Best and Brightest #11 - Brightest News, Best Possibilities

“How the everloving fuck did you do that?” asked Jim Brightest as he and Devonte walked out of Schatzi and towards the waterfront.

Devonte had bounded down from the office, past Mr. Chorny and the obvious gun protruding from his coat pocket, looked Jim in the eye, said “We’re both hired, we start tomorrow,” feigned a mic drop, and walked toward the door, leaving Jim in his wake as stunned as Gavrilo Princip at lunch on June 28, 1914. 

Fortunatley, Jim’s reaction was not as catastrophic as Princip’s. He turned, caught up to Devonte, and opened the door, beckoning out like a footman escorting a king. 

“I’ll tell you how I did it, but like everything else that’s happening right now, it’s between you and me and anyone we happen to want to sleep with. In fact, it’s more secret than that. This one’s just for you and me. I think this place is some kind of Russian Mob front.”

“Dude, I figured that out from the big dude outside while you were getting interviewed. He was so clearly a businessmeyn,” (Jim said it in a Russian accent, to remind Devonte that the one word of Russian he knew was the charming slang for mafioso) “that it wasn’t even funny. He was PISSED too.”

“But why was he fucking with a German restaurant?”

“You know how when you go to the German Christmas Market in Chicago, they’ve got all the flags of all the states hanging up?”

“I guess? I was more interested in the spaetzle, or its nonexistence. And currywurst.” Devonte’s eyes glazed over as visions of delicious wurst sprung up in front of them. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would have currywurst after he served fancy tech people fancy beers.

“Did you look at the flag over the bar today? It was just Saxony, no others.”

“So maybe he’s from there. I was busy with the interview, in which I got both of us hired. There was a German flag in there, too. Looked pretty normal, except there was a freemason symbol in the middle.”

“HAH. I’m right.”

“What? The Chef was upset about William of Normandy’s defeat of Harold the Saxon a thousand years ago, and he decided to be a Russian?”

“No. He’s from Saxony. When I googled him, I couldn’t get any further into his past than that he got started in the restaurant business here in 1990. His name doesn’t exist before that. But there’s a picture of him, at age 25 or so, playing in a gay softball league with Glenn Burke, in 1985. I was reading an article about Burke, and the German dude in the article has got to be the Chef. Different name, but totally the same dude. He looks like the same guy in the picture now, but older. Even has the same beard.”

“So what are you saying? He’s gay? That was obvious. I’m interested in the Russian Mob thing.”

Now they were looking out from the peninsula, taking in the view of the East Bay, still beautiful to newcomers.

“Tell me, D. You ever heard of the German Dem...”

Jim’s phone rang. “You gonna take that and keep me in suspense?” asked Devonte.

“Ya, I don’t have the number in the phone, but maybe it’s the landlord’s home number or something.”

Jim picked up the phone. “Hello?” 

“May I speak to Jim Brightest?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Brightest, this is Officer Ramirez, badge 6623 Oakland Police”

“How can I help you, Officer?”

“It’s about your application. We’d like to process you to step two.”

“Cool! What’s that mean?”

“Can you show up at our headquarters at Nine AM tomorrow to take a physical fitness test?”

“I mean, I guess.”

“See you then. Don’t be late.”

Jim put the phone in his pocket, smiling for real for the first time in two weeks. He looked at Devonte. “I guess I’ll just have to fill you in on the Chef later. The Oakland popo wants me.”

Devonte’s phone rang.

Best and Brightest #10 - Best Interview with the Brightest of Chefs

“You realize,” Devonte Best said, “that you’ve been speaking to me in Russian, right?”

They were in the office upstairs from Schatzi, the German restaurant. It was closed in and spartan, but incredibly organized. The wall had only three pieces of decoration: a small, highly discolored portrait of Chancellor Helmut Kohl, who had shepherded German Reunification; a large portrait of Sigmund Jähn, the first German Cosmonaut; and a German flag with what Devonte thought was a Freemason symbol in the middle, hanging on the wall beside the only window.

“What?” asked the chef, who had introduced himself as Hermann by email, and who had just finished a twenty-minute point-by-point evaluation of the financial health of the restaurant and its prospects for continued operation, neglecting to mention even one sentence about the food.

“I speak Russian. You were speaking Russian. You gave me the whole introduction to this restaurant in Russian. You gave me detailed financial information about this restaurant. I’m still interested in the job, very interested, but I’d love to hear about two things. First, the food, and second, why you chose Russian instead of German. You’re lucky I speak Russian, honestly.”

‘You’re Lucky’ was the code, so Hermann Krenz continued.

Launching again into German-accented Russian, Chef Krenz described how he had built the restaurant into a respected establishment, and how the plan was working. “This year, I can do two million. If the hipniks keep coming, maybe next year three or four!”

Devonte interrupted him. “But the job. Will you hire me to be a server? I speak German too, you know.”

“Ok, fine. You’re hired. I hire you. But you need to tell me, am I still in? You still can use me, true?”

Devonte’s befuddlement did not last long. The maitre d’ came in and addressed Chef Krenz. “There is a very large man outside. He says his name is Mr. Chorny, and he wishes to apply for a position. I told him he needed an appointment, he showed me a pistol. I advise you not to hire him. I will send him to you in two minutes.”

Chef Krenz delivered a string of invective, in German this time, musing angrily about how a Black man could be named Black and not actually be Black. “I should have known” he said over and over again, “Chorny, Chorny. I should have known.” 

Composing himself, he said to Devonte, “I will see you at work here tomorrow. You will receive three times minimum wage, in exchange for forgetting the contents of this conversation. If after a month I hear you have told a soul of this, you will sleep with George Moscone, that dirty Italian.”

“If I’m in a bargaining position, which I suppose I am, you’ll promote me to beer sommelier, pay me four times minimum, give me 40 hours a week, and hire my friend Jim as a server.” Devonte’s father had taught him negotiation at an early age. The lessons were paying off again.

“I have been in need of a cicerone for weeks now. This is an acceptable arrangement. But remember my words.” Chef Krenz drew from his kitchen jacket a butcher’s cleaver. He held it over his head and turned. There was a flash, and a timpani thump, and the clatter of splinters on the floor. The cleaver was in the wall, now the only thing holding up the formerly framed portrait of Helmut Kohl.

"I see you tomorrow," Chef Krenz was glowering now, "and now I see Mr. Chorny."

Best and Brightest #9 - Best Opportunities, Brightest Answers

The application to be an Oakland Police Officer took about an hour to complete. It was no different than a standard civil service job application. As they were both finishing, Jim looked up. “Damn, D. I bet this takes a long time to process.”

“Ya, probably. Which is why I’m still banking on the German restaurant. I figure they’ve got to be kind of desperate if the only qualification other than a general knowledge of beer is ‘ability to speak German.’ I mean, my German isn’t that good.”

“Dude, your German is way better than mine.” Jim had taken German with Devonte in their fourth year at the University of Chicago, as a way to fill out their schedules. Jim had also taken four years of German from Frau Martinez at Southwestern, but Frau Martinez only spoke German as well as the American soccer star Jermaine Jones spoke English, so those four years were more about eating schnitzel and spaetzle and wearing lebenstraum, or was it lederhosen? He didn’t know until he accidentally suggested that Bavarians commonly wore the Nazi political ideal during UChicago Oktoberfest and got straightened out by Herr Doctor Müller.

“Fine, maybe you’re right,” said Devonte. “Shit. It’s almost two fifteen. I gots to be at the place for the interview by three.”

“We can walk it in that time. Let’s go. Maybe they’ve got an extra position for a server. I could serve for a week or two, right?”

In three minutes flat, Devonte had changed into his best suit, with black tie. Jim was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over jeans and flip flops. “Really, man? You’re gonna wear that to an interview at a German restaurant?” Devonte had the same tone and inflection as Herbert Morrison watching the Hindenburg pull into Lakehurst in May of 1937.

Jim countered with an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. “Eh, this is California. Even the governator would wear this to a restaurant.”

When they walked up to Schatzi, the only car parked on the street out front was stamped with the logo of the San Francisco Health Department. “Fucking shit. Not again. Not today.” Jim was furious.

Wanda Washington had worked for the City since she was ten. She convinced he summer camp counselor at Hamilton Rec Center in the Fillmore to let her keep score for the Adult Basketball league on Friday Nights. Bill McGill had nothing better to do than start his Friday drinking four hours earlier, (At the time, Glenn Burke, the inventor of the high five, was with the Oakland A’s and also Bill’s paramour) so Wanda’s help was a blessing to him. When the boss realized several months later that he was doing that, Bill was reassigned, and WW Basketball Services, likely the recipient of the only business license ever granted to an eleven-year-old in the history of the City, became a scorekeeping contractor for the City of San Francisco.

She saved the scorekeeping and later refereeing money to go to college, started at Cal in Pre-Law, switched to Biology, and got hired back in the City after graduation as a health inspector. She convinced her pastor to invest in farmland north of Gilroy in 1992, based on some tips she’d heard from classmates. When he sold out at the top of the market twenty years later (Instagram needed a campus) he set aside five percent for her as a thanks. When he surprised her with it, she decided she’d take retirement after twenty-five years of city service and finally travel across Africa with her wife, Cleo.

Wanda Washington had exactly five days until retirement when she walked into Schatzi that day. She had asked to go out in the field until the end so that she could avoid the drudgery of the desk. When she heard Jim Brightest complain, she shot him a confused look. “Ain’t nothin wrong with today, Google boy. Whatcha on ten for?”

“I’ve had a bad week, I’m sorry. Lost my job on Monday.”

As she hung the A in the window, for a 91 percent inspection rating, she said, “Oh hon. I’m sorry. I hope you find something. I bet these folks are hiring, they look like they could use some help. The Chef is screaming something awful, sounded like Russian, but it could have been Ukrainian...”

“Not German?” Devonte interrupted.

“Hon, I studied German. Thought in High School that I was gonna do the Peace Corps saving Namibians from drought. Turned out they didn’t want a big black girl from Cal to go teach the white people how to take care of themselves in a desert. Or anywhere, really. It hurts a lot to miss that first job, ya know? A Berkley girl, rejected from the Peace Corps.” Wanda looked out toward the wharf, wondering whether the Namib desert would seem as empty and wide as the ocean. “But I’m finally gonna get to visit Namibia in a week, so I’m golden. Y’all have a beautiful day, now.”

“Ok, you too, ma’am.” said Devonte, and walked inside.

Best and Brightest #8 - The Brightest Idea isn't the Best One

“Jim, I can’t do it. I can’t be a police officer.”

“What are you talking about, Devonte? Spielberg and Rigo were your drinking buddies at home, right?”

The only laws Devonte Best had ever purposefully broken in his whole life were related to drinking. At age 17, his Hebrew School friends Leah and Caitlin went on a trip to California. While walking the boardwalk on Venice Beach, they got fake ID’s, in order to get medical marijuana cards. It was only on their return to Oak River that they both realized they could go to bars. They encouraged Devonte to get one too. On a community service visit to Little Village, he stopped by a Palestinian live animal butcher who ran a sideline producing incredibly high quality fakes for undocumented immigrants. Two weeks later, he had his first drink in a bar.

There was only one independent bar in Oak River. Devonte, Leah, and Caitlin went to T.J. Eckleburg’s (with an appropriate giant sign outside) every Thursday evening after Hebrew School and discussed the lesson over a pitcher of whatever craft wheat beer the tap of the week was. Once, a guy named Rigo was at the bar, heard them, and came over to discuss the Talmud. He declared himself a connoisseur of great religious texts, who wanted to be more informed in his discussions at work. He became a regular in their discussions.

It was only when he was at a college party broken up by the University Police that Devonte learned that Rigo’s job was University of Chicago Policeman.

It was awkward explaining to a policeman that he had, in fact, been drinking with three underage people for a year and a half at that point. It was more awkward when Rigo took out his ticket book to cite Devonte. Rigo broke the tension “Ooo, I had you going there! But now you owe me a pitcher at Jimmy’s, son.” And so it was that at 1:30 on Sunday afternoons, after the Morning shift was over, Rigo and his partner Spielberg (a moniker earned from a childhood of selling pirated VHS tapes in the Ida B. Wells Homes) would sit down in the famous campus bar Jimmy’s and eat bad cheeseburgers and discuss Chicago politics with a kid they knew was underage.

“Jim, I can’t be a police officer in Oakland,” said Devonte, back from his reverie.

“Dude, you were basically a police officer in Chicago.”

“Man, you know the police are used to oppress my people, though. I can’t do that. I’m not urban, or hip, or hop, but I’m not Clarence Thomas or Ben Carson either.”

“Hah. Ben Carson. There was a school for crazy people.” Jim gazed out the window, conjuring the Brewsters and the Renaissance Center and the Riverwalk in a pastel memory of the most idyllic swaths of his childhood. “I grew up in Detroit. I know what you’re talking about. But let me tell you something about something I saw in Chicago. I was working at a community center at 76th and South Shore, you couldn’t possibly get more ghetto except in the Dirty Hundreds. There were two safe places in the neighborhood for kids. One was the community center, and the other was the house next door.”

“Ya? Did the police come to the community center and say something nice to the kids before they pumped them through the school-to-prison pipeline which I avoided by accident of birth into a higher social class out away from the urban core?”

“No. The police never came to the center. The house next door, though, there was a policeman there every day. You wanna know why?”

“CPD racism?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if that was true, he did have the Pan-African flag out with the American flag out front. But no. It was because that house belonged to a Chicago policeman, who had dug out his backyard and turned it into a basketball court and skatepark. If we’re gonna just get random jobs, we could probably find some crap at restaurants that would maybe barely add up to rent and food. Or we could get stacks on stacks while being like that guy.”

“I’ll fill out the paperwork. I’ll go to the interview. But I make no promises. I’ve got an interview lined up at a profoundly fancy German restaurant later. They might make me beer sommelier.”

“Das is gut. But while you’re making that happen, I’ll be putting einigkeit und recht und freiheit on the streets of Oakland.”

“Pass me the motherfucking computer.” And it was with that that Devonte Best and Jim Brightest got down to work answering the questions required for an applicant to the position of Police Officer Trainee in the city of Oakland.

Best and Brightest #7 - Brightest Prospects?

Jim Brightest woke up the next morning at seven, and went for a walk. He didn’t buy tea or a scone or that yerba mate deliciousness he had discovered at Philz Coffee. Every red cent was precious, but the smell of the air was still a morning necessity. Fortunately, it didn’t cost him anything to walk around the city. 

Back at home, he fried two eggs for sandwiches. He put two strips of bacon in a pan to wake up Devonte, and began to clear the table of plates and papers. On top of one was a business card. He lifted it up, to see if Devonte would want it, and saw a tiny police officer’s badge. The text read OFFICER S REGINALD PIERCE. BADGE 5514. OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT. He put the card down on the table.

Devonte clattered into the room, massaging sleep out of his face like a boxing cornerman. He poured himself a glass of tap ("Delicious Hetch Hetchy Water: Too Good To Waste") water and sat down at the table. “Good morning, sunshine. What’s for breakfast?”

Jim didn’t answer. He was looking at Officer Pierce’s business card. He picked it up again. “Well, I never thought I’d say this.”

“What, Jim? You made veggie bacon?”

“Maybe I should become a police officer.”

“Surely you can’t be serious.”

“I am. And don’t call me Shirley.”

“You’re actually fucking with me.”

“Remember that sign when we rolled into the city? Oakland Police now hiring, Good salary and benefits?”

“No, actually. And how well could they pay? It’s still Oakland.”

“I dunno, but I don’t have anything else to look for at this point. I need a check to pay the bills, and I need it fast. Honestly, WE need a check to pay the bills.”

“No. No. No. I couldn’t do it. You can’t do it.”

“How much would it take? What if they pay training? Get a couple of checks, look for another job, wash out on purpose, get hired somewhere else. You know never to tell me I can’t.”

“They can’t pay more than 35 thousand. That’s where the Oak River Police start, and Oak River is much wealthier than Oakland.”

“Let’s call. If they pay 65 and pay during training, you’ll do it with me?”

“You’re taking unfair advantage of my desperation. I’m not gonna argue this with you.”

“We have a twelve month lease. I’m calling.”

“Be my guest. Tell you what. If they pay 75, with full vision and dental, and they pay full salary during training, I’ll do it. There’s no fucking way.”

Jim Brightest picked up his phone. He googled the Oakland police. He called the number. He pushed zero for an operator. He got put on hold. The music was “Bad Boys.” He put it on speakerphone and was singing along by the time the operator picked up. “Officer Ko, 5523, Oakland Police.”

Jim quickly took his phone off speaker and said, “Hello, Officer Ko. My name is Jim Brightest. I’m interested in your new hiring drive. Can I ask you some questions about that?”

Jim smiled, and asked, “So I have a buddy who might be interested in joining with me. Is that ok?”

“Ah, it is? Wonderful. And could you tell me, before I apply, do you offer dental and vision insurance?”

“You do? Fantastic! Is the training period paid? I’d have a hard time leaving my current job,” and here his smile at Devonte was as broad as the Pacific and as genuine as a Penguin in Reykjavik. “The training is paid? Great!”

“Now I have one more question before I ask you where to get the application. What’s the starting salary?”

“Yes, I do have a college degree. Yes, a Bachelor’s. I’m sorry, my friend is here, I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Could you tell me that again?”

Officer Ko, bored or annoyed, said “With a Bachelor’s degree from an accredited institution of higher learning, the starting salary for a police officer is $75,413 before taxes, shift bonuses, and other adjustments.”

Jim said, “Thank you Officer Ko. I’ll be filling out the online application today. I hope to join up with you as soon as possible.”

Devonte sat in silence, eating his sandwich and contemplating a future in Law Enforcement.

Best and Brightest #6 - Best Man for the Job?

This story comes from my friends Colin and Ryne, and from me. They are responsible for the high quality of the tale. I am responsible for the low quality of the execution. Anyway, Storytime.

Six hours later, Devonte Best was done with the interrogation at the police station. “Man, as soon as he went for the race thing, I knew I had to end it,” said Officer Reggie Pierce, when Devonte tried to thank him for his work. “If you need help with this, you make sure you give me a call, aiight?”

During the very friendly interrogation by the officers, Devonte Best learned that the company he worked for had been duped by Mr. Alexandrov. He had pretended that his knowledge of Korean was actually Cantonese, and promised that he was getting a great deal on the electrical components needed to make the AlphaBoxxes work. He even convinced the higher-ups that bibimbap was from Canton.

In reality, he arranged a couple of preview boxes for show, and one massive shipment of extremely pure North Korean crystal meth, which he aimed to steal. To add insult to injury, the Crystal Meth that had come into the company’s possession would later be found to be in violation of several patents held by the Monsanto Corporation.

At his first meeting with his boss the next day, Devonte asked whether his insurance would cover all of the therapy he assumed he would need. “Insurance? At a startup? Nope,” she said. “This isn’t even technically workman’s comp. Also, you’re fired. You never should have let Nick go with you yesterday.”

“What?”

“You’re fired. I can’t have you moping around the office while I try to save my company. Good luck out there.”

And so it was, that the near-shooting which the San Francisco Chronicle had brushed off the first time as just another officer use of a Taser in Oakland, suddenly became plastered on Gawker’s front page. It was Devonte Best’s good luck that his mother and father got all their news from the Chicago Tribune and the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, because the Sun-Times actually ran a blurb of the story, which had briefly lit a fire under the internet. Fortunately for him, another stand-your-ground shooting in Florida the next day pushed all talk of his encounter away from anywhere his parents might see it.

With venture capitalists jumping ship left and right, (Sim Najibullah, a Pakistani oligarch, told them "Pity he was with the meth, pot is hot right now, I could sell you to my friends.") Boxxr was forced to declare bankruptcy and turn over all research to Monsanto. 

Devonte turned back to Google and Apple, but his contacts told him that they wouldn’t be hiring a fresh crop of college grads again until the following summer. 

That night, he got to talk it over with Jim. “What the everloving fuck are we going to do?”

“Well, we don’t owe next month’s rent for 24 more days. I guess we’ve got that long to figure it out?”

“My mom told me if I fuck up out here, she’ll make me pay the balance of my student loans, that’ll be my punishment for moving a plane ride away.”

“Shit. Student loans. At least we won’t owe those for six months.”

“You got any ideas?”

“I’ve been looking around, but my summer internships are tainted by what just happened, nobody trusts anyone who’s ever worked for them anymore. At least you can code.”

“Dude. You think with trauma like that I can just go back into the same type of workplace? I don’t think so.”

“Really? That sucks so much, man. You’re gonna let me know when you wanna talk it out, right?”

“Ya, but not now. Now I just want to sleep and forget.”

The only thing Devonte Best dreamed of that night was Nick Alexandrov holding the gun up to the heads of his family.

Best and Brightest #5 - Brightest Laid Plans of Mice and Best

Devonte Best’s first day had been substantially better. While Jim Brightest was already drinking away the remainder of the $200 his great aunt had given him to help him move in, Devonte was becoming acquainted with an open-plan office at Bizner, a startup incubator in the South Bay.

There was a slide, free lunch from a communal cafeteria, office cats (in a hypoallergenic cat room) and the walls were whiteboards. The office “community service work” board was plastered with flyers for the “Yes on Six Californias” campaign and its various events. None of the flyers described how the future state of Silicon Valley would get any water, but that was a problem for bureaucrats, not disruptors like them.

Boxxr was the only company in the office which produced a tangible, physical product. Their Smart Tupperware would, they claimed, revolutionize the way the kitchen left the home. What that meant, really, was still unclear to Devonte Best. He had been hired for the customer support team, to deal with and patch bugs after the initial rollout of the product, next week. He got a workstation, and a bouncy ball desk chair, and a large stuffed dog holding a tupperware in its mouth, which was Boxxr’s mascot.

The revolution in tupperware, however, was a surprisingly common idea. As it turned out, Boxxr was beaten to the disruption point in the market on Devonte’s second day at work by competing smart tupperware maker TupperCloud, the first cloud-based storage food storage. Inspired by the Dabbawallas of Mumbai, TupperCloud disrupted the food storage market almost instantaneously, making use of Uber and Lyft to revitalize an industry which was dying only in the minds of Six Californias techtrepreneurs.

Though they had been beaten to the smart tupperware punch by TupperCloud, (who also got a glowing write-up in the New York Times and several business magazines) this was not a death blow for Boxxr. In fact, Devonte Best was still enjoying the new job honeymoon as he waited at the port of Oakland on Monday of his second week. He had been asked to drive the Zipcar pickup truck to the port to collect the first batch of AlphaBoxxes, as he was one of three employees with a valid Driver’s License, and the other two were busy coding. They sent Nick Alexanderov, the only middle manager they had, to coordinate the shipment.

On the drive over, Alexanderov made jokes about the driving quality of Asians and disparaging remarks about Latinas. When they got to the port, the sun was just beginning to burn off the marine layer, and their container was scheduled to be ready soon. According to the Maersk Line, their shipment had been offloaded in a shared container at 8:33 AM.

At 8:34, Alexandrov began a string of racial invective against the dockworkers and their apparently slow speed. At 8:45, Devonte turned off the engine and rolled down the windows. At nine, ten, and eleven, he stepped out of the truck for a walk. It was almost noon when a port police officer came up to their car. He knocked on the window. “See some ID, please.”

“Yes sir,” said Devonte Best, as he took out his license.

“What’s your occupation, Mr. Best?”

“Tech Associate, for Boxxr”

“That some kind of startup?”

“Yes sir.”

“You here to receive,” and he looked down at his clipboard, “27 boxes, of various size, containing...”

Alexandrov, who had stopped talking when the officer came over to the car, interjected. “I will receive shipment of boxes. I must investigate and ensure all boxes there.”

“Ok, then. It’s you who I’m here to arrest. Put your hands where I can see them and get out of the car.”

Alexandrov reached down by his boot, and lifted his gun up to Best’s right temple. “If you fuck me, I fuck you.”

“Put the gun down, sir,” said the officer, now holding his own gun, aiming it at Alexandrov.

“I shoot dirty black cocksucker unless you give me boxes.”

And then the officer on the other side of the car fired his taser. As Alexandrov was convulsing, he dropped his gun between the seats. Devonte Best leapt out of the car, the officers leapt in, and it was over.