Wobbly Al

In the late 70's the Albatross , a Berkeley bar on San Pablo Avenue just north of University Avenue, featured draft beer and laid-back atmosphere. It was not the nexus of hip, just comfortably cool. The clientele, shared by other local bars on San Pablo Avenue, including the Blind Lemon and Mandrakes, was an amalgam of hippies, former hippies, students, ex-students, wanna-be writers, and just general outliers. Just inside the entrance along the right an alcove housed a single raised table before the classic bar ran back about twenty feet. Along the left wall were tables. The walk between divided at the popcorn machine with corridors on each side of the bathrooms leading to the back room which was dominated by dart games. The noise level was low enough to encourage conversation.The bartenders, on the other hand, tended to be a rather taciturn lot, reserving their conversation to a few chosen regulars. Other than the dart boards and popcorn there was no entertainment if you did not bring your own. I lived close-by so it was a good place to meet friends and I often went there with my next door neighbor, Tim. It was one of those times, with Tim, sitting at the end of the bar next to the popcorn popper machine, we were joined by Wobbly Al. That was my moniker for Al. He was a curious amalgam of influences. He was Jewish but sported a huge Afro hair style and often wore leather pants. His conversation was faux-revolutionary in what I took to be a siphoning of the cachet of the Black Panthers. The evening was, as usual, casual with conversations meandering from inconsequential to mundane. That tenor changed when Bill came in. Bill I recognized from another orbit, he also circulated in a clique that included my ex-wife. The only significant fact I knew about bill was that we shared a birthday.

That share may or may not have drawn Bill to our table but before the was past the first few stools the bartender shouted at him "I want you out of here! Now"

Bill responded with "I haven't done anything!".

"The last time you were in here you dropped your pants. I want no more of that." was the reply.

"I am being good, I am not doing anything" was Bill's reply.

It escalated for a few more exchanges which led to the arrival of a pair of Berkeley cops, a white man and black woman. Whatever the motivation, maybe it was because Bill was black, the black woman cop pulled her belt up, then put one finger in her mouth as though she was picking at her teeth. "Come on, my ribs are getting cold!"

Bill, not going along with the game was still insisting his innocence. Al, maybe summoning some instinctual, if imagined, brotherhood with longshoremen fighting cops offered "He wasn't doing anything, he just wanted to stay."

That was enough of a challenge to the woman. She changed her focus from Bill to Al. She walked over to our table. Bill and the male cop went toward the other end of the bar. "You're interfering with an arrest. Maybe you would like to be run in too."

She looked at Tim then me. I said nothing and did my best to blank my face into no expression. I saw there was no good response. Al, misled by who knows what, offered "But he was not doing anything!".

The white cop, black Bill and the bartender, twenty feet down the bar, were quietly talking. That juxtaposition did not seem to deter the woman who pulled out her ticket book and pencil in hand asked Al "What is your name?".

The result was that Bill, at the other end of the bar, left quietly on his own, and the bartender went back to bartending, the other cop came and stood behind the woman cop while she cited Al for interfering with the arrest that never took place. After the cops left Tim and I tried to console Al, who felt sorely wronged. We offered to be witnesses for his desk appearance. I did feel sorry for him but I could not help but feel he had been led astray by his persona.

A month or so later, when Al was to appear before the judge Tim and I were there to offer witness to what to him seemed a great tragedy. It was there that I observed one of the many hitches in the justice system. His appointed Public Defender met him in the corridor outside the courtroom just before the appearance time and began with a decidedly uninformed "Now tell me more, what happened, what is this all about." which of course spiraled Al even deeper into the funk he was already in. The injustice of the charge, "The Man", the gears of the system ready to chew him to pieces, the uncertainty all preyed on him.

But the system, was kind to him that day, the officer, for whatever reason, did not show up so there was no trial, no sentence, no further injustice.

The next week Tim and I sat at the same table. The bartender was taciturn as ever. Bill was not there. Al was not there. Nothing much had changed.