Culture Clash

            by Ryan Race

 

When I was seventeen, my grandpa flew all the way from Florida to stay with us in Berkeley. He and my grandma originally lived in Michigan, but after retirement they followed the old persons migration pattern and moved to the sunshine state. When I was younger I always looked forward to visiting my grandparents, it meant warm weather, swimming pools, and playtime with my cousins. However, the long mornings spent sitting in church with them and the constant reminding us of how great a country we live in grew tiring with time.

Towards the beginning of his stay I asked my grandpa if he would go with me to get my ear pierced, I explained that if you are under eighteen you need a guardian’s signature. He told me that he did not support self-mutilation, but that he wanted frozen yogurt and was sure I knew where to get it. He agreed to sign off on my piercing when I told him I would treat him to a hefty helping of frozen yogurt as well as a chocolate chip cookie afterwards. As we were getting in the car I realized that I hadn’t thought this through very well. Telegraph to my grandpa was surely going to be a cornucopia of lost souls, sinners and unpractical clothing.

After driving up and down a tangle of one way streets and dead ends, circling one block twice, spending twenty minutes searching for a parking spot, and shoving several quarters into a parking meter only to find that the little shit was eating my money, I put a paper bag over it and announced that we were finally there. “This is Telegraph grandpa, a lot of college students come here for shopping and dining,” I explained.

“That young lady’s pants are dragging on the ground,” was the only response I received by the end of the first block. “Exactly who would allow their child to wear a shirt stating that they were so horny even I have a chance?” And, “I think that man is peeing,” was all he said by the end of the third block. Luckily we were only three bums and a crack-head away from Zebra by this point.

Inside the small dark store there was a surprisingly large number of people, all huddled and bent over the glass display cases full of twinkling rings, studs and rods.

“Exactly what kind of place is this?” My grandpa asked, making it a point to not make eye contact with anyone in the store.

“This is where you come to get your ears pierced grandpa.” I replied while trying not to laugh, his gaze was bouncing around on the floor avoiding the threatening looking troubled teens all around him.

A lady came over to us from behind the counter and I told her what I wanted. She looked over at my grandpa, who was extensively examining his fingernails, trying to avoid any social interaction. A look of amusement spread over her previously plain face,  “You can have a free piercing or “tat” along with the purchase of the young lady’s,” she told him. The look on his face could not be described. I tried to blurt out a quick no thank you, but it was too late.

He asked her nervously, “Exactly what kinds of piercings or “tats” are there to choose from?” I was surprised by his curiosity.

“Oh, all kinds!” she replied, she then commenced in pointing out every piercing on her own body, there must have been well over a dozen. Some of which included: ear, tongue, nose, lip, and belly button. My grandpa’s shock only seemed to invite further exhibition and at a certain point all I could do was stand by and watch in complete horror. She began to unbutton her shirt and gave us a peek at what was missing from a conservative life of faith and morals. A small, shiny, silver piercing poked out of the tender flesh of her rosy nipple. Without looking at my grandpa’s face I immediately grabbed his hand, thanked the girl, and led him back past the three bums and the crack-head.

Just when I thought we were in the clear, I spotted a small group of boys standing in a circle around a small blown glass pipe, smoke emitting from their mouths in rings and puffs. We had passed the crosswalk already, and the traffic was too heavy to convince Grandpa to run across the street with me, so I picked up the pace and hoped he wouldn’t think anything of the grungy group on the corner ahead of us.

We were almost past them when I heard a sarcastic voice holler, “Hey Gramps, you tryin’ to hit?” The group burst out in laughter, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.

“Ryan, what is that young man referring to? What is there for me to hit?”

“Nothing grandpa, he’s just homeless, probably delusional, let them be.”

“I fear his future looks dim. Does he mean smoke? Is he referring to Marijuana?”

“Yes, I believe so grandpa.” He turned around and walked back towards the group of boys, there was no dissuading him of his duty. He could always give a beautifully moving speech about the potential of youth in America and how Jesus could help them. The boys laughed so hard I thought they would all cough up their organs and die right there on the spot, unfortunately they only told my grandpa to get lost and go back to church.

We entered Yogurt Park and fortunately he was recovering at a steady pace, the color had returned to his face and his pupils were beginning to return to their normal size. Just as I was hoping, the frozen yogurt and chocolate chip cookie helped the rejuvenation process right along.