The Last Time this Happened, Part 2

A few months passed. We crept toward the dread of the 2004 Presidential Election, my band slowly devolved into a joyless task of herding (mentally ill) cats, and I continued to not work. In September, the Ad Agency Guy called to offer a second week of sign sitting, this time at a slightly higher day rate in Minneapolis. Although I longed to finally see the home of all my boyhood heroes, I had booked what turned out to be the last tour I ever did (and a complete and utter nightmare on all accounts), and had to turn it down. The wife not happy with that, but held her tongue, probably sensing that my protracted rock and roll adolescence was FINALLY winding down to oblivion.

Very surprisingly, as I thought I had heard the last of this, I got ANOTHER call to have a go at a sign in Seattle in mid-October (the Red Sox were just completing they're playoff comeback against the Yanks), and jumped on the chance. Evidently, they could not find a local desperate idiot, so offered to put me up in a hotel, give me a substantial per diem, and this time it was only 2 3-hour shifts/day instead of a dawn to dusk marathon.

Seattle in late Fall is wet and freezing. Also, the sun doesn't come up in earnest until at least 6:30. This meant driving across town to a 5th story rooftop across from the baseball park downtown in complete darkness, taking a few steps down a ladder (no repelling this time, thank god) and waving in pitch blackness to cars so far below that NO ONE knew I was there (well, until the very last day, but we're not there yet). In Portland, I got a few honks and waves. This time, I might as well have not been there.

The whole week must have been nothing more than fulfilling the contract, because this time, they didn't even bother lying to me that this was a big event. No one from the agency came to see me even once. I was completely on my own. This meant shedding pieces of the uniform as the week went on, i.e., Shirt/tie/slacks/dress shoes/glasses turned to Shirt/tie/jeans/sneakers/no glasses by day 2. Also, I was up so high that no one would have been able to spot me wearing an iPod all day, so I spent a lot of time with PJ Harvey.

Did I mention wet and cold? By 7AM, I was soaked with that wet, misty crap that passes for rain in Seattle, shaking and chattering. Being cold, of course, is a powerful diuretic, which plays prominently later, so stay tuned. To pass the hours, I performed a HIGHLY scientific experiment of counting Kerry vs. Bush bumper stickers and found that King County was about 8:1 Kerry. I also began writing a mocumentary film script in my head for an entirely-optimistic, wholly-unsuccessful actor who spends an entire summer on billboards, slowly loses his mind, woman, and dignity, and ends up throwing things, including poop, at passing cars. I have notes somewhere should you be interested in buying this brilliant idea.

The in-between hours were pure bliss. I wandered the streets of Seattle, mainly Belltown and the Pike Market areas, went to the library, ate pretty well, and took naps. Lovely time, but then back up on the board for the evening shift, during which the predominantly red taillights turned to white headlights, and still no one saw me. My friend SKloos thinks that this was my subconscious creating a waking dream for me to see that my long and unsuccessful music "career" had now become a grotesque caricature - me jumping up and down in public, trying to be noticed, but being ignored by all. As always, he was probably right.

AHA! But then I was noticed on Friday afternoon! Safeco Field had been a giant, empty parking lot and unused grass park all week, but on Frday, around 2PM, cars started to amass. After about a half hour, I started to realize that something odd was going on: every car was filled with white men. Not one woman, not one person of color. At first, I was thinking Gay Pride Mariners appreciation night, but where was the Rainbow Coalition? Why only Whitey? AHA! This had to be one of those "Promise Keeper" type things where massive numbers of mentally ill men get together to watch feats of strength and speak in tongues!
Reflect upon the salient details:
a. I have curly hair and look like a Jew (or some would say, a half-black Jew)
b. These guys, not so much
c. These guys probably not the type to be cool with folks who don't remind them of them
d. This was still in shouting distance of 911.

It was only a matter of time. A group of them started to amass at the base of my billboard's building, pointing up at me and shouting words I couldn't make out over the din of the traffic (but, I was pretty sure had nothing to do with "Hey! That guy is pretending to be DEX, but he's wearing sneakers! What a fraud!). This crowd grew in size over the next 10 minutes or so, before I heard the unmistakable sounds of cops behind me. They suggested that I put my hands up over my head and turn around, and low and behold, TWO pistols were pointed at me.

What followed was one of the most farcical bad cop/worse cops routines I have ever seen, with the heavy played by a LINEBACKER of a lesbian cop. This woman had done so many roids that her Adam's Apple heaved lustily with the thought of pushing me off that rooftop.
HER: WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP HERE?
ME: Hi. This is my job. I've been up here all week. I'm DEX. Get it?
HIM: Sir, we received complaints that someone suspicious was watching the people going to the event from up here.
No. You probably shouldn't be listening to those freaks -
HER: YOU'RE THE FREAK! (swear to god. this is a quote).
ME: I'm going to very slowly reach into my pocket and get my cell phone and you can redial the last number to my employers.
And so I did. And so they did, and that was that, except the kicker:
HER: WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN THOSE BAGS?
ME: I don't really think you want to see.
HER: SLOWLY PICK UP THE BAG AND TAKE OUT WHATEVER IS IN THERE!
ME: Okeekoke (sounds of rustling papter bag and removal of 2 full-to-the-brim bottles of my urine).
HIM: I'd suggest you want to throw those away, Sir.

And they left, and I decided that was the end of this adventure, left an hour early, and drove home in the rain to Portland, where my wife got a pretty big kick out of my tale.