INDIVIDUAL: Peter Miles Bergman
GROUP SIZE: 29
NATURE OF GROUP: Owners of Volkswagon White Cabriolet Convertibles in the greater San Diego metropolitan area contacted, via form letter, by Mr. Bergman over the course of one year.
INCIDENCE OF SOCIOMETRY: Hoisted By My Own Petard.

Only habit made me interrupt my errand after a year with little success. 1MPS478 sat innocuously at the rear of the “Thriftee’s” parking lot. I had long since abandoned the practice of continuously carrying my point and shoot and form letter. Without much sense of mission, I turned heel to fetch the items from my apartment.

Holstein cow print interior, revealed by a receded top, materialized like a phantom on the developing polaroid. “Cabriolet” literally translates to “convertible;” yet, 1MPS478 marked my first encounter with fully realized potential. It’s picture took the final space on my bulletin board. Twenty eight white Cabriolets, tops up tight. One down. A distracting telephone call prevented me from drawing conclusions.

Waegner had been drinking coffee at “Dave’s Place.” A purple building swathed in rainbow flags, “Dave’s Place” sits across 5th Avenue from “Thriftee’s.” It is a non-profit coffee house donating all proceeds to AIDS related causes. I had only been in “Dave’s Place” once despite its obvious popularity and close proximity to my apartment.

Waegner initially thought the letter nestled under his wiper blade was a ticket. His friend read it aloud and exclaimed, “Oh! He’s been watching you!”We talked half the time about me and half the time about 1MPS478. Waegner seemed unassuming and open minded. He asked if I would like to go dancing instead of out to lunch.

I had to describe myself as I had done earlier in the year with Patrick the owner of 3BDS715. Waegner works as a free lance artist and loves to draw. He was working on a design to have air-brushed on the hood of his white Cabriolet. My curiosity was aroused by this, yet; he teasingly maintained that it would have to be a surprise. An example he gave of a potentially “cool” design was, “Luke Skywalker fighting Darth Vader with light sabers.” Now that to me, on a white Cabriolet, strikes the essence of style. It was not, however, the design for 1MPS478. We set a date for the Friday after next. Waegner was going out of town and didn’t want to have me in the car until it was detail cleaned. I was anxious. Friday seemed a long way off. I don’t remember who broke the date. Our next one was broken and the one after. Despite coming so close, It seemed I would never feel the wind in my hair.

One night returning home, I saw a white Cabriolet parked on the east side of my block. 1MPS478 complete with a brand new airbrush design. “The Xavier Institute For Higher Learning Mutatis Mutandis.” I was interested in the meaning of it all. The design renewed my interest in our indefinitely postponed luncheon. I hurried up to my apartment for another form letter. Waegner called the next night and caught me a little drunk. We set a date for Wednesday.

I was becoming apprehensive now that our encounter seemed imminent. Most, possibly all, of the people contacting me regarding the form letter had misinterpreted it as a romantic advance. Many recipients seemed to think that I already knew who they were, at least by sight. Not one, prior to Waegner, mentioned their white Cabriolet. The owner of TS LIL 1 first received a form letter while parked on 4th and Washington, a block north of my apartment. Over two months later, driving in a secluded area approximately fifteen miles away from my neighborhood, I happened upon TS LIL 1 parked on a shady side street. The bustling urban area enveloping the point of initial contact most likely provided work parking for TS. This new encounter undoubtedly hit closer to home. The sheer circumstance that enabled me to leave form letters on TS LIL 1 at two distant points of the city lent me a misguided sense of comradery with the elusive owner. In retrospect, I should have known that my zest for white Cabriolets would seem frightening when confronted in two distinct geographical contexts. The second encounters effect on the owner of TS soon came bearing down. My answering machine recorded the following message, “Listen dick-and-head! quit leaving notes on my girl friend's car... Asshole!” The caller did not sound threatening. His voice quavered a bit like someone driven to violent temperament by unusual circumstances. I felt terrible. Stalking was far from my intentions. Needless to say, TS, along with the others, never considered a lunch date. Waegner, quite to the contrary, seemed compelled to go out specifically because he took the form letter as a romantic advance.

The neighborhood I lived in is the gay and lesbian district of San Diego. A pink-neon sign reading “Hillcrest” spans University at 5th. I encountered the customized 1MPS478 in its glow. Thirty yards west, perched atop “Jimmy Wong’s Golden Dragon,” my front window aired an extended sitcom, “Life, On This Abused Sidewalk.” Broad shouldered Bette Midlers, Dolly Partons, and countless other divas would wander in and out of “The Escape” directly across the street. Each night an Elton John impersonator audibly went through his set whether I was peering out an open window, laying in bed, or in the bathroom at the back of the apartment with water running. The show went on. I frequented bars but never went in “The Escape.” Some friends from out of town once ducked in and came back to report that everyone was very nice and that there was a buffet. My mothers boyfriend who went into the bush of Vietnam at 17, has claimed to have taken “over 700 hits of acid,” and delivered a son with his own hands, reported, after sitting in front of my window for a few hours, that he had, “Seen things tonight that I never in my life thought I would ever see.” Photos of my block, especially the landmark neighborhood sign, would, in a years time, be splashed across the face of America’s printed media. The wake of my neighborhood’s estranged son. Andrew Cunnanin the “Gay Serial Killer,” prior to gunning down Gianni Versache in front of his Miami mansion he had enjoyed eating at “California Cuisine” on 10th and University and dancing at Rich’s the, “Largest gay male dance club in North America.” Personally, I am strait bordering on redneck. My upbringing was rooted in liberal ideals socially and politically; yet, extremely sheltered. Laramie Wyoming, my home town, became the unwilling focus of national scrutiny after the 1998 beating death of an openly gay university student. “Fag” and “Get a haircut” were clever insults all to familiar to myself and several “counter-culture” friends in pre-MTV Laramie. We regarded large pickup trucks and muscle cars with trepidation after the first few fights with drivers of such. Far and away, however, residents of the least populated state deplore the barbarous act committed in Laramie. National media, in the aftermath of the brutality, made much of the fact that there are no hate crime laws in Wyoming. There are, with this glaring exception, no hate crimes. There are almost no violent crimes, there are very few laws regulating anything, there are very few homosexuals and certainly no laws that take them specifically into account. Despite living in Hillcrest, long removed from the empty wind swept plains, I shied away from homosexuals. Gay men, whom I was continually surrounded by, did not enter my social sphere. In fact, I had never spent any time alone with one. Thus, I was now faced with a new and surprisingly uncomfortable situation. Guilt crept in. It seemed that perhaps I should've made my orientation clear to Waegner. Leading him on would certainly be in poor taste. Conversely, I had been trying to get a lunch date with a white Cabriolet owner for over a year. The last thing I wanted to do was discourage the man.

Wednesday came sooner than expected. It was a busy day but I forced myself not to cancel based on such an excuse. He told me to wait in front of my apartment. There is no place to pull over anywhere on that side of the street.1MPS478 came rolling up with the top down. A tall man who worked out regularly, Waegner barely fit in his car. The changing traffic signal prevented any formal introduction. I had to jump in quickly. Dance music was loud in the car. It made talking difficult. Since Waegner made a point of exercising, I assumed that he had healthy eating habits. I suggested we get some sushi.

He told me, over Chicken Teriyaki, that he’d only sushi twice.On a normal day he would eat tacos from “Jack-In-The-Box.” Conversation turned toward our respective eccentricities. Waegner explained that he had always been an avid comic book collector. Xavier is the leader of “The X-Men.” “Xavier Institute for higher Learning Mutatis Mutandis” was his declaration of his desire to live by the teachings of Xavier as detailed in X-Men comic books. He was curious as to why I was leaving form letters on white Cabriolets. Short of a concrete answer, I demurred. Things wound down. I was running late so Waegner offered to give me a ride twenty miles up the coast to LaJolla. It was a kind offer and allowed for more time in 1MPS478.

I took pictures throughout our encounter. Waegner told me he didn’t really like photographs. It was a hint I rudely ignored and continued snapping away. If it had been a romantic date it would not have been considered a good one. We were very cordial to each other, even friendlier. Under separate circumstances, we may have become friends. Unfortunately, separate circumstances would have never materialized. He seemed at ease given the way we met and my relentless documentation. I was a wreck. The whole time I could not help but fear that he wanted in my pants. I never even developed the presence of mind to ask what kind of mileage he got. Waegner was defined, to me, by his sexual preference. I know enough to understand that I was being homophobic. It was a term I had never used to describe myself. It fit. Maybe it was a date for Waegner. Maybe, probably, he just knew that he was a stylish man with a stylish white Cabriolet and was enjoying some of the perks.