A Living Magazine - Prologue 3 - Caste Parties

Last night the library closed early and I went to Subway for a sandwich. I walked around town until the sun was down. Then I headed to the sleeping spot. There was still a bright glow in the sky and the hills in the east were glowing deep red. I saw some high school kids smoking a joint as I made my way down the path. They saw me and nonchalantly acted like they had just stopped to talk. I was about 200 feet away when they turned and walked away in front of me.

Up the steep hill where they had been two cats angrily whined and hissed at each other. This cat argument lasted late into the night but I never hear it escalate to the nuclear option of teeth and claws.

It was good that the boys were gone around the corner. I wanted them to be out of sight when I made my quick turn onto the dried up river path leading to what has essentially become my "bedroom." Maybe because it was so light out - lighter than it had been the last two nights of arriving there at 10:00 pm - I heard many walkers and riders still traveling the paths.

At about 9:15 I placed the backpack down and relaxed. To my left was a girls' soccer game. Blue jerseys against the white jerseys. These girls could play! I was too far away to see much, and the row of hedges in front of the field made it impossible to view the ball whenever it was rolling. But it spent a lot of time in the air, so I enjoyed what I saw.

To my right was the rodeo grounds. And I finally glimpsed the layout of the property. A rather impressive arc of stadium seating was visible. Now I knew how they could have fit so many people in two nights before for Michael Beck. There were no events at this particular time, only tall thin cowboys drinking beers in the parking lot next to their trucks and animal trailers--every vehicle being white (since traveling through Arkansas, I observed that people prefer white pick-ups to all other colors--curiouser and curiouser...). Useless information, I know, but that's what I do!

I'd begun to develop a real comfort level with this spot. Already I had matted down my sleeping spot., and went about stamping down a few other paths to different parts of my little 200 square foot area. I noticed that I could scrape my shoe across the ground and it would smooth it out. I immediately returned to the part I slept on and used my heel, pressing and twisting it down on the little bumps like a dull screw until they flattened, carving the earth around me to suit my fancy. Such a human thing to do.

As the purple of the sky faded into a starry night, I relied more on my hearing than my sight. One of the little paths I made led up to the top of a tiny hill, with an old, dying almond tree on its peek. I shouldn't exaggerate the height. That "peek" was a dizzying 3 feet off the ground. Yet it was high enough for me to see down both sides of the long stretch of clearing between me and the rodeo grounds.

A small but very bright light jiggled and swayed as it came toward me. It resolved into a biker who was really cranking along. That's when it dawned on me that the jogger I'd seen a couple mornings before was on a major path. The path is sandy, but relatively even, thus well-used. I stepped into a shadow so I wouldn't be seen as he passed by. Interesting how being in a place day after day really familiarizes me with it. Peering down from my look out spot at the area where I would lay out the tarp, I felt pleased at being able to find such a great place.

I stepped down and walked back over, intending to set up my sleeping stuff, when a white dog came up running up from the other direction of the trail, tracing its edge with his nose in hyper-dog fashion. I thought it must be a stray. It ran all over the field and then headed toward the rodeo grounds. I tried to call it over, but as soon as I attempted, I saw that its owner was at the far end of the field with a gathered-up leash in his hands. I chuckled to myself, "Yeah right! Stray dog in Livermore!" I'm sure it happens, but in the four and a half months I'd been there I hadn't seen a single stray.

I removed the tarp from my backpack, unfolding it and then leaving it in the warm night air to dry on either side, and I thought much...

I looked around at the multi-million dollar homes in each direction. Livermore, as with many progressive and prosperous communities, is like a giant country club. There are different levels of membership. Anyone can join, but in order to enjoy the FULL benefits (eating out frequently, going to the movies, wine tasting, special events, etc...) your household should probably be pulling in at least 6 figures. It is like a staged play sometimes, where each activity is well-practiced and done in the most current and conventional way. People like to sail that recreation boat, but no one rocks it very often. The citizen-actors might just as easily be called a "caste," rather than a "cast."

Similarly, there seems to be an equivalent to the "untouchables" of India--stretching this caste metaphor to the breaking point. They are mostly Mexican immigrants and migrant workers (documented and undocumented). If there's leaf blowing, yard work, a fast-food service job, industrial construction project and manual trash pickup, you will see these folks. This is a pretty big generalization on my part. The concept could be spread out thinly to cover the rest of the nation from what I saw on my way from Maine to California. Lily-white-skinned Maine is possibly the exception to this rule. There are plenty of poor folks there to mop up the lowest-status jobs.

This is not a criticism on my part, only an observation. Someone needs to do the jobs that the club members of our society refuse to do. In California, Mexicans largely fill that roll. Order food at the Jack in the Box on First Street, Livermore, and your order is translated into Spanish for the kitchen crew, while your options are translated back to you in English.

Interesting for me to recall going to Randall Orchards in Standish, Maine, and seeing truckloads of Jamaican migrant workers picking apples. A few years ago, I talked to one of these guys about his work. He told me they start harvest season in Maine and then slowly move down the entire Atlantic coast, eventually harvesting other produce in the longer growing seasons of the south. It was good money for him. He was not a US citizen but did show me his work visa.

That's when I realized that these men and women aren't taking jobs away from Americans. Instead, they are allowing Americans to do the more comfortable work. I see nothing wrong with that. I won't even get into the big debate about "illegals." I don't know enough about it to hold a firm opinion. I will say that there is a place for everyone to visit, work, live and play in this country. It is plenty big enough. Our nation has its manifold issues. It's laundry list of hypocrisies and injustices unscrolls and rolls across the floor of our selective awarenesses. However, the people of the USA are good. The system can be so liberating as to be chaotic at times. It is part of the social evolution of society.

After getting the tarp and sleeping bag down, I laid on top (as is my habit lately) and enjoyed the warm air left over from one of our hottest days so far this season. I slept soundly until 3:00 am, when something in the small grove of trees, across from my clearing, rustled around. It was probably a rabbit-sized critter. I got up to pee and checked it out. I found nothing.

When I returned to my own nest, I climbed into the still-warm sleeping bag and fell immediately asleep, only to be awoken by another shrill, loud-beaked (as opposed to "loud-mouthed") mocking bird as I had been the last two mornings, at exactly 5:00 am. I listened carefully for a moment and discovered that mocking birds were all over the place! What was sounding like a million species of birds may have in fact been only one kind.

The sky still had stars, but they were fading away behind the growing blue of the new day. Pack up was even easier, because I realized that I no longer had to tie a line around my tarp. I could leave it flat and it would fit into the backpack, allowing more room. I believe I am going to donate my little blanket (the one that Phoenix Wallker, the dog we all tried to save last year, was wrapped in), as I don't really need it anymore. I'm the one who is constantly telling people to not turn their possessions into "treasures." Nevertheless, I feel some trepidation about giving up this cheap blanket.

I was walking into town by 6:00 am, bought a coffee and charged my Nextbook at the same street light outlet I'd used the day before. I determined it was a good day to visit Pleasanton. I wrote there at the bench until 9:00 am and then hopped on the Wheels Bus for a nice ride. The number 10 bus dropped me off near the intersection Main Street and First Street. The Pleasanton Public Library easy to locate. It is currently where I am writing this. I like Pleasanton. It is a greener (I mean trees and grass, rather than ecologically) version of Livermore. I may even scope out a sleeping place here tonight. I'll let you know tomorrow!

* * * * * * *

Thanks very much for reading! And thank you for your donations, contributions and site sharing. I can't do anything without your support.