BIG hat, no cattle.

I am car-free in Gainesville - intermittently dependent on public buses, friends, the occasional rental, and most persistently, ride-sharing apps.  No promo, but my adventures have been evolving since the days of UBER POOL in New York City. I can now distinguish a Welsh accent from a Scottish one, courtesy of a trip to the Brooklyn Navy Yards, verify that Venzuelula indeed has Black people, and that, according to a driver from Burkina Faso, “America is an idea that belongs to the World.” Heady notions of my virtual global citizenship.  Fortunately, despite Florida's reputation, the cast of characters has remained brilliantly diverse.  One huite woman, car reeking of cigarette smoke and that pesky ceiling sag showed me a pink pistol in her glove compartment.  It felt less like a threat and more like a mean girl showing off her newest pair of UGGS.  

Then there was a beefy Dave Fowler-type, state championship ring chunked up on his finger, sharing his plans to move to Orlando for a high school athletic director position.  But also to support his newly teenaged daughter’s pop star aspirations. The trap boys in their Dodge Chargers, requisite homie in the passenger’s seat, clearly fresh off a session… of some kind. The mamis, mamas, and mommies, in pristine SUVs, ichthys stickers in the window or bedazzled steering wheels, or featuring a nearly nauseating commitment to air freshener.  Unknown standup comics with an Amazon-purchased LED light show, Etsy clip art dealers, Ph.d students studying berries and stone fruits, mermaid parade participants, and those with fur babies older than 15 years (it’s more common than you’d think).

Yesterday I encountered a member of the semi-retirement class - one of my favorite driver categories.  Deli owners, ghostwriters (slash entertainment booking agents), post office veterans, and, most recently, a western wear salesman. Every Sunday I UBER to my delivery job at USPS, so the cast of characters is broad.  Meanwhile, the job is an unexpected social commentary as I putter around town and its rural margins. Multi-million dollar real estate, trailer parks, starter homes, apartment living, condos, and section 8 -  all in a day’s delivery.  Parishioners of the church of Amazon Prime, irrespective of the income scale. And I get to drive solo, a luxury despite the 102 heat index.  Those 30-year-old jeeps don’t have AC so I consider these paid excursions a mobile sweat lodge.  An unlikely mediation, but a spiritual experience nonetheless. Some customers offer candy, protein bars, or ice-cold Gatorade -  alms for a Delivery Disciple. 

Anyway, this Western Wear conversation verified a story I’ve been telling myself about a Western Wear shop on Williston Road.  Well ‘verified’ isn’t the right word since I’ve always constructed an elaborate fiction including criminal ties and money laundering, but the actual story is more interesting than that.  It involves a lady real estate mogul who handily sold the business to a national chain while charging them rent on the property she still owned. Brilliant.  Even though I’m less inclined toward the capitalist yearnings of my youth, I love a good caper, a switcheroo, a “gotcha bitch!” that leaves the Goliath reeling from a slingshot pebble. 

My driver, Michael, a White M.I.K.E type to be sure, clocks me as an artist.  I think it’s because of the bright green coveralls I’m wearing. But I also hope that it’s something intangible, too.  A signal that permeates irrespective of the institutional no’s I’ve been receiving from grant-making bodies and the like. My curiosity prompts a slew of questions. And he responds kindly, emphasizing the second syllable of “industry” when talking about his career selling hats and boots and snap shirts - plaid, black, and denim. “Big hat, no cattle” is how he describes himself, and offering an industry maxim:  “When times are tough business is okay. But when times are good, it’s really good” (emphasis on the first syllable). Is there a philosophy in there?  A koan of infinite unraveling?  I don’t know, but I’ll be in the back seat, next week, Miss Daisy driven to make my rounds.