The Obso King watched the game for a while longer. Then hopped on Gloria and rode downtown. Smiled as he rode. Once dared a dude that no matter who you thought you were, you couldn’t ride this bike without smiling. Sourpuss kind of bloke, all mean-faced pucker-lipped and squinty-eyed, mounted the bike, rode around parking lot and there it was, this broad, beaming smile, gleam in his eye. For a brief moment he thought about stealing Chester’s bike. Thought about thieving the man’s smile. Invading bro’s style. Chester caught the hesitation. But the moment passed and mean guy dismounted, still smiling, and stepped into his afternoon singing some tune from Detroit.
Chester rode his bike downtown ready for watchin’. Clarence the Funky Preacher doing his thing on Broadway and Thirteenth. People steering clear. Chester stopped next to BART and dismounted, leaning his bike against steel railing, sitting on the conglomerated stone-and-concrete wall. He watched Clarence the Weirdo Preacher do his thing. Clarence one smooth-looking gentleman. Wears a fine three-piece suit and sports a snazzy cap. Tie silk and tie sharp maroon. Shoes shined. Sits on the fire hydrant. Explanation: fire hydrants in this city, and most of the state, topped smooth, don’t possess that crowning bolt might probe your crack or press fleshy mound of cheek. Grandpa retirement home on a downtown stroll with his grandson, can sit for a spell on the fire hydrants of California and catch his breath. Clarence the Dang! Preacher sitting on a hydrant, busy intersection, Broadway and Thirteenth.
See the Oakland Tribune Building straight ahead down Thirteenth. Tall tower capped green. Buildings, store fronts, white boy lawyers in suits. Lunchtime, offices emptied, people everywhere. Finely dressed folks mixed with the not-so finely dressed milling with down and out, homeless, pre-and-post Occupy, wanderers, observers, oddballs, nobodies, what-are-you-doing-heres. Cops direct traffic few blocks up Broadway, two officers wearing white gloves like you’ve seen in children’s stories or what-was-that-movie, and they blow whistles. One comments to a fine young woman in a sweet sports car, window rolled down. You look at her, too. Irresistible. Look upon with those kinds of eyes, objectify. I couldn’t do it, but men whistle at her, offer inappropriate “Hey, baby.” Street bustle. Born to hustle. Up Broadway the Paramount in full display. Its massive sign and grand marque. Its storied and glorious history. It is The Paramount, for chrissake. Some serious groups came through there, heyday, funk, blues and R’n’B.
Chester poised and watching. Clarence wearing a suit we all want to wear. He may only have one, but, man, this one fine. Obvious he keeps it clean, damn sure pressed. And that hat, kind grandfather wore in the forties and fifties, always flicked on his coat tree next to his green chair. Clarence silent when slow action at the crosswalk, when people aren’t clustered, couples or a few individuals. But when the light’s been holding No Walk for a while and cars finally stop, when people collect into crowd before walking across the avenue, Clarence gears up and delivers. Wearing sandwich board over his shoulders. Like fellows during the Depression looked. Protesters might wear attending a rally. Kind a college kid hired to advertise burgers instead of wearing a dragon suit or bear suit or clown costume, skillful placard spinner might have slung over his shoulders. Front and back. This one nice and tight rendition, beautifully and artistically painted, great skill exhibited, honest care. This signboard is a work of art. Man in his suit underneath his front and back message a work of art. Were you inclined or properly equipped, you would drop to one knee and take his photograph. He winds up and delivers in a baritone, broadcasts like a stage player over the crowd. Most people afraid of him. Skirt him, avoid like he possessed communicable disease, step-asides like pandemic. Sign reads “NO UNLAWFUL SEX.” The Obso King sits, observes and occasionally laughs at the poor regular working people who don’t pause long enough to appreciate this person, this work of art, his performance. Man’s mouth works it, voice projected over scurrying crowd, digital red stick-figure crosswalk turns green and the thick disembarks from the curb and dissipates. But soon another cluster and Clarence knows this and I know this and the Obso King knows this and you know it. There they are, lunchtimers, and Clarence resumes: “Attention Sinners: No unlawful sex, no backdoor, no rimjobs, no ORALS and no sloppy seconds.” He pauses. Another conglomeration; changes his funky pitch every time: “Beware Sinners; We’re watching You; no funky bedtime moves, no orals, no reach-arounds, and no sloppy seconds.” Being this. As position, owning it, statement. And he’s serious. Sitting on a flat-topped fire hydrant. Nowhere demonstrating irony. He is not smiling. His sign, artfully created, sober. People constituting crowd, avoid eye contact. Catch Chester laughing, his bike leaning against the cement wall near the BART station.
Time to walk away, head south on Broadway, inspect new terrain, see Jack London Square on the water, and Chester mounts Gloria and begins his slow, unhurried ride. He hears behind him: “Watch Out, Sinners! We gotchu, no french kisses, no both ways, no rim jobs, no sloppy seconds.” Sounds of downtown Oakland, breeze off the water, prevailing winds bring a clean smell to the city, people stuck in traffic on the Bay Bridge as they attempt San Francisco. The Obso King just laughs, head back, legs pedaling slowly, and he continues laughing. Cops blow their whistles, white gloves wave, people enter fast-food joints, some try Vietnamese.