The journey
from Michigan to San Francisco took five days starting in late September and
arriving in early October. Daniel sat in the back seat of his older brother
Michael’s car; his sister-in-law Beth sat in front most of the way. It was 1971
when the interstate they rode on was full of young people hitch-hiking, some
with signs stating their intended destinations and others with none, signifying
anywhere but here.
The never-ending corn-laden
farms of Iowa and Nebraska eventually gave way to the desolate plains of
Wyoming and then wound upward into the Rockies where at the peak Michael
announced, “Across
the great divide!” Their descent took them into Utah and Salt Lake City, and
they continued to Lake Tahoe and into California, through forests and gold
country, almond farms and lemon and orange groves until all traces of
agriculture disappeared. Now they passed by small towns and then the growing
suburbs north of Berkeley until they saw the rising skyline of San Francisco
across the San Francisco Bay.
Along the way Daniel wrote
postcards to people he knew at school and to Debby, a girl who became involved
with Daniel during the summer months after he had graduated despite knowing his
plans to leave for San Francisco. He thought they would be together again he
had told her. The postcards contained impressions about things he saw and heard
in the towns where they stopped for gas or stayed for the night: a hardware
store in Iowa City that had a timeless look, conversations he overheard in
Omaha about Vietnam, a young man in uniform he saw kissing his girl friend
goodbye before boarding a Greyhound at the outskirts of Cheyenne.
Over the five-day
journey Daniel noticed that his brother no longer seemed brotherly and his
sister-in-law was distant. One year earlier they seemed much happier when
Daniel had visited them in San Francisco. Once into the welcoming familiarity
of San Francisco they resembled their past selves, though not completely.
Daniel rented a room in
a residence club – one of several boarding type hotels in San Francisco that
would eventually disappear over the years. Michael had been in the same one when
he first arrived four years earlier. Daniel’s room was small with a window that
looked out onto an alleyway. The light in the room was diffused making it seem
like it was gray and overcast outside, even when the sun was out. After helping
Daniel move in, Michael gave Daniel the phone number of the friend where he and
Beth would be staying. “We’ll be in touch,” he said and was out the door.
The residence club was populated
by a mix of young and old. The young were mostly from other places, either for
school or, like Daniel, in a collective escape from home. Others were from the
area, working until they were settled enough to find apartments of their own.
The older people were mostly men who
sat in the downstairs TV lounge most evenings and ranged in age from thirties
to sixties. Many were divorced, looking to get new footing, others were
recovering alcoholics who attended AA meetings. A few others were refugees from
mental institutions that had been closed due to a law ending involuntary
commitment. The closings were meant to start a shift to community care that as
far as Daniel could tell did not exist.
***
Daniel spent his days looking for work and evenings talking
with people at the residence club. No one measured up to the friends he had
left behind. A burly person, known as Big John and slightly older than Daniel held
court in his room almost every night. He said he was in medical school, wanting
to go into psychiatry. Daniel heard from others that Big John was a liar and made
his money selling grass. He talked about “the establishment” among other
political topics, coming back to the large anti-Vietnam war demonstration in
Golden Gate Park earlier that year and ending on the note that communism was
the answer, and you can’t trust the government.
On Friday night of his first week
there, Daniel was considering going up to Big John’s room when he stopped in
front of the TV lounge. The same few men were there that night. One man seated
away from the others saw Daniel; he waved to him, patting a seat beside him. “Come
on in,” he said. “I’ve seen you here; you’re new here, aren’t you?”
The man had been drinking and asked
more questions about Daniel without waiting for any answers. He talked to
Daniel about his experience as a captain in the Army during the second world war.
“There was a battle,” he said. “A big one.” It wasn’t clear where it occurred
and he rambled about mud-soaked ground that made it almost impossible to march
in and other details that Daniel couldn’t follow until he paused and looked at
Daniel.
“I was in charge of a platoon. They
did anything I told them to do. I told them, ‘Follow me!’ and they did. And they
died.” The man covered his eyes and cried softly. Daniel sat and nodded, at a
loss for what to say, not realizing that all he needed to do was listen.
The man stopped crying and looked
at Danield. “Was your dad in the war?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The Pacific. He fought on Iwo
Jima.”
“Then he knows. Did he drink a
lot?”
“Off and on.”
The man reached for a
handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
After that night, the man known
by the residents as Mr. Hadley always greeted Daniel warmly whenever he
happened to see him.
***
Towards the end of his second week there, Michael
left a phone message for Daniel that he picked up at the front desk; he would
be in Daniel’s neighborhood on Friday and would come by around noon. The
message said nothing more.
Michael arrived at one thirty and
did not look happy. He wore a scowl that reminded Daniel of his father at
dinnertime sometimes when he would think of something that had made him angry. No
one at the table knew what he was thinking.
They stood in silence for a
moment and sat down, Daniel on the bed, and Michael in the chair by the desk.
“How’s the job search going?”
Michael asked.
“Not well.”
“Where are you looking?”
“Frame shops, art galleries. And
typing work.” Michael continued scowling. “Even Kelly Girl but I’m not getting
calls for temp work.” Michael’s scowl grew deeper.
“Work is pretty hard to find
right now,” Michael said. “I don’t know why the hell you wanted to come to San
Francisco and what you think you’re going to do here. And if you expect me to
help you out, you’re wrong. You don’t have to follow everything I do, you know.
Think for yourself for a change. Maybe you should have stayed in Ann Arbor.
It’s obvious you miss it.”
“What are you so pissed about?”
Daniel said. “I never expected you to help me out. And anyway, you told me last
year what a great place San Francisco is and practically encouraged me to come.”
Michael continued as if Daniel
hadn’t spoken. “Beth and I had a rough time on our trip back east. We visited her
parents in Maryland. Her father said he wanted nothing more to do with her and
that I was no better than a bum. Not the greatest trip. We fight a lot now.”
“He disowned her?”
“He never said it outright. But I
would say he has.”
Daniel tried to think of
something to say. He thought of mentioning how one night when they stopped for
the night somewhere in Nebraska he heard Beth cry in her sleep. Best he not
bring it up, he thought.
Two people could be heard talking
outside, their voices fading as they walked further away. When they had passed,
Michael asked, “What did I say about San Francisco to encourage you to come?”
“Something you wrote in a letter.
It was after my visit last year. About San Francisco undergoing a renaissance,
full of people becoming artisans, musicians, writers; that you can do anything
here.”
“Sounds like how I saw the world
back then.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I guess I do, in the back of my
mind.”
“Are you working?”
“Driving a cab again. I did it
for a few months last year after I quit teaching.” Michael scratched the back
of his hand, a nervous habit that had left a rough looking patch. “Anyway, Beth
and I want to take you out on your birthday next week. It’s a nice Basque
restaurant.”
“To tell you the truth, I forgot about my
birthday,” Daniel said.
“We’ll come by about six or so.”
“Sounds good. Talk with you later,
then.”
“Yeah. Talk to you later.”
The promise of further talk was
to remain their way of saying goodbye for years to come.
***
After Michael left, Daniel considered either going
to sleep or crying. He did neither. Instead, he walked around the city along
streets he was starting to know. His meandering took him through Chinatown and
eventually North Beach where he stopped at the Caffé Trieste. He knew nothing
of its past as a haven for poets, writers, and artists. One of the walls was
crowded with photographs of people who had visited the café, some singing, some
who looked like celebrities, though he recognized no one.
He ordered a hot chocolate and
looked around for a place to sit. Almost every table was occupied, mostly by
people who looked like they didn’t want to be bothered. He sat at a table
across from a girl with long black hair who bore a remarkable resemblance to
Debby,
The girl at the table was
deep into reading a book, occasionally writing in a notebook, and looking out
into space. Her name was Jennifer she told him after he sat down and said he
had recently arrived. Her tone was not exactly warm, but she resembled Debby
and didn’t tell him to leave her alone, which was enough to give Daniel a hazy sense
of confidence.
“What are you
reading?”
She held the book up
for him to see: “Revolutionary Letters” by Diane di Prima.
“Who’s Diane di
Prima?”
“A poet.”
“Do you write poems?”
She nodded and went
back to reading.
“I just got here; I’ve
been here about two weeks.”
“So you said. From
where?”
“Detroit. Ann Arbor actually, the
last four years.” He waited in case she would say something. She reminded him
of Debby’s long silences before answering questions.
“Did you come here alone?”
“No; I came over with my brother
and sister-in-law.”
“You were all moving together?”
“Well, yes and no. They’ve lived here
about four years. They were returning from a cross-country trip, going to
country music festivals. My brother plays country fiddle. He’s a musician. Or
wants to be. Well, anyway, they stopped at my parents, so I rode back with
them. I was going to fly but my father convinced me to wait for them.”
Daniel knew she wasn’t interested
in such details. She went back to her reading, and he looked at the photos on
the wall once again.
“What do you do for work?” he asked.
“I’m a therapist.” She brushed
her hair back from her forehead; he could see now that she was about five years
older. “I also make jewelry,” she added. “What about you?”
“I’m looking for work.”
“Any particular kind?”
“No,” he said. “Picture framing.
I used to do framing for my father. He has an art gallery. Whatever work I can
find, actually. Like typing. I’m a fast typist. I don’t want anything too
taxing. I want to write. I’ll write at night.”
Those were his plans, simply
stated as he had told his father in answer to the traditional question fathers ask
their sons after graduation. His father knew one part of the plan: to move to
San Francisco.
“Get a job and write at night?” his
father had said. “Some plans. What kind of job?”
“Picture framing.”
“Framing? You can do that here. For me;
in the gallery.” His father scowled and went into the kitchen where he poured
himself a scotch and talked to Daniel’s mother who was making dinner. Daniel
overheard their hushed conversation. His mother said she should never have let Daniel
go to University of Michigan; he should have stayed at home and gone to Wayne
State. “No,” Daniel heard him say. “That wouldn’t have made any difference at
all.”
He returned to the living room,
his face in a grimace from the scotch burning his throat and
looked at Daniel. “I’ve always told you that you can do what you want with your
life. I’m
talking to you like a man. If you want to go to San Francisco I can’t stop you.
But why not wait until Michael and Beth come here? They’ll be here next week. You
could ride back with them to San Francisco. In the meantime, you can work
framing pictures in the gallery; make some money for your trip. Doesn’t that
make sense?” He didn’t wait for an
answer. “Yeah, it makes sense,” his father had said.
***
“What do you write?” Jennifer
asked.
“Stories, mostly.”
“What about?”
He thought about this for a
moment; so long, in fact, that it looked like she was about to go back to her
reading.
“I write about people in transition,
between various stages of change. I was writing postcards on the trip out with
various impressions of what I saw. I want people to eventually send them back
to me and I’ll weave the thoughts into a story.”
“What kind of story?” Jennifer rested
her chin on her hand.
Other than having confidence that
his disparate postcard messages would tell a story, he hadn’t given much
thought to what the story might look like. “A history, a time capsule about things
going on now that will eventually disappear and things that will remain.”
“It’s a bit vague,” she said. “Is
there any conflict in the story?”
“The whole country is nothing but
conflict, between the way things were and the changes happening around us.” He
went on, trying to put into words that so far had only been ideas in his head
and which sounded better unspoken.
“It’s hard to write about changes
when you’re in the middle of them,” she said.
“Good point.”
She smiled faintly and went back
to reading.
“Sorry to be so rambly,” he said.
“I’m used to it. I’m a therapist;
rambling is good.”
Daniel looked around the cafe;
only a few people were left, scattered at various tables. The conversation was
over, he knew.
After a moment he stood up, “Thank
you for listening,” he said. She smiled her faint smile once again. He looked
back when he reached the door and saw her still reading.
***
It was late afternoon when Daniel returned to the
residence club. He stopped at the front desk to see if he had any mail; he had
none. When he turned around, he saw Mr. Hadley standing behind him.
“Expecting to hear from someone?
Let me guess. Your parents?”
“No. I talked to them a few days
ago.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Good guess.”
“I’m pretty good at guessing.
Girl you left behind?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Yeah, I know how that is. Anyway,
good you talked to your parents. My kids don’t talk to me.” He smiled as if
nothing could deter his good mood.
“You out walking?” Mr. Hadley
asked.
“Yeah, I was walking.”
“Well, this is a nice town for
it. How do you like it? You miss home?”
“In some ways.”
“Yeah, I know all about that. I
know a lot of things,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. I can tell.”
“That’s OK, Mr. Hadley.”
“You OK? Everything alright?”
“I suppose. It just doesn’t feel
that way sometimes.”
“I know how that is,” he said.
“About new places not as good as the last. This place’ll grow on you. And you’ll
do fine. You’re a good kid. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
***
In his room, Daniel sat at his desk and looked at
the sheet of paper in his typewriter – the, beginning of a letter to Debby. It
was in response to a letter she sent describing the courses she was now taking.
She was now ensconced in the fall semester, as were all his friends who had received
his postcards. He now meant nothing to them other than someone out in a world
they would soon be out in as well.
He wanted to tell Debby the story
that the postcard observations were trying to tell. His thoughts about it now
seemed momentarily clear.
It was about a migration, he
would tell her, about crossing the great divide. It was about people looking for
a new life. Not like the pioneers of old; this was a different type of crossing.
The newcomers were displacing those who remembered the history of the places
now being occupied, bringing a new vision of what the world was about.
He tried to imagine Debby’s thoughts
on this. She would think he was trying to make some kind of sense of a world
gone crazy and there was some truth in that. It was best that he just tell her
he missed her and loved her and keep the thoughts about the great divide in his
head, he decided; undisturbed and untarnished. An unspoken history in an
America divided by a war.
About the author
BIO: Barry Garelick writes about time, memory, and people who are facing transitions in their lives. His fiction is published in Cafe Lit, Opiate, and Fiction on the Web. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife.
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