A cop on a ten-speed bike stopped a homeless person, and gave him a ticket for jaywalking. That’s bogus, of course, and beyond bogus. If police fairly enforced the jaywalking law on Telegraph Avenue, they’d be writing tens of thousands of tickets every day, shoppers would stop coming downtown, businesses would close, and capitalism would crumble.

Cops just about never ticket someone for jaywalking, for jaywalking. Getting that ticket means you’re too black, too poor, or too scruffy, and the cops want you out of Berkeley’s best shopping neighborhood.

The ticketed man was all three — black, poor, and scruffy. He goes by the name Flank, and he’s somewhat known to me; harmless and sometimes strange, sometimes funny, but not intentionally. He’s one of those guys who’s about 25% absent.

The cop, having heroically made the streets safe for nobody, mounted his bike and rolled off. Flank walked away from the encounter shaking his head and looking at the ticket.

As he came toward my table, I flagged him over, and asked what had happened. He said he’d been sitting on the sidewalk across the street, and that’s all — just sitting — when the cop rolled up and told him to move along.

“Jesus Christ,” Flank said he said, “I can’t even sit on the sidewalk?”

“Nope,” he said the cop said.

Flank said he said, “You’re a fuckin’ asswipe,” but he gathered his stuff and walked away, as ordered. He crossed Telegraph against no traffic at all, and that’s when the cop stopped him and ticketed him.

“Typical,” I said, and for commiserating, Flank handed me the ticket. The current price for saying ‘asswipe’ to a cop is $105.

I gave the ticket back to him, or tried to, but Flank said, “I don’t want it.”

“Well, I sure don’t want it,” I said, so he took it and crumpled it and dropped it into a trash can. For that I gave him the candy bar from my lunch sack. He walked away chewing it and smiling, and I went back to my work, selling fish novelties, but still thinking things over.

Piss off a cop, you get a ticket.

Piss off a cop too much, and you’ll be arrested for “interfering with a police officer.”

If the cop is in a bad mood and punches you, that’s “assaulting a police officer.”

A minute or a few later, Larry came over. The whole incident with Flank and the cop had started in front of Larry’s table, on the other side of the street, and he asked what Flank had said, so I gave him the rundown, second-hand.

“Yeah, that’s what happened,” Larry said. “He called a cop an asswipe, so he deserved the ticket.”

“Now hold on,” said I. “If you’re saying it’s stupid to call a cop names, of course it is, but you’re not really saying someone deserves a fine for insulting a cop.” I didn’t ask it as a question, because I was under the impression that Larry was a decent guy.

“Fuckin’ A, I think I am saying that,” he said, leaving me not quite speechless but unsure what to say next.

There was nothing else to say, really. I’m not gonna argue human rights and the Constitution with some schmuck on Telegraph, so I sat down behind my table, picked up the book I’m reading, and waved him away.

Not sure whether I’ve mentioned Larry in the zine before. He’s just another vendor on Telegraph, someone I’ve had a few passing conversations with. Wouldn’t have guessed he’s a fascist, but he showed me who he is today, as plainly as if he’d been wearing a brown shirt and doing the ninety-degree Sieg Heil salute.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Business was sucky all day, not just for me, but for everyone up and down Telegraph. I’m not sure why — the weather was downright summery, but the customers haven’t thawed for springtime.

♦ ♦ ♦  

A few other moments from Saturday on the Ave:

• There are always a dozen teenagers who want to come off as homeless, but they’re dressed too well for the role. Today two of these posers got into a fistfight, and rolled around briefly on the sidewalk, knocking over the trash can with Flank’s ticket in it, and calling each other posers, which made me giggle.

• Some college boy said he’d forgotten his bike lock, and offered me two dollars to watch his bicycle while he went into the store in front of my table. I said, “No, but sure, I’ll watch your bike.” Jeez, I’m poor, but not so poor I can’t do such a tiny kindness without cash recompense.

• Two middle-aged bums walked by, moving slowly enough that I caught this from their conversation: “Oh, yeah, I could hang with Tori Amos. I could have a long conversation with her,” stretching the ‘o’ in long around the block. The other bum laughed, and then they were gone, but I don’t think Tori Amos would hang with either of them.

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Not counting my wife, I’ve shared houses with maybe 30 men and two women, over my adult years. Every flatmate has annoyed me, of course. All humans annoy me. It’s been workable, though. Haven’t killed a flatmate yet. Yet.

At present, I share this house with three other men: Dean, Robert, and The New Guy. Robert and The New Guy are ordinary flatmates — we say hello, or nod, and pass in the hallway. Sometimes we talk. Usually we don’t.

Dean, though, never lets me pass without trying to start a conversation. In four years sharing this house, we’ve had hundreds of conversations, or rather, the same conversation hundreds of times, and that’s hundreds more conversations with Dean than I’d want.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been quantifying it. An index card has been taped to my bedroom door, and I’ve been adding hash marks, keeping track…

THE GROCERIES

Shopping is a bore, so my groceries are usually delivered. There’ve been ten deliveries in the past three weeks.

For four of those deliveries, Dean was in the kitchen. For two of those deliveries, he came out of his room while I was putting grocs away, and commented on what I’d purchased. “Ohh, strawberries.” “Frozen broccoli and cauliflower, eh?” Twice, Dean knocked on my door — once to tell me the groceries were on the porch, and once to tell me he’d brought them in. He pointed to my bags on the counter, and said, “Raisin bread, mmm.”

Grocery subtotal: Dean was there and offering commentary for eight out of ten grocery deliveries. That’s 80% Dean.

Robert was in the kitchen for three of those deliveries, so 30% Robert. It’s a separate annoyance, but Robert and Dean watch live-streamed sports at the kitchen table, basically whenever any local team is playing.

THE MEALS

If I’m making something in the kitchen, Dean will comment on it, like he’s Guy Fieri and I’m a contestant on his show. I rarely cook, just toss a salad into a bowl or spread peanut butter onto bread, so most of my meal-prep is five minutes or less. Still, Dean is there more often than not, to see what I’m cooking and say something about it. “Snausages, I see.”

Yes, Dean calls sausages ‘snausages’, which was borderline amusing the first time he peered over my frying pan and said, “Snausages, I see.” It’s far less amusing the 17th time, and one of the key advantages of going vegan is hoping to never again hear Dean say “snausages.”

Nineteen times over the past three weeks, I’ve made a meal in the kitchen, and nine of those times, Dean was already in the kitchen. Four times he wasn’t, but came into the kitchen from his bedroom while I was prepping my food. One time, he came into the kitchen from the bathroom.

Meal subtotal: 14 of 19 times making meals, Dean was there. That’s 74% Dean. And every damned time, he’s started talking.

Robert was in the kitchen three of those times, eating his dinner over sports with Dean. The New Guy was there once, microwaving something.

THE TOILET

When I gotta pee, it’s usually dribbled into a jug here in my room, because that’s quicker than getting up and going down the hall, but also because opening my door and emerging from my room risks running into Dean. When I gotta poop in the middle of the night, though, or it’s time to empty my piss-pot, it can’t be avoided.

Seventeen times over the past three weeks, I’ve opened my bedroom door and walked across the kitchen into the john. Eight of those times, Dean was in the kitchen, and (of course) started talking. Twice, Dean was in the john, and me not knowing which flatmate was in there, I waited until he came out, and (of course) he started talking.

Toilet subtotal: Ten out of seventeen trips to the john, Dean’s been there. That’s 59% Dean. My other flatmates, I’ve encountered not once on my potty-runs.

THE BOTTOM LINE

Grand totaling the above, there’ve been seven nods and hellos to my other two flatmates over the past three weeks, which works out to 13% Robert, and 4% The New Guy. But 32 out of 46 times I’ve stepped out of my room became Dean encounters, which is 70% Dean.

Even living this life, that number impresses me. Bear in mind that Dean works, and his evenings are frequently spent at a bar, so he’s often not home. And yet, 70% Dean.

Sometimes I’ve suspected that he’s stalking me, but I don’t think it’s personal. He’s stalking anyone he can talk to. When our now-dead flatmate ‘L’ was getting his final affairs in order, his mother and brother were sometimes here in the house, and Dean cornered them for conversations. And I’ve overheard some of Dean’s phone calls, where he says “One more thing” more often than Columbo.

Many, many times in many, many ways, I’ve told Dean that his opinions about my groceries, my menu, or my pee and poop schedule are unwelcome. And yet: When I come out of my room, there’s a 70% chance of Dean.

Nothing can explain that, except that Dean is mentally ill. When I strangle and disembowel him, can I use his insanity as my defense?

5/3/2026

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On my block of Telegraph, only five vendors were selling, all clumped together with Jasper in the middle. My choice was, join the five and be near Jasper all day, or set up alone on the other side of the street. I went across the street. I’d rather work alone than be near that putz all day, and he always finds ways to remind me why. 

In the early afternoon, some idiot brought his dog to the Ave, tied the dog up outside the bookstore, and went inside, where he spent half an hour, leaving the dog on the street.

This was not a cute puppy. It was as big and mean as Bela Lugosi — growling and sometimes snapping at people passing by, especially the skateboarders and rollerbladers. The growling was close enough to my table that it was scaring customers away, and I was considering a short walk to whomp the mutt’s nose with my newspaper (the chain holding the dog seemed sturdy).

Then a middle-aged black lady walked by, and the dog, restrained only by its leash, leaped out at her. The chain held, and snapped the dog back, but the woman was startled and slipped and landed on her ass. She started cussing the cur, and that’s when Jasper began yelling from across the street, “Hey, quit agitating that dog! Just let the dog be!”

Absolute Jasper: Finding the wrong thing to say, and saying it loudly. The woman stopped yelling at the dog, started yelling at Jasper instead, and they screamed at each other for long enough it quickly progressed from amusing to annoying.

Ya know, I wouldn’t even object to Jasper always yelling about something. Heck, lots of people could use a good screaming at. But he hollers just to hear himself holler, and often hollers truly stupid things, like what he yelled at that lady.

So I joined in and yelled at Jasper to shut up, the lady was the dog’s victim, etc. He yelled at me, louder than I yelled at him, and I ended up giving him the middle fingers on both hands.

When the toppled lady had left, the dog was still growling at people, and I finally took my Chronicle and smacked its head twice but good. So of course Jasper started yelling at me again from across the street, “Cruelty to animals, I thought you were better than that, Doug!”

I bellowed back, but only briefly, because it’s pointless. There’s no getting through to Jasper, and anyway, he likes yelling. Doesn’t matter what you yell at him, if you’re yelling he’s happy, and he’s won.

One day, though, maybe one day soon, I’ll have had enough of Jasper.

♦ ♦ ♦  

A young, prim couple stopped to look at the fish, and before I’d even said hello the woman scowled at me. “Do you know the symbolism of the fish?”

“Well, hell, of course I know. That’s what makes the fish funny.”

“666,” she said, pointing at one of our better-selling fish. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s funny to people who have a sense of humor,” I said, cheerfully, flashing my best bad-teeth smile.

“Some things are too serious to joke about,” she said.

“You’re probably right about that,” I said. “No holocaust jokes for me, no rape jokes, uhh…” my voice trailed off, as I couldn’t think of anything else that’s impossible to laugh at.

“Darwin,” the man said, looking a Darwin fish, but he was talking to his wife, not to me. “Whenever I see a Darwin fish, I break off its legs.”

“Vandalism,” I said, still playing cheerful. “That’s mighty Christian of you.”

“Yes indeed,” he said righteously, almost harrumphing.

“Yes indeed,” I repeated back at him. “It’s in First Corinthians — ‘Go thou and destroy other people’s things’.”

He said nothing to that, just stared at me. He looked kinda dumb, to be honest — a mouth-breather, frowning.

The woman said, “I really hate the hypocrisy,” and started leading him away.

“No hypocrisy here,” I said, raising my voice a little as they walked off. “I straight-up hate Jesus.”

Which might’ve been too much?

The man turned and walked toward me, ‘striding’ actually, and I was, well, terrified for just a moment. He jabbed his hand toward me, but he was smiling big and wasn’t holding a gun or even a fist; he was in handshake position, like Pleased to meet you.

But I wasn’t pleased. My right hand was in my pocket, holding the mace, and I wasn’t about to let go. I managed a smile, and we stood there smiling at each other.

“I’m sorry you don’t know Him,” he said, and I let loose a snort of derision. After they’d walked away, I noticed I’d also let loose a few ounces of pee.

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