He was diligent and honest, an exceptional member of the Oakland police force. We were lucky to have him in our neighborhood. I am really sorry now about that one incident. One of the steps of AA is to make amends with people you have wronged. I think I have made most of the amends I could. I owe Officer Wong one. I wronged Wong for sure.
Back then I lived in Oakland, in that big turquoise apartment on the corner of Alcatraz and Telegraph. Right above Alcatel Liquors, just down from the White Horse, across the street from the 7-Eleven. Good location.
The 7-Eleven was sort of a gathering place for old winos. Although, unlike them, I went to work every day, they ran into me in liquor stores on weekends. Lines at the Black and White that opened at six a.m. Late-night haggling with the Pakistani sadist who worked at the 7-Eleven.
They were all friendly with me. “How ya been, Miss Lu?” Sometimes they asked me for money, which I always gave them, and several times when I had lost my job, I asked them. The group of them changed as they went to jails, hospitals, death. The regulars were Ace, Mo, Little Ripple, and The Champ. These four old black guys would spend their mornings at the 7-Eleven and their afternoons snoozing or drinking in a faded aqua Chevrolet Corvair parked in Ace’s yard. His wife Clara wouldn’t let them smoke or drink in the house. Winter and summer, rain or shine, the four would be in that car. Sleeping like little kids on car trips, heads on folded hands, or looking straight ahead as if they were on a Sunday drive, commenting on everybody who drove or walked by, passing around a bottle of port.
When I’d come up the street from the bus stop I’d holler out, “How’s it going?” “Jes’ fine!” Mo would say. “I got my wine!” And Ace would say, “I feel so well, got my muscatel!” They’d ask about my boss, that fool Dr. B.
“Just quit that ol’ job! Get yourself on SSI where you belong! You come sit with us, sister, pass the time in comfort, don’t need no job!”
Once Mo said I didn’t look so good, maybe I needed detox.
“Detox?” The Champ scoffed. “Never detox. Retox! That’s the ticket!”
The Champ was short and fat, wore a shiny blue suit, a clean white shirt, and a porkpie hat. He had a gold watch with a chain and he always had a cigar. The other three all wore plaid shirts, overalls, and A’s baseball hats.
One Friday I didn’t go to work. I must have been drinking the night before. I don’t know where I had gone in the morning, but I remember coming back and that I had a bottle of Jim Beam. I parked my car behind a van across the street from my building. I went upstairs and fell asleep. I woke to loud knocking on my door.
“Open your door, Ms. Moran. This is Officer Wong.”
I stashed the bottle in the bookcase and opened the door. “Hello, Officer Wong. How can I help you?”
“Do you own a Mazda 626?”
“You know I do, sir.”
“Where is that car, Ms. Moran?”
“Well, it’s not in here.”
“Where did you park the vehicle?”
“Up across from the church.” I couldn’t remember.
“Think again.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Look out the window. What do you see?”
“Nothing. The 7-Eleven. Telephones. Gas tanks.”
“Any parking places?”
“Yeah. Amazing. Two of them! Oh. I parked it there, behind a van.”
“You left the car in neutral, without the parking brake on. When the van left, your vehicle followed it down Alcatraz during rush-hour traffic, proceeded to cross into the other lane, narrowly missing cars, and sped down the sidewalk, almost harming a man, his wife, and a baby in a stroller.”
“Well. Then what?”
“I’m taking you to see then what. Come along.”
“I’ll be right out. I want to wash my face.”
“I’ll stay right here.”
“Please. Some privacy, sir. Wait outside the door.”
I took a big drink of whiskey. Brushed my teeth and combed my hair.
We walked silently down the street. Two long blocks. Damn.
“If you think about it, it’s pretty miraculous that my Mazda didn’t hit anything or hurt anybody. Don’t you think so, Officer Wong? A miracle!”
“Well, it did hit something. It is a miracle that none of the gentlemen were in the car at the time. They got out to watch your Mazda coming down the street.”
My car was nuzzled into the right fender of the Chevy Corvair. The four men were standing there, shaking their heads. Champ puffed on his cigar.
“Thank the Lord you wasn’t in it, sister,” Mo said. “First thing I did, I opened the door and said, ‘Where she be?’”
There was a big dent in the fender and the door of the Chevrolet. My car had a broken bumper and headlight, broken turn-signal light.
Ace was still shaking his head. “Hope you got insurance, Miz Lucille. I got me one classic car here what has some serious damage.”
“Don’t worry, Ace. I got insurance. You bring me an estimate as soon as you can.”
The Champ spoke to the others quietly. They tried not to smile but it didn’t work. Ace said, “Just sittin’ here minding our own business and look what happens! Praise the Lord!”
Officer Wong was writing down my license plate numbers and Ace’s license plate numbers.
“Does that car have a motor in it?” he asked Ace.
“This here car is a museum piece. Vintage model. Don’t need no motor.”
“Well, guess I’ll try to back out of here without running into anybody,” I said.
“Not so fast, Ms. Moran,” Officer Wong said. “I need to write up a citation.”
“A citation? Shame on you, Officer!”
“You can’t be writing this lady no ticket. She was asleep at the time of the incident!”
The old guys were crowding around him, making him nervous.
“Well,” he sputtered, “she’s guilty of reckless … reckless…”
“Can’t be reckless driving. She wasn’t driving the car!”
He was trying to think. They were muttering and grumbling. “Shame. Shameful. Innocent taxpayers. Poor thing, on her own and all.”
“I definitely smell alcohol,” Officer Wong said.
“That’s me!” all four of them said at once, exhaling.
“No sir,” Champ said. “If you ain’t doing the D you can’t get the DWI!”
“That’s the truth!”
“Sure enough.”
Officer Wong looked at us with a very discouraged expression. The police radio began squawking. He quickly put his pad into his pocket, turned, and hurried to the squad car, took off with lights and siren.
The insurance check came very soon, sent to me but written out to Horatio Turner. The four men were sitting in the car when I handed the check to Ace. Fifteen hundred dollars.
That afternoon was the only time I sat inside the old car. I had to slide in after The Champ since the other door wouldn’t open. Little Ripple, who was little, sat on my other side. They were all drinking Gallo Port but brought me a big Colt 45. They toasted me. “Here’s to our lady Lucille!” That’s how I was known in the neighborhood after that.
The sad part was that this happened in early spring. Officer Wong still had spring and summer on that same beat. Every day he had to pass by the guys in the Chevrolet Corvair, smiling and waving.
Of course I had other encounters with Officer Wong after that one, not pleasant at all.
Here It Is Saturday
The ride from city to county jail goes along the top of the hills above the bay. The avenue is lined with trees and that last morning it was foggy, like an old Chinese painting. Just the sound of the tires and the wipers. Our leg chains made the sound of oriental instruments and the prisoners in orange jumpsuits swayed together like Tibetan monks. You laugh. Well, so did I. I knew I was the only white guy on the bus and that all these dudes weren’t the Dalai Lama. But it was beautiful. Maybe I laughed because I felt silly, seeing it that way. Karate Kid heard me laugh. Old Chaz has a wet brain now for sure. Most of the men going to jail now are just kids for crack. They don’t hassle me, think I’m just an old hippy.