You might say that my first few nights here in Seattle were less than auspicious. I arrived on Thursday and right out of the gate I took a wrong turn and wound up on 5 north instead of 405. “I’d sniff it out”, I thought to console myself in my stupidity. Route 5 goes through downtown Seattle, so I thought I’d see what was what.. it turned out I had arrived late, so fortunately the traffic wasn’t so bad. Then I saw the sign for 520 — I knew that was good, so I took it. It turns out that the 520 bridge from seattle to the east side goes over this pontoon bridge over Lake Washington, believe it or not, and the view was nothing less than spectacular — the lights twinkling on the fresh water. Ok, so I found my hotel.
My first day at work was quite a disappointment. This dinky little room with five people in it, utterly hopeless. They’ve been promising us a very nice office suite for a month now. It’s hung up with the lawyer in New York. Previously, it had been the subject of lengthy debate at the VP level (none of whom would actually occupy the office). They were arguing over whether to get class ‘A’ or class ‘B’ office space — i.e. fancy sales-oriented prestigous offices for the two marketing geeks who are never here anyway or modified warehouse space for those of us who do the real work. Meanwhile, this is what we have to deal with.
“Bunch of losers” I thought, observing my staff, and thinking of my friend Vijay, who once commented on some of my less impressive PSW colleagues: “where do you find these jokers?” So to kick things off, I decided to have a meeting and make sure we were all on the same page. I drew a schematic of my understanding of the architecture and put names down where I knew everyone was working. I made the observation that this guy John’s name did not appear anywhere. So I made the suggestion that he take over the user interface. Everyone gasped. “Bad sign” I said to myself.
Ok, the day ended and I went back to my hotel. But first I bought a 750ml of Johnny Walker. I always say to myself “the book that johnny walker read,” thinking of Pam when I buy the red. I took it back to my room. I would normally have bought some beer, but that is always cumbersome and problematic in a hotel room with no fridge, and all those empties,…so unsightly.
After a few drinks, I was feeling pretty good, so I decided to find the scene here to see what was going on. I remembered that there seemed to be something happening down by the piers, Pier 59 or something like that rung a bell, so I headed that way. Seattle really is a beautiful town. I took a few wrong turns, but it was a little adventure. I already missed Anita and the kids, but this wasn’t too bad. It was kind of fun.
By the time I got to Pier 59 or whatever, everything was closed down, but I noticed that there was a crowd of cars trying to park down by Pier 70. “What’s going on here?” I thought. So I parked illegally in the Spagetti Warehouse parking lot (“who’s going to be eating spagetti at 11:00?” I thought), locked my car and put my wallet in my front pocket and went out to see what was happening. It turned out to be a club out at the end of the pier, some kind of disco, and there was a short line out front. I got in line between two cute little black girls, one kind of light skinned with reddish hair and a nose ring shivered in the cold night. I offered her my coat while we waited. “No thanks, sweetie” she said, and smiled. Perfectly charming. When I got to the front of the line I was met by three off duty policemen who said I had to be frisked in order to get in. “Is that really necessary?” I asked. “I’m afraid so,” said a really beefy one. They left no crevice untouched. “Bad sign” I said to myself.
Well, it was pretty much what you’d expect from a disco frequented by the black population of Seattle and a few whites out for a night of slumming. It wasn’t really a slum, with great windows and a deck overlooking Puget Sound with ever more twinkling lights, this time over the sound. I had a few beers, grooved on the good music and observed some pretty fantastic dancing. It was a really hopping place. As might be expected, a little rap got injected, and the parts I could understand, I didn’t like too much. But I had a pretty good time considering I was there by myself.
After a while, I decided to go out for a little air. By this time it might have been 12:30. The line stretched around the block. The place had reached capactity and people were waiting just hoping someone would leave so they could let one of them in. “This is one popular place” I thought. “Do I have to get back in that line if I want to get back in?” I asked the beefy cop. “I’m afraid so.” he reiterated. “Laconic guy” I thought.
I had had enough rap and hip hop for one night, so I boogied anyway. I got back in my car and cruised around town a little more. Then I stumbled on a really cool area lit by pseudo-gaslights and paved with brick and musicians and street people and college kids all out having a good time. A horse-drawn cab waited outside a tavern blasting some pretty good blues. The streets had names like State St. and Main St. and First St. It must have been the old downtown. It was also quite vibrant, althought the live music was somewhat inferior to Austin’s, except for one totally outstanding jazz/blues fusion group playing in an old bar, I mean really old, with fantastic carved oak work all over from the old days. There was only one thing wrong — there was practically noone there. This was probably the best band playing in the whole area (I had parked and walked up and down the drag, listening, so I knew), but the place was almost empty. It was kind of pitiful. But they were really putting the stuff out. The beat was fat and they had a really fantastic sax player. The band was all black, but none of the customers were.
I called for a beer. “What kind?” said the bartender, pointing to a menu with probably fifty different varieties. Give me a local brew, I said. “We have about a dozen” he said. “Give me a good one” I said. He did. I didn’t bother to ask what kind.
I digged the music and observed some pretty ugly girls dancing, but admired their enthusiasm, and eventually we closed that place down.
I got back in my car and made my way back to route 520 (after a few more wrong turns). And back I went over the pontoon bridge. I mistakenly got off at 82nd Av. rather than 108th, which was my exit. The street naming conventions over here on the East Side, as they call it, are completely insane — but that’s another story. I discovered my mistake after a few blocks down the wrong street. By this time I was getting pretty turned around, so I got back to 520 and made another mistake, this time going back the wrong way toward the bridge. By the time I figured this out, I noticed the blue and red lights flashing in my mirror. It was well after 2:00 by now. “Oh shit.” I said.
The officer came up and I asked him what I had done wrong. He was just a kid, maybe 22. “A puppy” I thought. “You were doing 39 in a 25 zone back there.” I’m sorry sir, I said in my most polite voice. I’m from out of town and,… “have you had anything to drink tonight?” he asked. Well, you may be able to guess what I was thinking — it had been a long night — “Oh Jesus,” I thought.
Would you mind stepping out of the car? He asked. “No, no, no!” I thought. I got out, and he gave me the field sobriety test. Of course it was very late and I know I was driving carefully, I was just a little tired and turned around in an unfamiliar town. Maybe I was a little frustrated for taking so many wrong turns, so I hung the huey a little faster than I should, and evidently made another, bigger mistake.
My mind raced.
Well, I think I did ok on the field sobriety test, but there seemed to be a bit of a difference of opinion on that, and he asked me if I would take a breathalizer. “Totally optional” he said. I thought about it and said I’d prefer not to.
“At this point, you are under arrest for DUI.” he said. My heart jumped out of my chest. “Oh Jesus Christ, not that,” I thought. What am I going to say — to Anita, to everybody? How the fuck am I going to get out of this? Should I ask for a lawyer? What the hell am I going to do? No one even knows me here. Who’s going to pick me up? “Put your hands on the car.” He handcuffed me very gingerly. “I don’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “How very nice of you,” I thought.
Well, there I was, handcuffed in the back seat of this puppy-officer-fuckhead’s car explaining to him my story and that I was just a little turned around, and…
At this point he offered me another chance at the breathalizer. I figured, what do I have to lose now? So I took it. Another first for Andy. I read .05 — not even close. I guess it had been over eight hours since my first drink, after all, and I hadn’t really had that much. I really was just tired and turned around. What do you think about that?
So he let me go without even the speeding ticket. “It’s just like Dominus vobiscum,” he said, making the sign of the cross on me. “Dominus nabisco,” I thought. How perfect. Bless me you fuckhead for you have almost ruined my life, or some nontrivial portion of it. He gave me directions back to my hotel and that was that.
When I got back, I got down on my knees and thanked God. You’d better believe it. It’s not much of a hotel, but it’s better than a Seattle jail, I’m pretty sure. You betcha.
7/29/96
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