilities. I could go to Mexico. I could go to the Southwest. I could go anywhere. By the end of the month I would be free. The New Year, 2001, would begin for me without chains. I started dreaming of the things I could do in the next year.
Inside she was warm with the rugs, pillows, and quilts. I made a pot of coffee and rustled up some pretty good grub then lay down for a nap and more dreaming about my coming adventures.
Tarps in the trees
I drove out dirt roads and hiked up a well-worn trail. It was raining, a mist drifting through the giant trees. Suddenly, like Mirkwood, the far off tinkling of laughter came from up high. I took a wrong turn down a trail, backtracked, and finally wondered into the encampment. High above three log and tarp forts hung in the mist. Connected by ropes and pulleys. Banners hung between them proclaiming, “This Land is Our Land” and “Save our Forest.” There was no one on the ground.
There were signs of people all around. Rain gear, buckets (used to haul shit and piss), tarps, and even a mysterious tent with a smoking fire still going nearby. The people vanished into the wood.
I gave a halloo up to the nearest tree fort. A male voice called down. “Who is it?”
“It’s Vago, you don’t know me, but I’ve got food for Lucky.” While I was eating breakfast in Eugene, my friend, The Ole’ Reptile, had asked if I would bring a bag of dog food out to the Fall River tree sit for a dog he knew. I, of course, agreed.
“I’ll just leave the bag down here.”
“Great. Thank you.”
I continued to look around and examine the curious tarpatecture of the feral folk who live in and among the ancient Douglas Fir that were threatened by imminent logging. Random stick, shit bucket, and rope creations blocked the roads to keep trucks and vehicles from approaching. A large compost bin and what would probably become a garden occupied parts of the road. The tinkling of laughter came from everywhere. Lightly. From nowhere. The tree sitters have their own culture. It was spooky how nobody came out to meet me. I was relieved to return to Eugene.
This is George Hush in one of his massive tree houses.
The Hot Insurance Adjustor
In the year 2000, I lived in Bellingham but was commuting with my little VW Fox to Seattle every day for a new job. It was a lot of driving, but I liked it. Then a 16 year old girl t-boned me at a crossroads and totaled my little car. Erma, the insurance adjuster who came to see the car was one of the hottest women I’d ever met.
I was pretty bummed when she told me the car was totaled. I said no big deal but I was disappointed. She asked if I had any further questions and I said just one figuring I"d already lost my great commuting car and would need to move to Seattle. I asked her if she wanted to have a drink with me.
She paused. “I’ m not supposed to,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
She said, “That’s just what they say.”
“We’ll talk about accidents,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. "Call me in a few days."
We got off the phone and I literally jumped up and down for joy that this beautiful woman was even willing to agree to have a drink with me.
“Hey, Erma, this is Vago the VW guy.”
“Oh, hey, I was just thinking about you.” Was it just me or did she sound like she was naked? It was nothing in her voice, I just pictured her naked..thinking about me!
“Really? What are you doing?” Here it came…I knew she was going to tell me she was in the bath or eating a banana.
“Trying to get my valves adjusted right. I can’t seem to get them to stop clanking. I’ve got oil all over me.” Okay, so this was okay, she was thinking of me as she lay on the ground covered in oil…that was sort of sexy…I mean, maybe it was her way of telling me something.
“Wow, you’ve got to make sure the feeler gauge is going all the way in the slot. Wiggle it around in there. You have to penetrate all the way and fill the gap completely. You want it tight, but not too tight!” I could play this game too, I was good at this.
“Hey, what are you wearing?” She asked me and guffawed loudly. “Do you come here often?” She completely ruined it.
I laughed " Hey, that was fun, why’d you ruin it? Do you want to get that drink?”
“Shit. My roommate is moving so me and my other roommate have to move too since she’s the one who rented the house. We’re packing up everything today. I should really be doing that now….”
Here was where she blew me off..I knew it was too good to be true.
“What do you think about tomorrow night? You can come out with me and my roommates. They’re hot, you just can’t touch em, okay?” It was better than rejection.
“Hmm, tomorrow, let me look at my calendar.” Like I had a calendar. I didn’t even know what the date was. “Yeah, it looks like I can shift this around a bit…yeah, that sounds great. What time?”
“Come to my house about six. We’ll start drinking there.” She gave me quick directions to her place. “See you then.”
“Right on Erma. Good luck with the lube job, I mean valves.” What a dork I am.
I was excited, she’d probably laugh when she found out I was living in my bus.
When I got there, she had modified plans a little. Her friend from Colorado was in town so we were going to go meet him at the Triangle Bar in Fremont.
I drove my new car, a Subaru wagon, to her house, where I met her two roommates. Both were hotties but the one who was moving out, Bertha, looked like a meth head chick. She had that high-strung, strung out, white trash way about her. Mathilda, the roommate who was getting a new place with Erma was a princess in a white angora sweater. Mathilda was coming with us too. I wasn’t too upset about that. Erma was absolutely stunning decked out in fashionable Seattle hippie girl attire. Sexy sexy sexy sexy…probably way to sexy for me. But maybe not…
We got to the Triangle and met up with Erma’s friend, John. As a result of his drunkenness, I got to spend all the time we were in the bar getting to know Mathilda instead of Erma while she nursed John. John and his friend needed a place to crash. John especially, and being a good friend, Erma suggested they crash at her pad. We piled into her car and went back to the girl’s place. On the trip I learned more about Erma than I’d ever thought possible because of John’s drunken commentary on her past loves, lovers, and exploits
.
She was easily the hottest woman everywhere we went, with Mathilda coming in a close second. It occurred to me again that she might be out of my league what with her good looks, good job, and obviously full social life. It occurred to me over and over and over.
At her house, we drank beer and red wine.
“I remember when my dad used to molest me,” Erma started. “Can you believe that I loved it. I mean, I didn’t know not to. He was so gentle and loving, you know? I thought that was what all little girls and their Dad’s did. I cried and cried when they took him away.”
Erma had no problems talking about being molested or raped as a young girl. She was almost light about it.
“My fucking Grandpa on the other hand. That fucker used to love raping me. He wasn’t able to get off unless I was crying.”
Nobody else seemed shocked at her candor. I was totally creeped out. I just wanted to leave.
“What about you?” she asked. “Got any fucked up childhood stories?”
On the one hand, I did have and it would have been easy to talk about it. But on the other hand, I no longer wanted to be there. And, I was even more disturbed because I was turned on. I mean, here is this incredibly sexy chick talking about getting fucked. She’s talking about it in detail, like, “I used to love sucking Daddy’s dick. It was my favorite lollypop” and “I had to pretend I didn’t like it when Grandpa ass fucked me.” I mean these are disturbing fucking stories, but I felt my dick getting hard as she said it. I wanted to fuck this chick even though she was totally fucked up and at the same time, I wanted to get as far from her as possible.
So when she asked me to tell her a story, I just made an excuse about how normal my childhood had been. She pressed and I said that I had lost my father — we went to the park and I never saw him again. It was a lie, but I meant it to be funny and ended with "I always pictured him somewhere with amnesia.”
“I bet that’s his girlfriend’s name,” she laughed. I laughed too. Had she been lying about all that shit? I have no idea.
John passed out on Erma’s bed (of course) and his buddy left with some friends who arrived to take him back to the bar. Mathilda went to bed and Erma sat up talking with me. Finally, I kissed her and to my surprise she kissed me back. When I put my hand on her breast she pushed it off and pointed to the bedroom door while shaking her head. "John’s in there?"
"Is he your boyfriend?"
"No, but he’s in my bed." I didn’t know what the fuck that meant. She said I could crash on the couch but I felt sort of like I had been raped and molested. I left. "Give me a call," I said.
She never did. I didn’t call her either. I should have offered her a lollypop.
Unemployment
Filing for unemployment was one of the hardest decisions of my life. I’d always taken pride in not receiving any ‘handouts’ from the government. One of my roommates decided for me when he pointed out that it was me who had paid for the benefits I would collect. I decided to take back my ‘donations’ to this government.
I filed by phone, answering the questions the computer on the other end asked. It struck me as funny that the computer’s elimination could have provided at least one job to a person who was unemployed. The mechanical voice told me I had to apply for three jobs a week in order to collect my benefits and gave me an appointment so that I could attend ‘orientation.’ The state required that I attend “unemployment orientation” before the benefits of joblessness began.
I woke up late for unemployment. I got there 45 minutes late. It felt nice letting my body sleep as long as it wanted and the receptionist told me I could attend the next session.
The first thing I noticed in the classroom was a sign that said “ Please turn off your cell phones.” I suppose it is a problem keeping the unemployed off their cell phones in Seattle. The facility was called ‘Work Source.’ It was a typical institutionalized place with white and yellow walls. Classrooms.
It had lots of literature encouraging the poor to quit breeding. There were people with disabilities, older folks, and people of color. Nobody looked really down and out. Nobody seemed like they were going to die if they didn’t find employment soon.
People seemed to be pretending they wanted to find a job. That’s the difference between the homeless and the unemployed, the homeless don’t bother pretending they want a job; they just don’t have one. Both groups share a degree of dirtiness though. It’s just a little more obvious on those without houses and showers.
I was nervous but it was a cakewalk. Three people had been selected to turn in their search logs, showing where they had applied for work so far. The telephone computer voice had told us about this requirement. I was not one of them. The woman looked to be sure my logs reflected applying for at least three jobs this week. They did even though I hadn’t. I just wrote down some big corporation names and addresses.
The workshop group was made up of older housewives, dropouts, and freaks. One guy in his forties was wearing a leather jacket covered with rainbow colored beads. He had matching beads in his hair that hung down a little past his shoulders. He was distinctly birdlike and kept pecking the instructor with questions about job services on the internet and the waiting period to hear back from Boeing.
The instructor went to great pains to describe the ways we could avoid applying for work and still meet the required three job applications per week. Things like coming to ‘work source’ and working on our resumes, learning how to use the computers, or taking a typing course. Bedtime material. Pure Sominex. It was all about how to make your resume dynamic and answer interview questions the best way.
There were several interesting programs where the state would pay for a college education, I thought about doing that, but already had a useless Associates Degree and didn’t really want more. The whole ‘orientation’ lasted a few hours.
As I walked out of the Unemployment Department, I felt happy to know that the orientation counted for the three jobs I was supposed to apply for that week. My check arrived a few days later. All I had to do for the next eighteen weeks was to call in every Sunday to the phone computer and answer a serious of questions using ‘1’ for yes and ‘9’ for no. It took six minutes the first time but got quicker as I memorized the sequence of answers. 1, 1, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, #.
Recycling and Garage Sales
I helped Aquillo Mallot do his rounds at Western Washington University when it was time for the students to go home. We hit every dumpster on the campus twice a day for two weeks. You see, the students had bought things to make their dorms more comfortable. Things like microwaves, stereos, posters, books, artwork, clothes, and computers. Tons of stuff. They had to leave the dorms empty and most of them were driving home and didn’t want to rent a U-Haul to take along all their possessions. So, in the true American way, they just threw everything out.
In two weeks we filled a friends garage to capacity with just about everything you could think of. I was wondering what we were going to do with it all, but Aquillo had a plan. Every weekend throughout the summer we had garage sales in the yards of people we knew.
Aquillo and I were pulling $300-$400. Towards the end of summer it was between $10 and $100, but then a funny thing happened. The college kids returned and in two weekends bought back almost everything that was left (plus the things we had found during the summer) and gave us both close to $500. You see? Recycling can be profitable.
Another friend used to buy rejected textbooks from schools in Texas and sell them to other school districts that were still using them. That was giving him enough dough to support his family. But then, one day he was driving his pickup past an oil refinery and saw stacks of tools and equipment being carried out by the workers. Having an eye for value, he stopped and asked if they were throwing the stuff away. They said yes and when he asked if he could take it they said yes again. So, he loaded everything up in his truck and took it to a drilling supplier in Houston where he sold all of it for close to $90,00
0. True story.
You see, what was happening is that the big corporations work just like the government does. They operate on a concept called a fiscal year. All budgets run for one fiscal year (usually October to October.) At the end of the fiscal year, the Chief Financial Officer and his accountants figure out where they can slash budgets so they can put money elsewhere.
So, if individual departments have not maxed out their budgets, their budget gets smaller. To prevent this, departments will review their own budgets before the end of the fiscal year and figure out how to spend all the money they saved over the course of the year (and usually a little more.) A good for instance would be throwing away $90,000 worth of perfectly good tools.
Another ‘recycling’ tale worth the telling is the story of my friend Sam. Sam is a rug dealer from Chechnya who moved to America about forty years ago. He moved into a cheap tenement apartment in Los Angeles and got a labor job. The building he was living in was condemned not long after he moved in but because so many poor people were living there the city allowed that those there could stay for a period of five years but no new tenants would be accepted. This left a lot of apartments empty over time.
Sam had noticed that people in America threw out all kinds of useful things and began picking stuff up on the way home from work each morning. Soon his apartment was full and he asked the manager if he could store things in some of the empty ones. The manager didn’t seem to mind and so over the next few years Sam filled up most of the empty apartments with just about everything you can imagine.
At the end of the five years, the city took action to evict the last 15 residents, giving them one month to leave. Sam ran a publicity campaign saying that he and the rest of the evicted had lived there for years and had no place to put all of their ‘valuable antiques’ and ‘ancient family heirlooms.’ He complained about a city ordinance that forbid garage sales on the street in front of the building. He worked the angle of evicted senior citizens and immigrants.