On Teamsters and Authority.
“I’m going to need you to keep it moving.” He said.
Now, he’d done it. He was a big white guy, bald, gruff, and clearly didn’t like me standing on his street corner.
Minutes earlier,we were walking down the hill in what I think to be the Lower Haight. It’s all relative here anyway. There was a bus on the side of the road, and inside of it were an extraordinary amount of good looking people. Outside the bus, people scurried around. There was a guy with a megaphone, and if you looked in the windows of the bus you could see one guy holding a very large camera, working hard to get that perfect shot he was after. Poor bastard, I can barely type a text on the fucking bus, I empathized with him trying to shoot film.
“Who the fuck are you? I’m just trying to see what’s going on.” I responded. I don’t have a problem with authority. I have a problem with fake authority.
“It’s time to move it on.” He said and made a sweeping motion with his hands. Like I was trash. I am trash. But that sweeping motion doesn’t work on me.
“Where’s your badge?” I accosted him, hoping he didn’t have one and the taser that would go along with it. My friends, across the street, having “kept it moving” were calling for me.
“Josh let’s go. This isn’t worth it.” But it was worth it. Someone was trying to control me, and I was betting they didn’t have the chops to see how far I was willing to take it.
“I don’t need a badge. I’m a teamster.” He retorted. I was right. This was some kind of sick power play. It’s like heroin for me.
It was at this point a massive black guy with a secret-service-style ear piece came over to the corner I was bogarding from my new teamster friend. He had a clean haircut and was sporting an “EA Sports” jacket. I put out my hand to shake his before he could get all the way over to me.
He shook my hand and I whispered to him, because it seemed like movie things were beginning to happen, “Hey man. I’m Josh, are you a PA? You guys filming tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m a PA, and yes we’re filming tonight.” He answered, shocked maybe at how cogent I was being, or how well I functioned while so drunk. It’s six of one…
“Sweet. Is that why everyone on the bus is so good looking?” I asked him. He laughed, surprised at something.
“Yeah.” he barked.
“Well, I’m just interested in being something of a bystandard. I’ll keep quiet.” I solicited him.
“Alright, just keep your head right.” He said. He walked away. Had I really convinced him I was not going to be a problem? I have no idea.
Teamster keeps looking at me. He’s not observing me, he’s shooting dirty unionized death daggers into my face because I wouldn’t leave his corner. I tried to see right through him. Suddenly, a megaphone.
“Ok everyone line up and get on the bus!” this man said, amplifying his apathy.
A line formed. Slowly. Seeing my opportunity, I sprung into action. I homogenized myself into this line of people. I was worried I’d be outed because they were all really attractive, and for some cruel reason, drastically shorter than me. I stood out like a whore in church.
One by one, they all started to fill into the bus. As the line shortened, my heart rate sped up. This was it, I was finally going to manipulate my way into something worthwhile. As I was looking for the stairs to walk my way up into the bus, I felt a hand on my shoulder. A giant hand.
Over my left shoulder, my large friend the PA had his paw on me.
“Yeah, you’re not getting on that bus.” he said, in a strangely conciliatory tone. I shook his hand again, thanking him for the opportunity and I left.
As I walked past my corner, I said, “Bye Teamster.”
