Democratic Primaries

At the time I was writing project articles for a home improvement type of publication, and they had asked me to design some lawn furniture for them and provide how-to instructions for readers, based on the popular bent willow style. My editor wanted the pieces to look like those designed by a trendy maker of such furniture, and had paid for permission to more or less copy some of his designs, along with mentioning his name and address in the magazine.

So, I had to visit his workshop and learn more, take some photos, and get some tips on how they were made. Well, the man had his workshop and showroom in Beverly Hills, just off Rodeo Drive. I lived about three hours from there. An appointment was made with the designer, and I drove down to Beverly Hills with my camera equipment and my notebook and sketchbook.

At the time, due to the miserable pay I was getting from that magazine and others, I was driving a 1960 Ford Falcon station wagon. It was painted bright yellow, because I had also recently done an article on how to paint your own car. It was so ugly, that I had named it the Millennium Falcon and had vinyl lettering to that effect on the rear window of the car.

Anyhow, it wasn't the sort of car one normally saw in Beverly Hills. But, I drove the three hours and found a parking spot about three blocks from the designer's showroom. No sooner, though, than I had parked the car, two Beverly Hills police cars pulled up behind the Millennium Falcon, lights flashing. One of the policemen got out of his car and approached my car with his hand on his service pistol.

At the time, I had quite a long full beard and long hair. The cop came up and stood back, out of my view. and demanded my license and registration. I got those things out and turned to hand them to the officer. For the first time, he saw my face. He visibly relaxed and politely asked what I was doing in Beverly Hills.

I explained that I had an appointment to interview the the furniture designer, and take some photos and some notes for a magazine article. "OK," the cop said, and the patrol cars drove off.

Why the change in attitude? The cop saw that I was a white guy. That seemed obvious to me. Since i was a white guy, it was OK that I parked on a street in Beverly Hills. My privilege made it OK to park my decrepit yellow station wagon there.

And there it is.