Frank is Emptiness

August 9th, 2018

I sat in the temple. I like sitting in the temple. I don’t know why. It just feels right.

The Sikh Temple of Wisconsin is in Oak Creek, just a couple miles from our house. Every couple weeks I go there just to sit on the floor in their sanctuary. They don’t have hardly any chairs, so almost everybody sits on the floor. Maybe I pray, or maybe I meditate, or maybe I just slump back against the wall and try to rest. When I am overwhelmed by life I go there. I’ve been going to the temple for years. I am that stray white guy who shows up every now and then.

The Sikhs are both very hospitable and very clannish. The Sikh religion claims to be universal, but it is also intensely tribal. Usually, everyone in the temple is from the Punjab, except for me. I don’t mind. Neither do they.

I don’t understand much about the Sikh religion. I don’t need to. I do know some of the basics. Years ago, I cornered a Sikh and asked him for the abbreviated version of their practice. He told me this about their beliefs and customs:

1. “God is all-powerful and He is good.”
2. “We always share our food.”
3. “Everybody should have a job.”

These three ideas permeate the practice of the Sikh religion. The Sikhs are monotheistic. Although they are almost exclusively from India, they do not share the polytheistic  views of the Hindus.

They do share their food. An essential part of every Sikh temple is a kitchen. The temple always smells like an Indian restaurant.  Going to the temple is like going to Grandma’s house: you will not leave without eating something. Part of the ritual upon entering the sanctuary is to take some prashad, which is kind of like Punjabi cookie dough. Prashad consists of flour, butter, and sugar. It is sweet and very oily. A person coming to the temple is expected to eat it. Often I fail to take any of the prashad out of the bowl near the altar. An older priest, Gur Tan Singh, without fail, will scoop up some of the dough and bring it to me. Also, the Sikhs always have curry and rice simmering in the kitchen. They are adamant that a visitor, like me, go into the kitchen and eat some of it. They usually have tea and milk available too. A visitor will share a meal. That’s all there is to it.

I heard that the original Sikh guru, in his travels through India, observed the practices of many other faiths. He saw numerous wandering mendicants, holy men and women who begged for their daily meals. The guru didn’t like that. He thought that people should work for their food. So, the Sikhs that I have met all have an almost Puritan sort of work ethic. Everybody hustles. The model for the Sikhs is the householder who works hard, raises a family, and supports his or her community. Everybody has a job.

The temple is a sacred space. It has that feel. The altar is decorated with colorful cloth coverings and a canopy. The holy book of the Sikhs sits on the altar. The sanctuary is quiet and welcoming. The priests greet me when I come, but they don’t evangelize. They are like the Jews in that way. It’s not like when I went to Elmbrook once and the Baptists there couldn’t wait to get me on their mailing list.  The Sikhs never turn anyone away, but they respect the privacy of a visitor. They will urge a person to eat, but not to convert.

I generally do not stay very long at the temple. I pray and sit and think. Then I go.

I went out to the foyer when I was done sitting. I was putting on my shoes when a young priest spoke to me. He was tall and dark, with deep, penetrating eyes. He asked quietly,

“Are you doing well?”

In a burst of honesty, I replied, “No.”

The priest looked confused for a moment and asked, “No?”

“No.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Somebody I love is in jail.”

“Oh”, he replied.

“She tried to kill herself last week.”

The priest nodded. Then he said,

“Do not worry. We will pray for her.”

“Okay”, and I shrugged.

He said firmly, “We will pray. It will be okay. It is not to worry.”

I asked his name.

“It is Rajinder…Singh”. (Among the Sikhs almost everyone is named “Singh”).

“I’m Frank.”

We shook hands.

I left the temple believing him. It will be okay.

 

August 5th, 2018

This is confusing, very confusing.

I have been slowly working on the take home exam from the class I took about immigration law. The questions all require short, but detailed answers. I really wonder if I will pass this test. It’s open book, but that fact is not much comfort. Finding the rules for a particular immigration issue is like entering a labyrinth. There are plenty of twists and turns, and many dead ends. It is easy to get lost and choose the wrong path. In a real life situation, the wrong answer could ruin somebody’s life. The Minotaur lurks in the details, hides among the statutes and regulations, and waits to pounce on the person who does not venture deep enough into the text.  This is a scary place.

It is frightening for a number of reasons. First and foremost, this is scary because so much is riding on it. People who walk into a non-profit, like Voces de la Frontera, with an immigration problem are usually worried. They don’t often come to visit just because they feel like saying hi. They come in because I.C.E. is breathing down their necks, and they don’t know what to do. They are hoping that somebody at Voces does know what they should do. At this point, I am not that somebody. I don’t know what they should do, and I cannot legally give them any advice. I don’t even know what questions to ask.

I ask myself how deep I want to get into to this maze. How much responsibility do I want? At my age, how much can I learn and utilize? Most of the thirty-eight people in the immigration law class were relatively young. They all have some experience in this area already, and they are eager to work as immigration layers or para-legals. I’m not young and I’m not going to be a lawyer. As I told the main instructor, “I’m retired. I’ve already had a career.”

The situation seems weird because I never requested to go to this class. I was asked by somebody else to join it. I said yes. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, and I still don’t. All I know is that it feels like I got on to a roller coaster, and now I can’t get off until the ride comes to a complete stop. Something beyond my control is now in motion. I find that disconcerting, and a bit exciting.

Is this a path I should follow? I have no idea. All I know is that I need to finish this take home exam. If I pass it, then I have more decisions to make. If I don’t, well, then immigration law is not my path.

I don’t know.

 

 

August 5th, 2018

 

Fuck.

She’s back in jail.

Actually, it is a relief to know that she is behind bars. The other options were much more frightening. She could have been on the run, or in the ER, …or dead. Karin and I have spent the last two days seriously considering the possibility of this young woman being dead. The young woman did call Karin very early on Thursday morning to tell her that she thought she had alcohol poisoning. She had that once before and came very, very close to dying. I was with her once in an ER when her kidneys were failing. I was with her in another ER where the nurse told me that this young woman had come into the hospital with a blood alcohol level of .398%. That is as close to dead as a person can be without crossing over to the other side.

The girl was released from jail in the last part of June. She was out and about for almost six weeks, and she was doing well. She really was. She had a place to stay in a local sober living house. She wasn’t necessarily happy there, but none of us had any better ideas with regards to housing for her. She had health insurance. She had a therapist. She had food stamps. She aced a job interview. It is true that the young woman had some serious obstacles to overcome, but none of these seemed insurmountable. Karin and I tried to provide whatever help we could muster. And yet, it all unraveled. It apparently ended in a hotel room with this girl cuddling a bottle of hard liquor for comfort and solace.

Why?

She sent me a four word text on Wednesday evening. It was the last thing I heard from her up until yesterday. It was cryptic, but I understood her right away. It’s hard to explain, but she pointed out poor choices I have made, or that she thinks that I have made. She often, in times of crisis, goes back to picking at old wounds. I do that too. It is not an uncommon way of dealing with issues. The past is dead, but not quite. For some reason we can never start fresh. We can’t let go, so we can’t move forward. The cycle repeats.

I am convinced that people seldom hurt others out of spite or malice. We hurt others because of weakness or ignorance or fear. We desperately want to do the right thing, but we often do the thing that causes the most harm. Perhaps I should not say “we”. I know that I operate that way. I suspect that others do the same thing.

I cannot repair the damage that I have done. Neither can she. There are things that we simply can not fix. Maybe we can forgive. Maybe.

She called us from jail yesterday afternoon. She asked us to help get her stuff from the police station. She apologized for what had happened. I had been upset with her. Now I’m not. I cannot maintain a feeling of outrage. It’s not because I am compassionate and forgiving. I just don’t have the stamina to stay angry.

When Trent Reznor sings, “I will make you hurt”, I hear other voices too.

I hear mine, and I hear hers.

 

 

August 1st, 2018

Sleep is important. It is especially important if a person (like me) has to go to a class the next morning and learn about the arcane rules of U.S. immigration law. I had hoped to walk into my class fresh and alert. Alas, this was not to be.

I did go to bed early. However, that only matters if a person can expect to continue to sleep during the night. That was not my experience. I was in a room with three other men, most of whom were from abroad and suffering from massive jet lag. So, I was sharing a room with three guys who still thought day was night and night was day. This being the case, they tried to be polite, but they were up and awake when I was unsuccessfully trying to sleep. My roommates spoke loudly at unexpected moments, and they did not understand the idea of turning off lights when others are trying to rest.

After several fitful hours of interrupted sleep, I got up. It was 2:30 AM.

I took a shower, and then I went out of the hostel into the streets of Chicago for several hours. Now, this particular hostel (HI Chicago Hostel/the J. Ira and Nicki Harris Family Hostel), is really pretty nice. It is literally in the heart of Chicago. It’s located in the Loop, at the corner of Wabash and Congress. The hostel is inexpensive, clean, and safe. It has an excellent continental breakfast. The only problem is that it has a transient population of tourists from all over the globe, most of whom want to party hard. I understand that. I traveled abroad in my youth, and I know how it feels to want to see and do everything right now, because it is likely that the tourist will never come back to the place. I get that. Unfortunately, that knowledge did not make me sleep any better.

I carried my book bag with me as I wandered the darkened streets of pre-dawn, downtown Chicago. I had everything I owned in the bag, not just my school books. I lugged it two blocks along Wabash until I came to the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts shop. Most all-night food emporiums, including Dunkin Donuts, attract an eclectic clientele. The people there at 3:00 are either just waking up, or they have been up for way too long. In either case, those people, including myself, are not terribly coherent.

I walked up to the counter, and I spoke to the young black girl who was placing fresh doughnuts and sweet rolls on the shelves behind the glass.

“Hi”, I said in a tired voice, “How are you?”

She smiled at me and asked brightly, “I’m a little behind this morning. What can I get you?”

I peered at a small display of cookies. “I would like one of these with the macadamia nuts.”

The girl said, “If you buy buy two of them, they are only 50 cents apiece.”

I showed her two fingers.

She went on, “So, you want anything else?”

“Coffee.”

She smiled again, “Room for cream and sugar?”

“No, I like mine black and bitter like my mood.”

“Oh no!” she said, “We can’t have that! We got to lighten you up.”

“Whatever. You like third shift? I worked it for years. I always felt like I had a buzz going.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s pretty rough between three and four in the morning.”

“Oh yeah”, I replied. “I couldn’t remember anything during those hours of the night.”

She filled up a paper cup with coffee, and she gave me two cookies.

I walked over to a seat. I took a bite out of a cookie, and I sipped the coffee.

It was sweet. Cream and sugar.

Whatever.

When I finished the coffee, I walked back on to Wabash. The sky was clear and the gibbous moon filled it. There was a cool breeze blowing between the tall buildings. I could her the sound of crickets coming from somewhere. I turned to the east to walk to the lake. I could see the big, neon sign that said, “Lollapalooza” glaring in the distance. I soon found out that Grant Park was blocked off with fences. Everything was being set up for the concerts.

I did my best to navigate through the fences and the rent-a-cops in the park. One fat guy in a golf cart stopped me and asked,

“Where you going? You trying to get to work?”

“No. I just want to go to the lake. I want to see the sunrise.”

“Well, keep going down this path. You will find the barrier. There is a hole in the fence. Go through that, and you can get to the lake front.”

I didn’t find the hole. Instead, I wandered through the park, avoiding fences, tents, generators, and kiosks. I hiked up a small hill to take a closer look at a huge equestrian statue of some forgotten Civil War hero. I wound up on the edge of Lake Shore Drive, walking several blocks to the north until the fences ended. I strolled through Maggie Daley Park, and I eventually found myself back on Wabash.

I walked south on Wabash to return to the hostel for a while. I walked past a 7/11. I guy yelled at me,

“You got some money?!”

I pulled out a $5. As I handed him the bill, I asked him, “What’s your name?”

“Morris!” He slid the money into his pocket.

Morris went on,”I ain’t got money for no breakfast. That shit in 7/11 is so damn expensive. I ain’t had no sleep.”

“I hear you. I ain’t slept much either. My name is Frank.”

He didn’t hear me. He said, “I ain’t had no sleep at all.”

I nodded. “I’ll see you.”

He nodded back to me.

I sat in the lobby of the hostel for a while, then I walked to Clark and Madison to attend the 6:15 Mass at St. Peter, a Franciscan church wedged tightly between the soaring office buildings. As I walked there, I passed another homeless guy, sitting on the pavement. I had met him the previous day. He just stared at the sidewalk.

I pulled out some cash and put into his cup. I said, “Morning, James.”

He looked up at me, and there was a flash of recognition in his bloodshot eyes..

“Oh, thanks. What was you name again?”

“I’m Frank.”

“Oh yeah, you’re Frank.” He nodded.

I went to Mass. I prayed. I prayed a lot. I prayed for Morris and James. I prayed for other people that I love.

Later, I walked east to Michigan Avenue. I sat on the steps that lead up to the Art Institute of Chicago. Two massive bronze lions guarded the entrance to the museum. They also guarded me.

I just watched the traffic, both motorized and pedestrian. There was an endless flow of people. Most of them were hooked up to something. Two thirds of the walkers seemed to be part of the Matrix. I saw many people with a smart phone in one hand and a coffee in the other. I was very impressed with the folks who juggled a coffee, a phone, and a cigarette. A few folks were talking on the phone to some unseen person, gesturing with their hands as if that individual was actually standing in front of them. I noticed very few people who seemed aware of their surroundings. Their bodies were near to me, but their minds were far, far away.

At 8:30 it was time to walk the three blocks to my classroom. I went there reluctantly. The scene on the street was much more interesting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

July 28th, 2018

Utter chaos.

That’s how it felt.

Ogilvie Transportation Center is just west of the river on Madison Street in downtown Chicago. It is a nexus for several CTA train lines, along with being the focal point for a number of Metra lines that extend out from Chicago to neighboring cities, and even to neighboring states. Ogilvie is not nearly as daunting as Port Authority in New York, but at 5:00 PM on a Friday, it is still a maelstrom of people. Everything and everybody is in motion.

There are at least a dozen tracks in the station designated just for the various Metra trains that stop there to pick up passengers, or to disgorge them. As soon as a train leaves the station, another one takes its place on the track. The trains are constantly going in and out, in and out. When a train arrives, people pour out of it on to the platform, and then other people flow back on to the train. In and out. In and out. The people generally do not interact with each other. They keep their words and thoughts to themselves. Each one of them is completely alone in a churning human sea.

The vast majority of the people in the station know exactly where they are going and where they want to be. They don’t want to be in Ogilvie Station. They want to be at home, wherever that might be. Nobody really wants to be at Ogilvie. It is never a destination. It is just a point on the way to a destination.

I rushed from my law class to catch a train to Wisconsin. I was totally focused on getting from 228 South Wabash to Ogilvie. The walk takes twenty minutes if all the traffic lights are in my favor. I had to stop a few times at a busy street corner and wait. That made me anxious. I was in a hurry, surrounded by other people who were in a hurry. I was eager to get home.

There were homeless people on the sidewalk on the way to the station. I passed one black man with wild hair and wild eyes. He was singing “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” in an off key tenor. A woman was sitting on the pavement, sobbing, “Help me. Help me.” A thin man was curled up in a ball near the corner of a building, apparently asleep. Another man was yelling in a hoarse voice, “I need to get me some dinner!” These people were not in a rush. They didn’t want to be there, but they didn’t have a destination. They had nowhere else to go. When I return to Chicago tomorrow morning, some of them will probably still be where they were on Friday. They still won’t have a destination.

As I walked by each of those people, I thought about handing them some cash. I had a little money on me. I didn’t give it to them. It wasn’t that I felt like I couldn’t spare the money. I felt like I couldn’t spare the time.

I was caught up in this rapidly moving river of people. I felt like I couldn’t leave the current. It would have only taken me a minute to flip somebody a bill, but I didn’t want to throw cash at a person and just keep going. That would like paying a toll. That wouldn’t be human. Sure, the person would have some money, but they need more than that. They need my contact. They need my time.

Sometime tomorrow (I don’t know when), I will walk past a homeless person in Chicago. Tomorrow, I will stop and greet that person. I will ask their name. I will tell them mine. I will give them something, but I don’t know what. I will know that when I meet them. The encounter will probably be brief, but it will be personal, and it will be human.

 

 

 

 

July 28th, 2018

Forty years ago, when I was a cadet at the United States Military Academy (West Point), I was required to study law for a semester. In particular, my classmates and I were forced to review the contents of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). The joke at the time was that “military justice” was to “justice” what “military music” was to other forms of music. Military justice has some passing resemblance to the commonly accepted concept of justice, but no more than that.

I did fairly well in that class, but I never had enough of OCD to be a total stickler for details. I have never had the patience to split hairs. However, that is what the law is about. There were (and are) no definitive answers, because somebody could always say, “but on the other hand…”.  I found the course to be interesting, and also remarkably frustrating. I was relieved when that semester was finished.

Fast forward to July 2018.

I am in the middle of another law class. This time I am studying immigration law. I thank God that it does not last for a semester. However, even a week of learning about immigration law is enough to push me to the edge. Our study guide looks like an old version of a Manhattan phone book, and I am struggling through nightly homework assignments of over one hundred pages. American immigration law is a Byzantine collection of rules, loaded with endless numbers of exceptions, waivers, and apparent contradictions. I do not consider myself to be stupid, but I find that I cannot keep track of all the statutes and regulations. I prefer to do things that make sense, and immigration law simply does not qualify.

I am very grateful to the instructors of this class. They are making every effort to make an irrational system understandable. Despite their care and diligence, I still find that immigration law is a hideous mess. Somehow, it reminds me of the times that I have sat in the synagogue and listened to the rabbi try to interpret the halacha, the laws of the the Torah and Talmud. Even after the rabbi gave his interpretation, based on the Talmud and on the writings of the sages, I would still shake my head and (softly) say something like, “Really? You got to be kidding me.”

There is a difference between what happens in the synagogue and what happens with immigration law. A ruling on the halacha might affect how somebody cooks a meal or celebrates a wedding. An immigration ruling might decide if a person ever sees his or her children again. All laws have an effect. Some more than others.

I don’t like immigration law. I will never like it. I study it because, regardless of how screwed up it is, it profoundly affects the lives of many people, and I care about these people (at least some of them). It is a crazy, absurd set of rules that can create a new life for somebody or utterly destroy the one they already have.

It does not matter if I like it or not. It is. It is all I have to work with.

And I will work with it.

 

 

 

July 23rd, 2018

This essay from me was printed in the parish bulletin of St. Rita Church in Racine, Wisconsin, on July 22nd.

Ministry

“I have served as a lector for twenty-six years, so I think I am getting the hang of it. I have only proclaimed the Scriptures at St. Rita during the last year, and usually only at the 10:30 Mass. So, many people don’t know me yet. Some of the people who do know me say that I read well. I appreciate their comments, but it’s not really me who is speaking.

I pray before I go up to the ambo. I ask God to speak through me. I am only a conduit, a channel for God’s Word. When I do my job correctly, I am only a voice. Nobody should hear Frank speaking. The members of the congregation should hear Isaiah, or Jeremiah, or Paul. They should never hear me. My goal is to disappear when I proclaim the Word.

This may sound strange, but sometimes when I read, the words that come from me are not my words. I feel an intense rush of emotion, and it is not unusual that I feel drained when I sit back down in the pew. When I read from the lectionary, Scripture suddenly becomes very personal and very real. It can be a scary thing to get that close to God.

The Word can be a powerful thing. However, it is only of value if it affects people enough to change their lives once they leave the church. I am never sure how I affect the people at Mass. I don’t need to know. I do know that I am affected. My ministry as a lector changes how I live outside of St. Rita. My ministry gives me the courage to escort undocumented immigrants to court appearances. It gives me the compassion to visit veterans at the psych. ward of the VA hospital. It gives me the patience to tutor Syrian refugee kids.

My ministry makes me Catholic.”

 

July 19th, 2018

I went for a very long walk this morning.

There are some days, but not many, when the air is so clear and the sun is so bright that all things seem too colorful, too intense to be real. The sky is too blue. The leaves are too green. Objects at a distance appear in razor sharp focus. The world outside seems suddenly overwhelming. Today was like that. It would been so easy to stay inside. I didn’t. I went out and I was immediately blown away by reality.

I walked from our house to the Pick n Save grocery store. The route is almost exactly four miles. Most of the way goes along a bike path. There is not much traffic. It’s quiet. It took me a little over an hour to get to the store.

Walking forces me to slow down, physically and spiritually. That is a good thing. When I walk, I see things. I hear things. I feel things. I am in the moment, at least for a while.

We live in a low-lying, wet area. I walked past marshes on my way. I could see the tall grasses, the cattails, and the thickets of willows along the bike trail. On the edge of the path were black-eyed-susans, goldenrod, and thistles. The air was full of the floating seeds of the cottonwoods. Blackbirds with orange piping flew past me. The wind was warm and from the south.

I had no good reason to go to the store. We already had everything we needed at home. Yesterday Karin had baked some red current/chocolate cakes. I bought some whipping cream to go with the cake. Karin was happy about that when she came home from knitting. I also bought some craft beer. That was for me.

The walk home was the same, but just a little bit warmer. I sweat a bit more. On the way home I could clearly see the stacks from the power plant on the lake shore. The two stacks were spewing steam in a northerly direction. The south wind blew through the trees and the cornfields. Oak Creek is a suburban community, but we still have a few farm fields. Every year brings a new subdivision. I watched one being built along Ryan Road on my way back home. Ripping up the land is called “development” or “progress”, but it always makes me sad.

I got home tired. Our dogs wanted me to take them out upon my arrival. Why not? I was the tired one. They weren’t. I took them out.

I drive when I must. I walk when I can. I especially like to walk at sunrise.

That is when I can know God.

 

 

 

 

July 19th, 2018

“I don’t understand.”

“No entiendo.”

Anybody could have said those words. Unfortunately, they were spoken by the woman sitting across the table from me at Voces de la Frontera on Wednesday evening. Ma (I think that is short for Maria) was struggling with the questions that I asked her from the N-400, the application for U.S. citizenship. The problem wasn’t that she did not know the answers to my questions. The problem was with the fact that she cannot, at this time, hold a conversation in English.

Ma has not yet sent in her application to become a U.S. citizen. That might be a good thing. The application process is expensive and time-consuming. I told her, repeatedly, that she needs to work on her English comprehension before she applies for citizenship. I don’t want to discourage her from becoming a citizen. On the contrary, I want her to pass the test. From the time she submits her application until the time of her interview, Ma has about six months to get up to speed with her English language skills. It can be done.

I have some experience with learning new languages. Many years ago, back in 1983, I was dating my wife, Karin. I was living in West Germany at the time (courtesy of the U.S. Army). When I was dating Karin, I soon realized that nobody among her family or friends spoke English. Karin’s English was extremely limited (she had learned the British version of English in school, and that was almost useless). I was forced by circumstances to learn German, in a hurry. It was at times confusing and frustrating. However, I learned through immersion, and I still can speak German to this day.

Over the years, I have studied other languages: Latin, Spanish, Arabic, and Hebrew. I am currently fluent in none of them. However, I did learn that all of those languages have a certain logic to them. There are clear rules concerning pronunciation, spelling, and grammar. All languages have idiosyncrasies, and exceptions to the rules. These languages play by the rules most of the time.

Then there is English, a bastard child of a language with several unruly parents. English has its tangled roots in Gaelic, Latin, German, Danish, and French. None of these languages mix well. English speakers have tried to integrate the disparate elements of these other tongues, and the result has been confusing at best. English is a bitch to learn.

Ma is trying to learn English. She is handicapped in a way. Ma is a homemaker. She doesn’t get out much, and in her house, Spanish is generally spoken. From what I can tell, she does not like to be among people where nobody speaks Spanish. This is a problem. Ma needs to be in situations where she is required to speak English, just like I was forced into situations where I had to speak German. I know that Ma can learn English well enough to pass her test, but she has to get far enough out of her comfort zone to do that.

I have been working with people to help them to pass their citizenship test for a while now. I have concluded that the interviewers do not necessarily care that much about how the applicants answer specific questions. Do they really care if the applicant knows the three branches of the federal government? Probably not. The interviewers do care that the applicant can understand the English language. They care about that a lot. I have never met a person who failed the citizenship test because they did not know the answer to some esoteric question. I have met several who failed because they didn’t understand what was going on around them.

As I said before, Ma can pass her test. I am willing to work with her to do so.

She can do it if she goes out into the world.

That will be scary.

 

July 14th, 2018

I like the Fuel Cafe. I guess I like it because it feels real. Fuel is located on Center Street in the Riverwest neighborhood of Milwaukee. Riverwest is this kind of in-between area between the trendy east side of Milwaukee and the hood. It’s a diverse, working class neighborhood. A relatively high percentage of young people reside there. The area has a vaguely radical feel to it. It definitely not as conservative and conformist as the white bread suburbs, and it is not nearly as desolate as the ghetto.

Fuel has been on Center Street for years and years. It has two neon signs. One says, “Killer Coffee”. The other says, “Lousy Service”. Both statements are true. There is also a sign that says, “Sorry, we’re open”. I like that one.

I went to Fuel with a young woman that I know. We got there just before the coffee shop opened at 8:00 AM. There were already two bikers there, waiting to get in. The Fuel Cafe caters to bikers. The cafe has always done that. Most everything inside the cafe has a biker motif to it. Every year, during March, the coffee shop sponsors “The Frozen Snot Ride”, when bikers brave the cold of the Wisconsin winter to ride their motorcycles for no good reason. It is an impressive event.

An employee of Fuel came outside as we were waiting to come inside. He was remarkably surly.

“We don’t open for another ten minutes”, as he took a drag off his cigarette.

He continued, “I’m just opening the door to bring out the outdoor stuff.”

He went back into the cafe to drag out chairs and tables to place on the sidewalk. He slammed a stack of chairs on to the curb. Then he carried out a couple patio tables and dumped them on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. He did everything grudgingly, and with obvious disdain.

I said to the young woman, “I don’t think he likes his job.”

She smiled and nodded.

The two bikers waited with us for the cafe to officially open. They both rode Kawasaki’s. The guy was older, my age. His female partner was somewhat younger. She had tattoos that covered both arms and hands. She had a lip ring, and her hair was extremely short on the sides, but long on the top.

The young woman said to her, “I love your hair.”

The biker chick ran a hand across her head, and smiled. She said, “Thanks.”

Eventually, it was safe to enter the coffee shop. I walked in with the young woman. There was a girl behind the counter. I could see the disgruntled guy standing back in the kitchen.

I ordered coffee in a mug.

The girl asked, “Room for cream?”

“No”, I replied. I like my coffee black and bitter, like my mood.

The young woman looked up at the menu list, and asked for a double Milky Way.

I looked at her and asked, “You don’t want any breakfast?”

She smiled and shook her head.

I paid, and we walked away from the counter. She turned to me and said softly,

“I don’t want the angry guy spitting in my breakfast sandwich.”

“Oh.”

We got our drinks and went back outside to sit. By that time about a dozen bikers had arrived on the scene. Most of them were on Kawasaki’s, but I also saw a couple BMW’s. They all knew each other, and they also knew the two people that had come early.

The young woman said, “They are all from Minnesota.”

I looked at the license plates, and found that she was right. The woman is very observant. I was a bit surprised that she had noticed it, and I that had been oblivious to the fact. These bikers rode all the way from Minnesota, and they wound up here at the Fuel Cafe. I found that to be very interesting.

The young woman mentioned that she wanted to get a post office box. She asked me where the nearest post office was. I told her that I didn’t know. She looked up the U.S. Mail on her smart phone, and found a couple post offices in the local area.

She said, “Well, there is one not too far from here. But I don’t know where MLK Drive is.”

I replied, “Don’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“That is definitely in the hood. Martin Luther King Drive is half a mile west of here.”

“Is it as bad as 32nd and Fond du Lac?”

Then the young woman told me the twisted tale of how she had to go to the Milwaukee Transit bus terminal on 32nd and Fond du Lac in order to recover some lost property. It was apparently a stressful experience.

She told me, “It’s pretty bad when somebody yells at you and says, ‘You’re in the wrong neighborhood, Girl!’. And while I was near the Checkers, I was attacked by a flock of seagulls. Not “Flock of Seagulls” like the band. I mean real seagulls. It was like being in The Birds, the Hitchcock movie. And there was this guy circling the block, asking if I needed a ride. He was probably into sex trafficking.”

She went on, “I was holding my Exacto knife really tight while I was waiting for my bus.”

“Those are sharp.”

“Yes, they are.”

She went on, “You could just feel the hate there. I have never been in a city as segregated as this one.”

I told her, “You’re right. Milwaukee is the most segregated city in the country. Every year. We always top the poll.”

“Really?’

“Yeah, every year.”

Then she said, “I ought to own a gun, but I can’t have one.”

“What kind would you want?”

“Something that would fit in my purse.”

She asked me, “What are those guns with the things that go round? Like in the cowboy movies.”

“A revolver?”

“Yeah. What shoots faster: a revolver or the other kind?”

“I think a semi-automatic is faster.”

“That’s what I need.”

I thought and said to her, “A nine millimeter Beretta is a nice weapon. It doesn’t have much of a kick.”

The young woman looked at me intently, and said,

“Oh yeah, that’s right…you know something about guns.”

“Yeah, a little bit.”

“Maybe you could buy me one.”

“I am pretty sure that would be illegal.”

She shrugged, “You would probably be dead before anybody figured that out.”

I suggested, “Well, in this neighborhood, you could probably buy a gun in about five minutes. But you would need cash.”

She shook her head. The young woman had decided against the gun idea.

The sidewalk was crowded by this time. Most of the seats were taken. A scrawny guy holding a coffee in one hand came up to us, and he asked if he could sit at our table. We said yes. He had a purple vape device in his other hand. I noticed that he had a tattoo on his arm that looked kind of Native American.

After he sat down, I looked at his vaping thing and asked him, “So, how does that work?”

He seemed confused and asked me, “What do you mean?”

I pointed to the purple thing.

He said, “Oh, that. It has cotton in it and some electrodes, and it burns some kind of nicotine stuff.”

He went on, “I smoked for thirty-seven years. A few months ago, I had a stroke. I tried smoking after that, and when I did, my leg went numb. So, I decided to vape. This works better.”

I asked him about his tattoo.

He told us, “This is a Blackfeet design. It is about integrity and honesty. I got it when I had two years of sobriety. I’m coming up on ten years now.”

The young woman said, “That’s so cool. Can I take a picture?”

After she did, I told the guy that I had been travelling with Native Americans earlier in the year. We talked about sweat lodges. The man was familiar with AIM, and other Indian activists.

He looked at us and asked, “So, are you two brother and sister?” He was dead serious.

A long, awkward silence.

Then, from both of us, “Uhhhhhhhhhh…no.”

He kind of retreated a bit. He said to me,

“Well, it was a compliment. I mean, except for the grey hairs, you look okay.”

We talked a bit more, but everything else was anti-climactic.

The young woman and I finished our drinks. We said goodbye.

We will probably meet at Fuel again.