“The Making of an activist”
“Looking back” by Renee Garcia
Vukas “Vic” Buzov emerged from Sacred Grounds to join the herd of political animals heading for the annual Fourth of July meeting of neighborhood progressives at Liberty Hill. He’d long vowed to become politically active. This marked the end of his procrastination.
He helped set up and listened to veteran activists touch on labor history, San Pedro history and local events. When it came time for the public to speak, hgot in line, only to step out of it. But before he could head for the bar Sofie Winchester barged onto the stage, made an announcement and asked Vic if he would like to say something.
Caught off-guard and slightly embarrassed, the bunyanesque Slav lumbered to the mic. “There’s been a host of talk around here about filling vacancies in Ports O’ Call,” he said with noticeable nervousness. “I propose we put a Charles Bukowski Library in there. He lived here for 15 years. He was an acclaimed author. And from what I gather, he was a good union man for the US Postal Service.”
Applause followed a pause. Emcee Jerry Ashton thought it was a very interesting idea and urged people to hold their thoughts on the topic and bring them to Bloody Thursday ceremonies the following day.
Vic and longshore coworker Drew Brea talked about the idea from their first corn-on-the-cobs through the last cherry bomb lobbed off Point Fermin.
“Wasn’t Bukowski’s last novel made into a movie?” asked Brea as they waited for their omelettes. “Sure was. ‘Barfly’. Faye Dunaway and Mickey Rourke.” As the pair filed out of the Omelette and Waffle Shop they thought about inviting Dunaway and Rourke to the grand opening.
At the Bloody Thursday ceremonies speakers commemorated the six West Coast longshoremen who lost their lives during the 1934 General Strike before turning things over to the many kids in attendance.
One pensioner said the idea of the Bukowski Library had grown on him. He raised the possibility of putting him on the San Pedro Sportswalk. “We longies have been kinda blessed to have three of our own on it; Mando Ramos, Jimmy Harryman and Joey Orbillo. Nick Trani and Ante Perkov represent restaurateurs. Bukowski should be on it!”
The next day Vic got in a good workout at the gym and then went jogging down Harbor Boulevard. As he approached the Maritime Museum he spotted the Red Car stalled a few blocks away and went over there. From a two-point stance he shouted “Hold on!” and fired out on it. He had it moving instantly and by the time he reached Utros it was going at its normal speed. “Vic, come back!” shouted two impressed young employees. “After I take it to 22nd,” yelled Vic.
Over several pitchers Vic reflected back on his football career at San Diego State. “I played under Don Coryell my first season. He later coached the San Diego Chargers. Jim Hannifan was our offensive line coach. We had a heckuva group; Jerry Myatt, Herbie Dobbins and Claudie Minor, who played about a decade with Denver. What scalds me even today is that even though we won 20 games in my two seasons we didn’t get to go to a bowl game. Talk about a travesty.”
He changed the topic to the Bukowski Library. “What do you think, guys? How ‘bout right over there?” while pointing at Berth 73. “Sure. Why not?” they said with little conviction. Vic left feeling most longies followed sports far more closely than literature, even the stories of a hometown wild man like Bukowski.
As he walked passed the old Antes site an idea occurred to him: why not here? It’d be a case of replacing an old landmark with a future one. It was a great site — big building with lots of rooms, ample parking and right in the downtown area. Plus, there’d likely be less red tape involved.
Crossing Gaffey Street, he began thinking ways of promoting his new project. Unbeknownst to many he was also a concert pianist. Could he arrange some kind of concert in which he could play alongside a famous pianist?
Sofie quickly nixed that idea. “Try getting Dunaway and Rourke down here. But I’d recommend doing sports stuff. Or physical stuff. Seventy-one percent of the US population follows sports. A much smaller percentage follows literature. Longshoremen are no different. I know. I’ve dealt with them for years here at the public library.”
Vic left feeling slightly bummed. But deep down he knew she was right. Should he try and get his old teammates up here? An eating contest? Glass eating? Nah. He once ate 19 Cornish game hens at SDS and could take on challengers. Most people surmised from his size he was a powerful man but they had never seen him push the Red Car. Or so he thought.
Two people had filmed and threw it up on Youtube. It went viral. When he got to the gym he spent the first half-hour answering questions. Several gym members wanted to help with his new project and one offered to be in charge of promoting it. “It’s no problem, Vic. I do social media for a living,” he said, handing him a business card.
Right then and there he decided that pushing the Red Car from the bridge to the Maritime Museum would be one of the activities. So would an eating contest, except it would be Mostaccioli instead of Cornish game hens as a tribute to Ante Perkov.
Random Lengths got word and ran a short piece on the project. Rand Lengths and Bukowski were like a mutual admiration society. It used his picture and quote about the “Big Lie” to pitch for new subscriptions. He, in turn, allowed only one other publication in his house besides — the Daily Racing Form.
Some retired pols and ILWU officers volunteered their services to help get through all the bureaucratic hurdles so he could concentrate on promoting the event. Vic had all his ducks in a row.
Drew Brea said he’d heard a rumor that some people in the South Bay were not that enamored with his project and there could be protests at the event.
On the day of the event skies were clear and temperatures hovered around 75 degrees. A private bus parked on Seventh near Centre. Another pulled right behind it. Both were packed. Out came older women holding signs like “No More Bars in San Pedro” and “Bukowski’s No Role Model!” They resembled a second coming of the Temperance Movement.
Besides being puritanical they were loud and aggressive. Some got in people’s faces. Vic huddled with some advisors and discussed what to do. In the end, the eating contest and his pushing the Red Car went on as planned, with participants tolerating the harassment. When the two buses left locals filed into Godmothers to analyze what just happened.
One of Sofie’s friends Tweeted that the reason for the protest was that Vic somehow got associated with Planned Parenthood. “Impossible!” said Vic. “This is my maiden voyage into political activism right here,” he continued, pointing to Antes’ parking lot.
Sofie remembered seeing an old Ford Contour slathered with anti-abortion bumper stickers parked on Beacon Street. “Let me handle this, Vic,” she insisted.
She traced the license plate number back to its owner. After conferring with some other activists they confirmed that the car’s owner and the protest organizer was, in fact, the same woman.
Sofie obtained the woman’s home and cell phone numbers and dispensed them to several dozen activists from NOW and Code Pink.
For the next four days the woman received calls politely inforing her that they respected her right to protest but Vic was a rookie activist and had nothing to do with the pro-choice movement. After a thousand calls she tearfully capitulated.
Local labor activists took over and booked the Warner-Grand Theater for three straight days of “Barfly”. It would be free to the public, just like “Fahrenheit 911” was a decade earlier. They sent invitations to Dunaway and Rourke but received no responses.
Each showing produced a slightly larger audience. Donations burgeoned. After the Sunday afternoon screening they hauled out a piano. Clad in duds and a new beret, Vic jumped on it. He began with classical tunes and closed with Leon Russell’s “Watching The River Flow.” In between Bukowski fans recited his poetry in the WG lobby.
The crowd thinned for the last screening on Sunday. Vic’s team informed him that from everything they’d heard was positive, if unofficial. A Charles Bukowski Library in the old Antes site was a near-certainty. The question now was when.
When Sofie walked in Vic broke into “Ode to Joy” and sang some of it in German. Then he stepped out from the piano, dropped to a knee and produced a small box with a ring in it. She smiled at him and nodded. He slid it on her finger.