MORNING MEDITATION
MORNING MEDITATION
It is early. Just past nine am. I am driving home from my girlfriend’s house and excited about having a good stretch, making breakfast and taking a moment to think about my life. Things have been hectic the past few days. Lots of people around me, their lives turned upside down.
As I cross Western, Aska calls me saying that her car has been towed that she thinks she has at least nineteen unpaid tickets. I tell her that this makes sense, because she seems like that kind of person. I assure her that often times I am that kind of person and that I am a few blocks from her apartment and will be there shortly.
I pick her up and we discuss the state of things. What she will do with her car, how she will pay for it, how she wants to move somewhere without cars because she feels she is not capable of dealing with these sorts of issues. I tell her I understand. My car just cost me $700 before Christmas, and then it turns out I got ripped off by the mechanics and the thing died a month later. It is not a good feeling.
I drive her to the bank because she has to try and cash three thousand dollars worth of money orders she received after selling some musical equipment online. She is not sure if the money orders are real, and asks my opinion. I am no authority.
I wait in the car and listen to talk radio. It is very bad in the morning. Worse than any other time. Through the windshield I watch a fat man and a fatter man struggle to get the roll-up gate to a storefront open. The fatter mans arms stick out from his wide body at an angle which suggests he can never truly be at ease. He watches me watching him. I wonder what kind of business they are running. The talk radio hosts discuss celebrities who have died young. One says something about anal sex and refers to his ass as his “hinie.”
Aska returns to say that the bank teller told her she must go to the check-cashing store. They cannot cash money orders only deposit them. The check-cashing store is across the street. I wait in the car. I realize that this is not going to be a short portion of my day. Once you are directed to go somewhere else by a person with a nametag, you can rest assured that you are about to take a very long trip. Also, contrary to what the name leads you to believe, it is nearly impossible to cash a check at a check-cashing store.
Five minutes later Aska returns with the news that her money orders are counterfeit. The people at this particular check cashing store are very familiar with this. They can tell by the watermark. Aska asks me how I think they were made. Photoshop, I say. Aska offers to buy me breakfast before we continue to the Parking Violations Bureau.
I eat a cookie made from seeds and nuts. It is called a “power pancake.” She eats a chocolate scone. It does not have a name.
She asks me what kind of person tries to scam someone over the internet with fake money orders. I tell her that when I was in my teens many of my friends made a good deal of money shipping stolen goods on the internet, and that eventually they found it was easier not to even ship the stolen goods.
I gave them access to several email accounts to use for this purpose, because theirs had already been shut down. Angry customers from the Midwest would email me asking where is my “best of Eric Clapton Crossroads” box set CD that I paid $120 for?” And I would say “My friends probably stole it. I’m sorry. You probably shouldn’t listen to Eric Clapton anyway.”
My friends were both eventually arrested, for other crimes.
Aska has directions to the parking violations bureau but I know where it is. I was there a few months ago. Had to get a boot taken off my car. I had just received a letter from a lawyer notifying me that two of my business partners were threatening me with legal action. I’d never gotten a letter like that before. I was flustered, and confused then I came outside and there was a boot on my car. Then my phone died. That was an interesting day. I am glad today is not that day.
The parking violations room is the size of a closet. Aska asks me what I think is going to happen. I tell her that I had to pay a thousand dollars in cash this is probably what she will have to do. One thousand dollars is the going rate for being irresponsible, just enough money to really ruin your week.
We take a number from the red plastic deli-machine. And I remember that the last time I was here the security guard and the women behind the glass windows had a bet with each other, a daily pool, to see who could come closest to guessing the number of people that would come in that day, as indicated by the automatic ticket machine. He said he had already won twice that week. He said that with the money from the pool he was saving up and working extra hours so he could but a new bulletproof vest. I hoped to myself that he would win the pool. Today our number was 36. He isn’t here. I wonder if he purchased the vest.
The woman at the window tells Aska she will have to pay $1600 dollars cash, but that she can schedule a hearing to get that number reduced. She says she will need her registration to go to the hearing and that her registration is in her car in the tow yard. She prints out an official piece of paper and folds it into an envelope then stamps the envelope “do not open” dates it and staples the envelope eight times across the center. She says “this is for the court. Do not open it no matter what.”
This really makes me want to open it.
On the way to the tow yard we talk a lot about Aska’s current relationship. She says she doesn’t like talking about relationships. But most people like talking about anything that doesn’t really have an answer. People love to speculate because it makes them seem like they have a good shot at being an authority on something. Plus it passes the time.
She was born in Japan and raised in Orange County, sometimes her emotions and her accent work together to make her sound like a robot, especially when talking about relationships. I have often been accused by past girlfriends of being a robot, so I can understand this.
The man at the tow yard tells us Aska’s car is not there. It was there but it has been moved to another yard. While he writes down the directions on a slip of paper I watch a twenty year old woman talk on her cell phone about how her car is “fucking up her program.” Her two year old son keeps trying to walk out the open door onto the busy street until she eventually grabs him by the shirt and held him down until he cries. She keeps talking on the phone. “Fucking up my PRO-GRAM.”
Aska and I drive to the other tow yard located far down at the intersection of one high numbered street and another. These streets make it seem like the city planners just gave up on naming things because they figured nobody would ever go to this part of town anyway.
Aska asks me if she could change the slip of paper to make it seem like her car should be released by the second towing yard, as ordered by the first. “They’ve probably already thought of that.” I say.
Inside the second tow yard a man driving a forklift with a Mexican flag attached to the back takes Aska to get her registration. It is about to rain and I sit on the hood of my car and look over all the makes and models of captured automobiles in the lot. There are may cars, trucks and vans here with decals, tinted windows, spoilers, bumper stickers and other signs of people who care less about paying tickets regularly than they do about driving fast and having a good time.
I wonder how many of these cars have killed people.
Next to me there is an outdoor restroom, made of cinderblocks and covered in the same even layer of grease and depression as the rest of the yard. The doors are labeled: Men and Women. I doubt any women have ever been inside there in the history of time. Perhaps this is just part of a city regulation.
Aska returns with her registration. It is not the proper registration but she thinks it will be okay. I do not argue. Her court appointment isn’t until the next day. She will figure things out between now and then. She thanks me for my help and I drop her off at her house. It is starting to rain. On the way home I realize I have no gas. It is almost one o’clock. As I pump my gas I remember that it was my goal to think about myself today.
I have to pick up my son at three.