Here’s the first 18 seconds of our conversation:
Him: “Hey You! What are you doing?”
Me: “Taking Pictures.”
Him: “Are you the one who keeps putting all that shit up there?”
Me: “One of them.”
Him: “‘Cuz I don’t know whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing but it’s just a bunch of motherfucking bullshit vandalism people are fucking sick and tired of looking at all your motherfucking pussy faggot garbage cuz you’re gonna get your fucking ass kicked and you fucking better know that right?”
As they say, the ninth second of any relationship is always the hardest. And if I’ve learned anything from romantic comedies — which granted, is doubtful — any time two people get off to a start like that it means they’re simply made for each other.
I figure I’m about two or three subplots, some whacky hijinks, one contrived chase scene and a montage away from staring into his eyes and saying “You had me at ‘pussy faggot garbage..’.”
Full Disclosure: The rant as written is primarily guesswork. I know there were one or two more references to vandalism in it, and I’m sure the wording was better but I don’t think I understood more than half of it at the time. It was just a sudden torrent of vitriol that poured out of his mouth for somewhere between seven and ten seconds.
The sudden-violent-explosion-of-hostility effect was undermined entirely by the way he’d asked if I was the one “putting all that shit up there...” (meaning the overpass) which by itself was so hostile and filled with contempt it seemed like I must’ve known the guy somehow. We’ve all been there of course. You meet someone you think is a
stranger but then you have to ask yourself: “Wait, were we best friends years ago until I murdered his fiancee and framed him for it and now after years in prison he’s come for revenge?” because that’s what it sounds like. But I try to keep up on stuff like that, so I’m pretty sure the answer is no and this seething hatred and disgust is coming
from a guy I’ve known for five or six seconds. So I have to ask myself, where did we go wrong? (Harp glissando, fade to)
(Interior: writing desk by window, through which we we see roses in foreground with the English countryside stretching out beyond. FREEWAYBLOGGER is writing a letter with quill and ink. The tears streaming down his face mirror the rain on the windowpane. Voiceover: Where did we go wrong? How many times have I asked that? I thought back to when we first met and things were still fresh and new. You were interested in me — you asked what I was doing! But even then I was fooling myself. It was obvious I was taking pictures: I had the camera right up to my face. Looking back, even “Hey You!” seemed off somehow. The way that you said “You” seemed to be colored with just a hint of disdain. Of course I denied it at the time, but knew in my heart the honeymoon was over. But at least... (Long Pause, sobbing...) At least… (more sobbing, tears splash down on letter) We’ll always have ‘Hey...’”
Narrator: “We’ll Always Have ‘Hey...’ Because even love that only lasts for a moment can leave scars that last a lifetime… Coming Soon.)
The over-the-top hostility at six seconds that was a giveaway for the rant about to follow, actually did have a giveaway of it’s own. Asking what I was doing when it was obvious was certainly a clue of disingenuousness afoot, but that was more of a giveaway for the one I’m about to describe.
Given the spectrum available, “Hey You!” has always struck me as a poor introduction, even when followed by the magic of interrogation. But Hey You and What are you doing?, when the answer’s obvious, that’s the trifecta: rudeness, interrogation and cluelessness. So there’s a temptation to respond with something like “Bowling!” or “Your Mother!” or “Trying really hard to forget the screams of the last guy who asked me that.” But I figure it’s better to keep quiet until I’ve at least scoped out the audience.
So I turn and take a look and there’s this kid, maybe in his early 20s, standing in the middle of the street and filming me on his phone. When our eyes meet he immediately looks away and at his phone, which he’s holding like a badge a foot or two in front of him.
Now that’s not so bad. It’s a little bit sketchy sure, but some people are shy or uncomfortable with eye contact, even from thirty feet away. Although that’s also a bit weird — his standing literally in the middle of the street. It’s a frontage road and not busy at all, but I can tell he wants to keep distance between us. It could be the pandemic but I figure it’s got something to do with the whole ambush aspect of filming without asking permission.
It’s been half a second since he broke eye contact and already a new drama’s unfolding
because there’s apparently something wrong with his phone. Very apparently. Obviously I can’t tell what it is, but I can see clearly that it’s utterly mystifying: the expression on his face was practically a mask of bewilderment. My second thought was that this was some kind of experimental interview technique where initial formalities and introductions are done in pantomime so that… I haven’t the slightest idea why that might be done. But it made more sense than my first thought, which was someone not wanting to make eye-contact and trying so hard to disguise it, they ended up shining a spotlight on the one thing they were trying to hide.
A second later the most perplexing cell phone problem in the world had apparently cleared up. And where moments ago there’d been a hopelessly bewildered amateur there now stood a giant of cinematography, or at least that’s how he looked. He stared at the screen with the kind of fierce concentration I remembered seeing in photos of Stanley Kubrick behind a Panaflex back in his prime. The ferocity of his concentration and the way he started micro-maneuvering the phone to get just the right shot made it clear there was some truly cutting-edge filmmaking going on. And even though I was presumably the subject of the film I felt like I was interrupting just by answering his question. But I was tired of waiting for him to look up so I said “Taking pictures...” and helpfully pointed at my camera to clarify for Stanley Kubrick Jr it’s function as a picture taking machine.
The venom that came with “putting all that shit up there...” being way too much for art criticism or even insult, appeared to be intended purely for provocation. So much so I had to wonder if this was exactly what he wanted me to believe. This dynamic would follow along through each level of escalation, so there was always this tension of “this couldn’t be real...” and that behind the facade of a remarkably ham-handed idiot there was a genius deftly setting up an elaborate trap.
Whichever it was, within seven or eight seconds of meeting the guy I was convinced his intentions were to provoke me into hitting or attacking him on film, with the best, if not the only argument against it being that shouldn’t be something I know within
seven or eight seconds. If you’re trying to provoke someone the last thing you want to do is let them know it. But from that point on I just assumed he was trying to provoke me, which made it pretty damn easy to not be provoked. This interpersonal dynamic between would-be provocateur and he-who-could-not-be-provoked would be the driving force over the next twenty minutes, and provide some badly needed comedy for what would’ve otherwise been mostly educational, as well as grueling, ugly and weird.
This “ambush interview” marked the end of a period of nine and a half months where I’d been able to put up over 1,500 political signs on the freeways of the Eastbay and San Francisco without being stopped, questioned or even having to engage in unwanted conversation, which speaks well for the state of 1st amendment freedom even in a modern surveillance state. Granted, by choosing the triangle of Oakland, Berkeley and SF to stage this experiment I’ve made less of a point than if I’d chosen pretty much anywhere else.
This study was inspired by stumbling on an opinion by Brett Kavanaugh when he was in a lower court, having to do with the tricky business of people using chalk for protest messages on federal property which he admitted was not on a par with the same being done with spray paint, because he understood chalk easily and entirely washes off with water and he’s not one to argue against what’s obvious. However, he found a
way to compare the use of chalk for messages with breaking the windows of a police car. I don’t remember quite how, but assumed he was drunk at the time. Regardless, the laws of physics, space and time are still definitely on the side of the messenger, even if the laws of the land may shift, and those nine and a half months were truly a joy. The Gods are not mocked however, and they wanted to make absolutely sure I understood that my streak of going unmolested had come to an end. In other words, this story gets weirder.
I can still hear them giggling in Olympus.