A Betta Man

After decades, finally relinquishing the burden of 

respectability,  I became a circus performer

In 1975 my college roommate and I dropped out after fall semester and set off with little money and no clear plan, for six months in South America. We hoped to reach Miami where we would catch a cheap flight to Colombia and work our way south on second class busses. I had read Kerouac's, "On The Road" and begun what I imagined would be romantic adventurous travel in the style of the times. We were reaching the end of the era when hitchhiking was barely possible, and yet, standing on an on-ramp, usually for hours, could still yield a long ride. The first on that trip was Tacoma to San Diego. From there we managed a ride to Yuma Arizona. There was a guy standing on the on-ramp with us at 2 AM when two girls in a Volkswagen Bus stopped. They were on their way to Minnesota. He climbed in. He was going to Georgia, but apparently had some flexibility in his itinerary.

Shortly thereafter a car stopped with a guy, about 25, going home to Biloxi. We were moving again. Being on a road trip with a total stranger can be fascinating. He kept his hand in his hoodie pocket for most of the first day. Finally taking it out in our presence revealed a birth defect leaving his right hand tiny, and deformed. We didn't speak of it. He patiently answered our naive and superficial questions about southern culture. Reaching Alabama, we were suddenly face to face with a completely foreign world. Be careful what you wish for. My roommate and I both had shoulder length hair, which to our surprise and fascination, was wildly unpopular. Buying food or gas from someone who’s immediate reaction was anger and hostility was interesting. Twice, as gas station customers, we were told the restrooms were out of order. Relieving ourselves one night in a next door vacant lot caused the station owner to threaten to call the police. We were just passing through, but somehow we were a threat.

It was January, and we chose I-10 in the vain hope it would be warm. It wasn't. After standing roadside in Biloxi for a few hours, the cold was setting in. I walked into a convenience store to try to absorb some heat. After wandering around the store for a couple minutes, the kid behind the counter, about my age, called me over. He was angry. He picked up a pistol from under the counter, pointed it at my head and with an accent so strong I struggled to understand him, he told me to go back to California (I was from Seattle). I explained that I was just trying to warm up. He said, “a betta man woulda brought a warmer coat”. He explained that when people like me hang around the store, things get stolen. He said he could shoot me, drive off in his pickup and dump me somewhere and no one would ever know, or care. It's a unique experience to have a gun pointed at you by someone who you believe would like to use it. It was so unreal that it was more bizarre than frightening. I turned to leave and offered that it was warmer outside anyway.

Back in Seattle months later I related this story to my Father and his older brother. I ended with the kid’s observation that, “a betta man woulda brought a warmer coat”. I sat back waiting for the flood of anger and indignation I was certain would come. After a long pause my Uncle said, "well, he had a point". I was incredulous! How could this possibly be their reaction? After a few years, my feelings about "well, he had a point", changed. It became amusing. My expectation in telling my dramatic story, followed by their ambivalence  was...hilarious. As decades past, revisiting this exchange, I came to realize my feelings had evolved once more. The men who were role models in my family could be tough sons-of-bitches, even when it seemed unnecessary. Being a boy around them was challenging, even scary. In their presence I would often find myself drawn to the sanctuary, love, and support of my Mother, Grandmother and my Aunts. Of the lessons the men in my tribe would impart, without being burdened in any way by subtlety, they were consistent on this: carry your own water.

As angry and hate-filled as the kid in the store had been, my Uncle was right, he did have a point. I was ill prepared and I wanted something from him. My Uncle was on his own at 13. My father was a latchkey kid. It left some scars, but they never complained, or saw themselves as victims. By most measures, they led successful lives. On reflection, I am grateful for their example. Although, a little sympathy probably wouldn't have killed them.

One thing never changed. People continued to assume I was from California. And now I am.