Street of Auto Parts Business

“Around Myeongdeok Negeori (Jct.) some body shops opened business for auto parts sale and car repairs in 1968. And then in 1978 when roads were expanded in the area, more businesses of motor vehicles gathered to the area to form a special street of 50 body shops.”

This excerpt arrived in today’s City of Daegu newsletter, the e-newsletter for English speakers living in Daegu. It’s been over a year since I’ve lived there, but I still haven’t unsubscribed from the mailings. I feel a strange sense of familiarity when I read about the highlighted tourist attraction (I remember stumbling onto the Street of Auto Parts Business and feeling as though I had entered the Twilight Zone for broken cars – you could buy nothing but auto parts for several blocks) or read the “Korean Korner” phrase of the month. Today’s phrase was “You’ve got the wrong number.” Normally the caller simply deduced that from the continual exchange of “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” “Hello?” “Yob-a-sa-yo?” until one of the parties gave up, and hung up. Ahh, Korea.

Not Exactly The Holiday Spirit

I stood on the crowded street corner, waiting for the light to turn, surrounded by holiday shoppers and party goers. Suddenly, from behind, a voice bellowed, “And could you explain just how the hell I’m considered hostile?” Thinking it a joke, I turned. It wasn’t. A rather belligerent man had been escorted out of a bar, his friend trying to console him with shared profanities and bummed cigarettes.

While Shopping

“Ooh, girl, I *love* these pants. Check them out!”

“Mmm. Yeah. They your size?”

“Girl, don’t matter. Pants stretch.”

Not 6 sizes, I thought to myself.

Why, Thank You, Sir

I finally decided to deal with my car today. I called AAA and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Basically, I needed a jump. Because a thief left my hazards on. “Oh, so you left your hazards on?” asked the helpful AAA lady. No. No. No. *I* did not leave my hazards on. The inconsiderate thief who ripped out my car stereo (which didn’t even work) and strew dismantled car parts all over my front seat left the hazards on. Note that please.

The AAA man arrived. I popped the hood and heard him exclaim, “WOW. You have got one clean engine…”

Even though I had nothing to do with the cleanliness of the engine, even though I had no idea to what he was referring, I felt a sense of pride.

“Why, thank you,” I purred.

It wasn’t such a bad day after all.

Almost Famous

For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to arise hours before dawn on a Saturday, wait three hours in a line snaked around the warehouse in the sometimes drizzling, sometimes pouring, rain to gain admittance to the yearly Bebe warehouse sale. Once inside, we were allowed 45 minutes to shop the racks in disarray. Hindsight, baby, hindsight.

As we were leaving the warehouse, two of us with bags, two of us empty-handed, we were given a flyer for another sample sale. For the Sak. Not far away, only a few blocks. “I’m up for it, but only if there’s no line. I’m so over lines right now,” I offered.

The second sale was much more productive, for all of us. As I guarded our cart while the others shopped, a woman approached me. “We’re following you,” she laughed. I recognized her from the Bebe sale. “So did you find anything at the other?” I asked. “Yeah, he bought me a lot of stuff.” She nodded towards a very tall man, close to 7 feet tall. “That’s awesome. I didn’t find anything. How did you find stuff? It was such a mess!” “Well,” she began, lowering her voice to a whisper, “we went in twice.” I looked at her, surprised. “You waited in that line two separate times? Man, you must love Bebe.” “No,” she smiled demurely, “we didn’t have to wait.” “You didn’t? Why’s that?” At this point Emily had joined me, and her curiosity was piqued as well. “Well, you know, we didn’t have to wait in line, because he’s, well, because he’s sort of famous.” She nodded towards her man companion.

Emily and I followed her glance. “He is?” we asked without thinking. “Who is he?”

Just at that moment, he beckoned for her. She left us, a painstaking look on her face. I could tell she wanted to boast of her famous friend, yet she couldn’t do it with him right there.

A few minutes later she sidled up next to me. Before I even had a chance to turn around, she whispered, “Center. Golden State Warriors,” then scurried to the check-out line. I looked again. Must have been the burly security guards who let them in. I can’t imagine the petite Bebe fashionistas exclaiming, “Oh my god! It’s Erick Dampier! At Bebe! Oh my god! Don’t, like, make him wait in line!”

Those Greens Did Nothing To You

I ordered the walleye, the famous local fish of Minnesota. Co-workers had raved about how delightful it was. Having never heard of it, and not thinking I could order it in the Bay Area, I took advantage of my time in Minneapolis to try this delicacy. The menu stated it came with a side of frites, fried shoestring potatoes. “Could I get a vegetable instead of the potatoes?” I asked the waiter. He leaned over, touching my shoulder. “Sure, princess.” This in itself caused me to pause.

I was not feeling like a princess. I was feeling like a bundled up, bloated eskimo. Unaccustomed to the dry air of the skyways, I had drunk, and drunk, and drunk even more water. During the afternoon meetings, catering brought in pitchers of ice water. I had gotten up so many times to refill my water glass that at one point a co-worker simply set the pitcher in front of me. It was drained within minutes. As was the second pitcher. And the third.

So there I sat, each cell in my body stretched to maximum capacity. My swimming eyes gazed up at the hipster who had just dubbed me “princess.” “So could I get a side salad with my walleye?” “You can choose from any of the sides. Right here.” I read the list. Then read it again.

Side dishes

Frites

Mashed garlic potatoes

Candied yams with apples

Rice

Creamed corn

When had green vegetables been banned from Minneapolis? What had the innocent greens done to the people of that fine city?

“Hmmm. Could I get a side salad instead of frites?” I inquired again. “Well, you can choose from a side.” “But I want a vegetable,” I persisted. “How about mashed potatoes? That’s a vegetable.” “I want a green vegetable. Can’t I get a side salad? Or some broccoli? Don’t you have something green back there in the kitchen?” “Let me see,” he relented.

He returned with an offer of asparagus. And fine asparagus it was, the two stalks that garnished my plate.

I wouldn’t have thought anything of it except that the next day, at our catered lunch, a bowl of salad arrived. Yeah! Salad. Greens. I was happy. Until. Until I actually inspected the salad bowl. Calling it a salad is stretching the definition of said word. In reality it was a bowl of croutons, smothered in Caesar salad dressing, shreds of Parmesan cheese clumped in gobs covering the surface, simply accented with a few strands of lettuce.

“So what do you people have against greens?” I asked, only to be met with blank stares. I’m sure they were thinking, “Those damn Californians.” Only they didn’t say it.

Being the responsible citizen that I am, I made sure I allowed at least an hour before leaving for the airport to move my car. I have a residential parking permit, which means I can park my car on the street, but I must move it on certain days for street cleaning. I considered the price of an hour of sleep. At 5 am. Was it worth the $35 ticket? No. Streets must be cleaned. Cars must be moved.

In the darkness, I walked the three blocks to where I had parked my car on Sunday afternoon. I saw it as I wearily drug myself up the slight hill. Still there (always a concern in the City). I placed my key in the lock and realized I didn’t feel the click of the lock popping open. The door was unlocked. Hmm. That’s strange. I thought back to Sunday afternoon. I’m sure I locked the door. Oh well.

I opened the door.

Fuck.

In the dim light, I saw the wires. The wires protruding from where my faceless radio used to reside. I looked over to my glovebox. Actually to the place where my glovebox used to be. Because whoever had been in my car had taken the entire thing. The entire glovebox was gone. Bear in mind, there was nothing of value in there besides the face plate to the radio. But now there is only a void cavity, a gaping hole.

I noticed a paper on my windshield. Had I gotten a ticket as well?

I pulled the paper from the damp windshield. It lay limply in my hands. I carefully turned it over. It wasn’t a ticket, but a note.

yoU LeFT YOUR HAZARDS ON LAte SUNDAY/eARLY MONDAY (11/20-12/1) MORNING. I THOUGHT yOU MIGHT HAVe BeeN VACATING THe PARKING SPOT. I GAVe UP AFTeR WAITING 10 MINUTeS. MORe THAN LIKeLY, YOU’Re CAR BATTerY IS NOW DeAD!

GOOD LUCK.

I glanced inside the car again. Parts of the car, maybe the gear shift? maybe something else? were on the passenger’s seat. Wires dangled from below the steering wheel. Might as well give it a try. It is the season for miracles after all.

I put the key in the ignition. I turned. Silence. Not even a click.

I got out of the car, shut the door, and locked it. Then realized how ridiculous it was for me to lock the door to a car which someone had basically just torn apart. Old habits die hard.

I looked at the street cleaning sign. Sigh. I should have gone for the extra hour of sleep.

SF’s Finest

So once I arrived back to my apartment, I thought about my next plan of action. I needed to leave for the airport in 30 minutes. What could I do in 30 minutes? I’ll call the police.

I leafed through the white pages until I found the government section – San Francisco – City & County. Police. Po-lice. So many departments under police. Investigations – Auto Detail. That sounded like who I needed to talk to.

I dialed the number. On the second ring a man answered, sounding much more awake than me.

“Yeah.”

“Um. Hi. My car was broken into.”

“Yeah?”

“Is this the police department?”

“Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, I’d like to file a report.”

“Call the main number.” Click.

I leafed back through the pages. Main number, non-emergency dispatch. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Finally a woman answered.

“Hi. I’d like to file a report. My car was broken into.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“No.”

“You need to call back after 8:30 to file a report over the phone.” Click.

Lester

Fortunately a taxi stopped right away. That’s one of the advantages of living downtown, amongst the hotels and the theatres, far away from neighborhoods of residences lined in a row. There’s usually a taxi. You have to step over five sleeping homeless people to get to it, but the taxi is there.

“Where can I take you to, miss?”

“SFO. Northwest terminal please.”

“Oh. You’re going on a trip (as also evidenced by the suitcase he just put in the trunk). Where to?”

“Minneapolis.”

“Oh, for fun?”

“No, for work.”

“What type of work are you in?”

“I design computer based training.”

“Oh. I thought you were a lawyer. You’ve got that lawyer look to you.”

I wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood. I was still trying to figure out what to do with a car that wouldn’t start. Given that the car is 20 years old, my insurance deductible is the same amount I actually paid for the car, and I generally don’t believe in throwing good money after bad. Or something like that.

Lester, however, was in a talkative mood. By the end of the 35 mile journey to San Francisco International Airport, I learned that Lester drives a cab three days a week, for 6 hours at a time. His “day” job (only he does it at night) is a pathologist in the San Francisco Coroner’s Office. You can see the Coroner’s office from the highway (he pointed it out). It’s adjacent to the jail. The top two floors are reserved for felons. He hails from Washington State, from a family that includes many generations of loggers. But not him. He moved to San Francisco 18 years ago.

And I still hadn’t figured out what to do with my car.

The Report

Once I checked into my hotel, I called the non-emergency dispatch number of the San Francisco Police Department. After being on hold for 16 minutes and 47 seconds a woman’s voice, somewhat shaky, answered. I told her I wanted to file a report, because my car had been broken into. “Did you see who did it?” “No.” “Okay, then, I can take the report.”

I’m not sure why it would have made a difference if I saw who did it. Would I be called in to look at mug shots? Would my life be in danger? Would I be placed in a witness protection program?

In my mind I pictured what this woman looked like that I was giving all my details to. I’m guessing late fifties. No, maybe early sixties. 62. White hair. Permed, but done at the beauty parlor once a week. Slightly overweight, probably five feet two inches tall. I imagined her name to be Mildred. I never asked.

I detailed all I could. The location of the car. The damage done. When I parked it. When I found it. The note.

She pleasantly repeated the information back to me, often misquoting what I had said. I corrected her; she again misquoted me. She gave me a police report number and told me to have a nice day.

And I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do with my car.

Brrrrr

I’m flying to Minneapolis, Minnesota, in a few hours. Current temperature, 29 F, but according to weather.com it feels like 21 F. Once it gets below freezing, is there really a difference?

Inappropriate Questions

“He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” my friend whispered to me as we stood in line at Target. I glanced at the check-out clerk. Young. On the thin side. Dark hair, slicked back. “Mmmm. Yeah. I guess so. Yeah. He is cute.” We continued to examine our choices of gum. I picked up two, then three, packages of Dentyne Ice for the plane ride tomorrow. He whispered again, “Do you think that’s a straight ring, or a gay ring?” All I could see was a glob of gold flashing on his left hand ring finger as he bagged items.

“Hi, how are you tonight?” I asked him. He responded with something akin to a grunt.

“Wow. I really like your ring.” He glanced at me, then nodded, his chin thrust upward in something akin to an acknowledgement.

“Is that your wedding ring?” He looked at me harder, then snorted, in something that was definitely a scoff.

“Can I see it up close?” He held out his hand with a flick of his wrist. Staring at me from the safety of his hand were two cloudy ruby eyes, nestled snugly in a molten gold skull.

He handed me my bag.

As we exited Target, my friend turned to me, laughing hysterically. “Nice work, Nancy Drew! Is that your wedding ring? HAHAHAHAHAHA….”

I enjoy it so much, yet I only do it once a year.

As has been the case for the past four years, every Thanksgiving Emily’s mom, Alice, invites me to spend Thanksgiving with her family. And asks me to bring the pies. Always pecan, always fruit.

There is comfort in the routine. Wednesday night after work, I make the crust. The same recipe I’ve used since I was a girl. I flip through the pages of my Southern Living Best Of cookbook. The one given to me upon high school graduation, because every young woman needs a few good southern recipes. I thumb through the Pies and Pastries section, pages refusing to yield to my tug, pages stuck together from excess water, flour, or sugar leftover from past culinary experiments. I find the recipe on page 353: Basic Pastry for 8-inch, 9-inch, and 10-inch crusts. Very simple, yet always perfect. Flour, salt, shortening (yes, shortening) and ice water. Chill overnight, then roll.

And the rolling is my favorite part. Flour softer than the finest silk sifts effortlessly through my fingers onto the pastry board. I smooth it in circles, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. I pat the dough, the hard, cold dough, first on one side, then on the other. Then roll. And roll. And roll some more. As I roll, I get lost in the repetitiveness of the action, thinking of the trivialities of my day. Thinking of my future dreams. Thinking of my past Thanksgivings. Thinking of what I’m thankful for. The usuals: my family, my friends, my health. The not so usuals: double-sided tape, high thread count sheets, lycra, cumin. I rub more silky flour on the rolling pin and continue to roll, my mind continuing to drift. In between memories I check the thickness of the dough. When it’s sufficiently thin, I transfer it, in one fell swoop, to the waiting pie pan. From there, routine takes over. The fillings are poured, scooped, placed, ever so gently in their respective crusts.

I stand back, admiring my work. Perfect pies, waiting to be baked. Thanks, Alice, for giving me the reason to make the pies once again.