THE BOOK OF SONGS AND DREAMS: THREE

JOURNAL ENTRY 01/12/2009

Minton has been on my mind and I have been looking back over the details of our short friendship. It occurs to me that it may not have been Tubby’s that I walked out on that final night, it may have been Minton, and not just because of my profound mortification over the scene I had caused and the embarrassment it must have brought down on him. Minton had said to me that very night, “You have to believe in something, something in yourself.” He was talking about music, the creative force of the music. He may have touched a tender spot there. Did I believe in myself? Was there even something within me to believe in? Did I turn away from this question, not having the courage to face it? Courage, what does it really mean? The guts that it takes to risk failure or disappointment? Or is it the guts that it takes to face the truth, the truth about ourselves and our limitations, the truth that we may not want to know. Jazz music is populated by iconoclasts, the great innovators, the creators of the art form. As an adolescent infatuated by jazz, I came to know and idolize the “greats”, like Bird, Dizzy, Miles, Thelonias, Clifford, and the others. Unfortunately for me, these became my idols and set achievement standards that I knew I could never reach. Of course this is the trap that stops many of us from even attempting to follow our passions. A good teacher can help guide one past such doubts, and to work to achieve one’s potentials, at whatever level they may be. Minton was a teacher and he took me in, perhaps without either of us realizing it. It is clear to me now that he was at least knocking on the door of self confidence, self respect, self acceptance when he encouraged me to reach for that intangible something within myself. Some of us spend our entire lives searching for a teacher, a wise one, who will lay out the truth for us, only to discover later that we had been surrounded by them all the time. We need to learn to recognize and open up to these messengers and to the messages they carry. Teachers are everywhere, but attentive students are hard to find.

The young doe was grazing near the bench once again. She nodded her head as if to greet me. I stopped and we considered one another for a few moments. “Good morning”, I said. She lowered her head and then looked up at me again. I took a step toward her and she stood her ground. I watched her for a few more moments and then walked on to the bench for my morning meditation above the sea. Walking back a little later along the path to the cabin I noticed her again watching me from a small path that forked off of mine. I walked toward her and she turned slowly away giving me the feeling that she wanted me to follow, which I did. Keeping a distance of about fifty feet between us she led me through the damp mossy redwood forest. After no more than a half mile we entered a meadow that sloped gently up to the tree line where there was a small wooden house not much larger than my cabin. I stopped to take in the scene. Smoke drifted from the chimney of the house, so it was clear that someone was living there. Also, there was a fairly large terraced garden to the right of the house that was enclosed by a high wire fence, obviously built to keep the deer out. I noticed someone working in the garden.

The deer walked up to the gate of the garden fence and greeted the gardener with a nod. In a few moments the gardener came out the gate and latched it carefully behind her, walked up to the deer and spoke to her, scratching her neck and ears as one does a cat. She looked up and noticed me standing at the foot of her meadow. My inclination was to turn and leave, but I stayed because I knew she had seen me and because I was even more curious now about the deer. I walked up to greet her.

She was an older woman, even older than myself with her gray hair tied back in a girlish ponytail. She wore overalls over a long sleeved red cotton shirt with a blue and white bandana tied around her neck. Her hands and face were spotted and lined by weather and age, but her eyes were light gray, clear and young. She immediately reminded me of my grandfather’s second wife, Beulah, whom I loved dearly as a young child.

“Good morning”, I said as I approached. She smiled and nodded to me, reminding me of the deer. “Your friend there led me here along the path that leads to my cabin”. “Yes, she’s much too friendly for her own good, but she is also quite sensitive to peoples’ motivations and intentions, so it speaks well of you that she has brought you here to meet me.” Her smile was soft and her manner was calm and genuine. I immediately felt at ease with her. “Are you living in the Goodman’s cabin then? No one has lived there for a few years now. It’s nice to know we have a neighbor.” She said her name was Annie, asked mine and then introduced me to the deer. “Dear Deer, this is Mr. Tom”. She spoke to the deer as if she were a child. I stroked the deer’s chin and she nibbled my hand with her lips. “She is hoping you have something sweet for her, perhaps some black berries. Once you start feeding her, she’ll pester you to death. She walks right into my house just as if it was her own, eats the cat’s food if I don’t take it away first, and then pesters me until I give her some Quaker Oats and berries, if I have them. She’ll eat anything you give her except meat.” Hearing the bleating of a goat I looked up to see a she-goat tethered on a long rope behind the house. “Oh, that’s Jennifer, my milking goat, Dear Deer’s best friend. They are always challenging one another, jousting with head butts and hoof boxing for hours. Then they will graze together like mother and daughter.” “Quite a menagerie you have here, but no dog?” “No dog”, she shakes her head. “They keep the deer away and upset things, being so territorial. Just Jennifer and Charles, the cat, and now of course, Dear Deer.” She told me Dear Deer had shown up one day, a young fawn without a mother. “No telling what happened to her mother. Maybe coyotes or poachers.” “I hear gun fire sometimes in the canyon”, I said. “Yes, yes. It doesn’t look like it but there are several families living in this canyon and some of them feature themselves to be hillbillys, living off the land by killing doe and fawns and birds small and large. I’ve met some of them, but they generally keep to themselves.” We kicked the dirt for a few minutes in silence and then she asked, “How long do you plan on living in the cabin?” “About a year”, I said, “I’m working on a project that requires peace and quiet and solitude. I’m giving myself a year to get it done.” Another few moments of silence and then she straightened up and said, “Well, back to work for me. Come by some afternoon around four or five for a cup of tea, if you feel so inclined.” “Thank you, I’ll do that”, I said and waved Goodbye. The deer watched as I walked back to the path, but stayed by Annie’s side.

Part One: The Party
Summer 1964

The next rent day is creeping closer and I have to develop a plan. I’ve got to make a life here in the City. No matter how I twist and squirm I know that I’ve got to find a job. Reality is yanking at my sleeve. I’ve got to act because I’ve got to eat. Plain and simple.

Maxwell brings me leftovers from their table and slips me a five whenever he can, but he’s got the kids and Clara to deal with and I don’t want to add to his pressures. I’m reading “Tropic of Cancer” again, to help balance my fears and frustrations, and just came to the part where Henry has a brainstorm for how to have a good home cooked meal every night. He writes to a dozen or so friends asking each to have him over for dinner one night a week. They all know that he is a struggling artist with a dynamic personality and many respond positively, wanting to help and happy to have him around once a week. He then sorts the positive replies by the quality of their meals and personalities and works out a schedule. Thinking of this for my own situation I immediately see why it will never work: a) I’m not a struggling artist with a dynamic personality. I’m a half-assed musician washed up at the age of twenty-five who is repulsed by the idea of getting a job, and b) I only have one friend.

I’m in the streets again in the evenings after feasting on bread and butter sandwiches for breakfast and lunch. When the butter runs out I eat the bread, first nibbling off the crust and then rolling the rest into a ball imagining that I am eating meatballs and spaghetti with a fragrant Italian tomato sauce, licking my lips with pleasure.

On O’Farrell Street I pass a bar with a sign in the window: FREE HOT DOG WITH YOUR BEER! THURSDAYS 5 TO 7 PM. What luck, I’m just on time! The beer is .65¢ but the hot dog is Polish, fat and juicy. Also, they have a condiment bar with Dijon mustard, ketchup, chopped onions and tomatoes and pickle relish. I pile it all high, concocting my meal for the night and settle down at a small table near the juke box. Every bite is delicious. In fact it’s so damned good I splurge on a second, eating this one slowly, chewing each bite twenty times, counting each chew and resisting the urge to swallow until I get to twenty and then feeling the over masticated gruel slide down my gullet into my happy stomach, washing it down with the cold beer in a frosted mug, wiping the foam from my lips with the back of my hand. Man, oh man! This is the best food I’ve ever eaten! I’m thinking that being broke ain’t that bad. Your senses are enlivened, heightening even the smallest pleasures! Looking around the bar, the faces are happy, the voices boisterous, the click of the pool balls blending nicely with the Country music on the box. I’m happy to be alive right where I am sitting at this little table completely anonymous in the crowd of strangers, all eyes and ears, beautifully alone.

In the Men’s Room there are two urinals. I snuggle up to the one that is available and take a long and satisfying piss. Suddenly, the guy next to me says, “Ah, nothing like a good wiz.” Speaking to a stranger at the urinal is a violation of Men’s Room ethics anywhere. I keep my eyes forward and say nothing, wondering if he is a fag about to hit on me. I shake, zip, wash and exit quickly and return to my private spot next to the juke box where I imagine myself to be invisible. But the guy walks right up to my table, pulls up a chair and flops himself down with a sigh and looks around the room sharing my view of the crowd. I look directly at him with my best “Who the fuck are you” look. “Hey, hey”, he waves me off, not in the least bit intimidated. “I’m no queer. We’re OK. OK? I know a friend when I see one.” Shit, I’m thinking. Time to move on. I grab the pea coat and stand to go. “Hey buddy, slow down”, he says, “Really, I’m here for the hot dog just like you are. Why else would we be wasting our time in a dump like this? Listen to that crap on the box. Hank Snow! Give me a break!” “What’s wrong with Hank Snow?” I say, stuck in mid-stride to make my exit. “Well, he ain’t no Bob Dillon, now is he. Sit down a minute. Take a load off.” I sit back down and shrug a shoulder to myself. I’m thinking maybe this guy is legit, just another soul in transit like me.

“Are you going to the party?”, he asks. I frown at him, “What party?” "THE party. The Friday night party. Don’t you know about The Party?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What party?” “Every Friday night there is an open party somewhere in the City. It’s The Party. They have it in a different place every week. All you have to do is call the party number on Friday and they tell you where it’s at. Man, if you don’t know about The Party you’re missing out, my friend.” “What’s the number?” “It’s a different number every week and you have to know someone who is on the inside to get the number.” “And you’re on the inside, right?” “No, but I know someone who is. That’s how they control who comes to make sure everyone is cool. Man, let me tell you, these parties are something else! Food, wine, smoke, hip and friendly chicks. I get laid almost every Friday night! Dance, have a good time and then get a piece of ass! Not too shabby!” “Sounds pretty good.” I’m starting to relax with this guy, thinking he’s just a nut. He’s a bit younger than me, stocky, short cut hair flat on his head. His energy is high. I’m thinking he’s twirling on bennies. I’ve seen these guys way too many times and know they quickly become a pain in the ass. I don’t mind hanging with him a bit, but I vow not to let him know where I live.

“Look”, he says, suddenly standing. “I’ve got a thing to get to. Meet me here at 10:30 tomorrow night and I’ll take you to The Party. It’ll blow your mind. I promise.” He reaches out and we shake hands. “I’m Richie”, he says and walks out.

The place is changed after he leaves. The music is corny and I’m surrounded by a room full of hicks. “He’s fucked up my groove”, I say to myself and head for home.

After debating all day with myself about what I’m going to do, I find myself back at the bar the next night as planned. I’m there at 10:30. Being on time has always been one of my greatest faults, but Richie doesn’t show until 11, just when I have decided to leave.

“Hey, what’s happening! Glad to see you made it. I got us a ride with three chicks. Sometimes I bang the blond one driving, but the other two are up for grabs. Do your thing!” His mouth is running all the time, but, as with most people like him, he seldom says anything. For now, he serves the purpose, however, of filling up the awkward silences and gives me a chance to share some smiles of dismay with Jamie and Martha, the two girls in the backseat.

Richie is into a narrative about his part-time job as a car salesman in South City, waving his arms and giving directions to Laura, the blond, without missing a beat. “They’re all flakes”, he says. “They wander onto the lot because they don’t have anything else to do. A fucking waste of time, every one of them – turn left at the corner – fucking flakes! The real buyers come in the evening after work. That’s why they put me on the day shift, those bastards – watch out for that taxi! Stupid shit!”, he yells out the open window. “Hell, I told Saltzman, the Barry Saltzman, the one you see in the TV ads, I know that guy, I told Saltzman he needs to put me on a salary.” “What did he say?”, asks the blond. “He told me to go fuck myself!” He roars in laughter over this and we all join in. “Here, here! Park here!”

I have no idea where we are except that it is a steep hill and the house is one of those great old Victorians with two flights of concrete steps to get up to the porch. The place is lit up and boiling with music. People are sitting on the steps and porch smoking cigarettes and pot. I ask Richie how they can get away with smoking dope right out in front without getting busted. “These people are rich”, he says pointing up at the house, “and besides that the cops don’t give a shit as long as things stay peaceful.”

The front door is wide open to help cool off the heat from about a hundred people who are packed into a large chandeliered living room. The music is coming from every corner and is so loud that it is impossible to have a conversation. But these people aren’t here to talk. Everyone is dancing, most of them with no one in particular, dancing for a while with one and then drifting on to someone else, writhing, smiling, joints floating around the room from all directions. Not being one for dancing, I slip through the crowd, taking a toke here and there, working my way into the next room where there is a table of food and several tubs of beer, wine and sodas. I fix up a plate of meats and cheeses and fill a paper cup with white wine. Already my head is filled with smoke, my eyelids are heavy and there is an impromptu grin on my face. The music is unknown to me but is happy and energetic. The lights are dancing, the people are writhing and I notice that there are many more girls than men. The girls are like flowers, spinning, and they seem to me to be all foxy and sexy. I feel as though I have stepped into a new and wonderful world where there are no issues of rent, or food, or of finding a job, where there are only pretty girls and time has come to a stop.

I realize that Laura, the blond, is dancing in front of me inviting me to join her. I smile in return, but don’t join in. “Come on”, she shouts over the din. “I’m eating”, I shout back. She rolls her eyes, shakes her blond head and floats away. She’s tall and thin with blue eyes that seem to be made for laughter and fun. I wonder about her and Richie and why she would go out with a guy like him.

It is now past 2:00 AM.. The crowd has thinned considerably and the music and noise has fallen several decibels. I am sitting on a couch in the living room where the party continues, mesmerized by the dancing girls, their sexy movements and blank faces, and I am righteously stoned. Laura, the blond, squeezes in between me and the skinny black guy next to me and looks at me with a half smiling, half challenging look on her face. I see her eyes, and her mouth. Janice Joplin is singing Bobby McGee. Impulsively I lean forward and kiss her softly on the mouth. She does not return the kiss but keeps looking into my eyes. She speaks while my mouth is still on hers. “Your eyes are green”, she says. “Hazel”, I correct, while continuing the kiss. Then she kisses me back, holding my head in both her hands. It is a soft and dreamy kiss, the first I have had from anyone in several months. When she pulls back I say, “Would you like to go home with me?” “No”, she says, “but I’ll give you a ride.” “Where’s Richie and your friends?” “They caught a ride to another party.”

She parks near the apartment. I pull her into my arms and we neck like teenagers for a while. “Come in with me”, I urge. “No”, she says. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to.” She extracts a small notebook from her purse and writes her phone number on a blank page. Handing it to me she says, “Call me.” “OK.” I get out of the car and watch her drive off.

A week later I haven’t called her and have no intention of doing so. The last thing I need right now is a girlfriend! I have put an application in at a few employment agencies asking for any kind of work that is available. The rent is due and I find myself creeping in and out of the building to avoid the landlord. I’m listening to music with the headset so the landlord doesn’t know I’m home. In between tunes I hear a knock on the door and freeze like a lizard. I wait and the knock comes again, this time with a muffled voice, “Hey, open the door!” It’s not Maxwell, and no one has buzzed at the downstairs door. But I know it’s not the landlord either because the sentence contained more than one syllable. I open the door to find Richie standing there with a packed duffle bag over his shoulder. “Richie! How did you find me? How did you get in the door downstairs?” He blusters past me ignoring my questions and throws his bag down in a corner. Looking around, he says, “Not bad. Not bad. I once had a place up on Divisadero a lot like this.” He checks out the bathroom, kitchen and bedroom saying, “Only one bed. That’s not a problem. Look”, he says finally looking at me, “I need to crash here for a while. They threw me out of my pad, those bastards, and I’m a little short on cash right now. That fucking car gig is a waste of time. But I did convince them to give me one Saturday a month. Shit, that’s like throwing a hungry dog a bone. I need meat, man, meat! Know what I’m saying?” Finally I regain my balance and bust into his monologue. “Hold it, man, hold on a minute. Slow down, will you? No offense intended, but I don’t want no fucking roommate. I’ve got enough problems as it is, and there ain’t no meat here, not even any bones!” I don’t like conflicts, but this guy is starting to get on my nerves. I have come to value the privacy of this small apartment which is my refuge from the churning issues that are represented by the busy street outside. At least here I’m not a trick for the hucksters and down-and-outers who wander the streets. “Spare change? Spare change?” I’m getting sick of hearing it. I don’t have any change much less spare change. And I don’t want to give up my privacy to this motor mouth who comes uninvited and unwelcomed. “I don’t mean to be cruel, Richie, but you’ve got to keep moving.” I open the door and stand by it looking at him with a small smile. I’ve learned long ago that when you have to give someone bad news it’s best if you do it with a smile. He looks at me dumbfounded, the air slowly leaking out of his body, and he seems to be shrinking like a deflating balloon. For a long moment he doesn’t say anything, which is out of character for him. I’m doing my best to hold the smile, but it is gradually fading of its own accord. “Look, man”, he says finally, “just a couple of days. Really. No shit. I’ve got a thing happening next week that’ll bring in some bread, then I’ll move on. Hey, I’ll pay your rent for a month,” his eyes starting to light up by this impromptu plan. “Yah, that’s it, I’ll pay your rent for a whole month, just in return for a few days right now when I really need them. No problem. There’ll be plenty of bread next week. Big bucks! It’s all set up! No shit! And not only that, I know where we can get some food, tonight if you want, all the food you want. Easy as pie, you see what I mean?” He’s all animated now, his body pumped up again with hot air. I feel the air leaking out of me now, and he’s bouncing around the room like an excited dog ready to go for a ride in the car. It’s hopeless and I know it. I push the door shut and light a cigarette. Richie goes over to the window and looks out on the street below. Suddenly he throws open the window and climbs out onto the fire escape. I’m hoping he’s going to jump, but no. He emits a loud whistle through his fingers and shouts, “Hey! Where you going? Come on up. Yah, hi! Come on up for a beer.” He turns to me, “Three chicks”, he says nodding his head, “See, I told you.” Told me what?, I’m thinking. “Yah, number 6”, he shouts down at the girls. “Hey, pick up a six-pack at the corner, will you? I’ll pay you when you get up here. Just ring number 6.” He watches as they apparently head for the corner to get the beer. I’m thinking they won’t be back, but I’m wrong and soon the bell rings. I buzz the front door. Richie opens the door and looks down the stairwell. “Yah. Hey, how you doin’? Come on up.” It turns out to be a guy of about 23, and two foxy but young chicks. They are Latino and we quickly learn that they are from Peru, in the City to visit some family. One of the girls is the guy’s girlfriend, and the other is his sister. They don’t speak much English but are friendly and cheerful. I don’t like the situation because it is obvious that the girls are under age, and that’s the kind of trouble I’m not ready to risk. The best time to fix a problem is before it occurs. I pull Rickie aside. “I’m outa here”, I say. “Here’s a spare key. Be careful with these girls. I’ll check you later.” As I turn to leave I have a thought and turn back to him. “And get some fucking food, will you?” “No problem, man, no problem. This group is just what the doctor ordered”, and he turns back to his new friends.

When I return that evening the place is empty, but there are four tubs of Chinese food in the middle of the floor. Egg rolls, a shrimp dish, fried rice, a beef and broccoli dish. There are even two beers in the fridge. “Not too shabby”, I’m thinking, and dive into the feast.

Part Two: Orientation
Summer 1964

The next day is another day with the same old problems: no money, no food. “OK, we’re going to take care of this thing tonight”, says Rickie, “but we’ve got to wait until one or two in the morning”. “What are we going to do, blow up a bank?” I ask. “Not quite”, he responds, “check this out. I know this chick that lives in a girls rooming house up on Larkin near Russian Hill. The girls get room and board so they have a dining room and a big kitchen. She works in the kitchen sometimes and says there’s always loads of good food in there. And dig this, there’s a back door they use to get to the dumpster and it’s never locked. How about that! It’s not like we’d be breaking in ‘cause we’ll just be walking in. Are you into it?” I nod skeptically, thinking I can just split if it gets dicey.

At about 1:30 AM he wakes me from a slumber. “Time to go to work”, he says. He’s got a flashlight and a small backpack and puts a pillow case in it for me to carry part of the load. I’m thinking this isn’t such a good idea, but I’m also thinking about the haul we’ll be making. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I keep saying to myself. This is all new to me. I’ve never stolen anything except a candy bar in a market when I was fifteen, and I got busted for that! I broke into tears and the owner took pity on me and let me go, making me promise to tell my mother what I had done, which I actually did. I think she was more amused by my honesty in telling her, than she was upset by my crime. But this is different, yet it sounds so easy. I’ve got to at least check it out.

We walk up Larkin to Union, which is only about six to eight blocks, and past the three story house. It’s as dark as a tomb. “Perfect”, he says. We come back down the alley and there it is, big and dark, and there’s the dumpster, just like he said. But there’s a tall solid fence which we hadn’t anticipated, and a gate which is latched from the inside. “No sweat”, he whispers, “hold the pack”. He climbs up on the dumpster, steps over the fence and drops down on the other side with a thump and a small groan. “You OK?” I whisper. He doesn’t answer but I hear the click of the gate latch and the gate squeaks open. “Shhh”, he says as if I had made the gate squeak. There is a short stepping path up to the back of the house and a door with a window next to it. He points at the door, indicating that it’s the one to the kitchen. We sneak-step up to the door like the amateur criminals we are and try the knob. Locked! “Fuck!”, he whispers. This is getting creepy and I’m ready to split, nodding my head toward the gate. He shakes his head No, and holds up one finger indicating Wait. He pushes on the window to see if it will open and sure enough it opens easily and wide. Without hesitation he is through the window and opening the door from the inside. I’m feeling sick to my stomach and all I want to do is turn and run, but he waves for me to follow, turns and disappears. I hold for a moment to argue with myself, and then step into the darkness.

We are in a carpeted hall that leads to the interior of the house. On the left is an open doorway. Rickie flips on the flashlight and there before us is the kitchen. He gives me a big grin and nods his head as if to say, “See, I told you!” We take three steps down to the cement floor. There are work tables, sinks, two stoves, and two large refrigerators. Richie opens one of the refrigerators. It is empty except for about ten flats of eggs. He opens the other refrigerator and it, too, is empty except for a dozen or more heads of green cabbage. We look around the room for the stash of food we expected, but nothing. Richie walks into the dining room but there is no food in there either. “What the fuck do these people eat?” he whispers. “Get the eggs”, he says and hands me the pillow case. I fill the pillow case with flats of eggs and he loads up the backpack with cabbage. We slip out the door and the gate to the ally and make a clean getaway. But I’m still feeling creepy because if a cop passed us now we would never be able to explain the load we are carrying. But, no, we make it back to the apartment without incident.

In the morning we buy a loaf of bread and a pound of butter in an attempt at making our next several meals palatable. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone on an egg and cabbage diet, but let me tell you, after a day or two you become plagued by a profuse and merciless attack of very high octane gas. It isn’t long before we can’t stand one another, throwing open all the windows all the time. Maxwell walks in one evening, stops as if he has been slapped in the face, turns around and splits, unable to speak, leaving the door wide open, which we quickly close, not wanting to infest the entire building. The situation is so bad we can only laugh at ourselves, our stupidity, and our deserving bad luck.

It’s the next Tuesday and Richie is off to do his “thing”. He says nothing about it, but I’m guessing that it’s a pot deal. How else could he get his hands on what he has been calling “big bucks”? All I’m thinking about is getting the rent paid, now two weeks late, and getting some honest-to-goodness groceries in the frig. The Peruvians come by looking for Richie. When I say he’s gone for the day they seem nonplussed. “He said to come today”, the guy says, pointing to Richie’s duffle bag and pile of dirty clothes in one corner, as if in validation. The girls are cute and playful but the guy shows concern. Just then the phone rings. It is one of the employment agencies saying that there is a job available at one of the big banks in the computer operations department and am I interested. “Absolutely”, I say, “anything they have I can do.” I am to go to an orientation meeting in two hours where they will explain the job and interview me. Then they remind me that the agency’s fee is fifty percent of the first month’s pay. “No problem. Absolutely. You got it!” I respond, thinking that it’s a small price to pay to get a foothold somewhere. I shoo the Peruvian trio away though they are reluctant to go and keep repeating that Richie said to come today and that they will be going back to Peru tomorrow. When I close the door I’m thinking that he owes them money. Money I doubt they will ever see. But I can’t dwell on their problems right now. I dress in clean jeans, my last white shirt and my only tie, and head for First and Market Streets.

At 50 First Street the building is twenty or more stories tall. There is a glass turnstile and a marble lobby, just as one might expect. In the lobby is a tall semicircular desk at which sits the uniformed security guard, an old white guy with thin gray hair combed straight back and a lined and blotchy face that tells the story of a hard life and a battle with booze. He asks my business, has me sign a log book, checks my driver’s license and issues me an ID card with some numbers and, in tall letters, the word GUEST, which I clip to the pocket of my shirt. I advance to a metal turnstile in front of which I stand until the red light turns green and I hear a buzzer which allows me to push my way through and advance to the elevator. I press UP and the doors open to a dimly lit car that is carpeted on the floor, walls and ceiling. There is the sound of soft, innocuous music. I step in, press 17 and wait. The doors close and the car moves. I am overwhelmed with the feeling that I have just stepped into a time machine and am traveling to a time and place that has been designated by some random non-human process, or mind – some alien consciousness that has examined me, head to toe, and determined the use that I would best serve. My life is out of my control and my personal consciousness is just going along for the ride, and is permitted to do so just as all long as it does not interfere and makes no trouble. The only alternative is to submit. Looking down at myself I see a white shirt, a tie, and a card that says GUEST attached to a pocket. Already, I don’t know who I am.

The 17th floor is the cafeteria and is buzzing with activity. People are standing in a line holding trays. Others are eating at tables just large enough for four, talking among themselves, completely comfortable with where they are. Everyone is wearing a badge. As I emerge from the elevator, what I see is a huge room full of tables and people and tall windows at the far, far end of the room. I don’t know where I am nor where I should be, until I notice a small sign on a stand right in front of me. The sign says, ORIENTATION and has an arrow pointing to my right. Looking right I see, at the far end of the room, a door. Above the door is a sign that says ORIENTATION. When I reach the door I hesitate for a moment, unsure of myself, and then open it and boldly step in.

There are several rows of folding chairs facing a podium and a pull-down movie screen. Six or eight people are scattered among the chairs apparently waiting for something to happen. The room is quiet, and then a voice speaks to me from the left. I turn to see a woman of about sixty in a gray high-buttoned business suit sitting at a table. Her name tag says: MISS WRIGHT. “Are you here for the new employee orientation?” “Yes”, I smile. “Name?” I tell her and she looks down a list of names. When she gets to the end of the list she turns the page and looks down another list. She turns the page again and finally says, “Ah, here we are!”, smiles proudly and gathers together a packet of papers, slips them into a classy folder with the bank name and logo on the cover and hands it to me saying, “Take a seat anywhere you choose. We’ll get started in about ten minutes.” I find a seat equidistant from everyone else and open the folder.

In a few minutes the door opens and about fifteen people file in. Each is carrying a folder just like mine. They fill in most of the seats and Miss. Wright steps to the front of the room behind the podium, tests the mike by tapping on it and says, “Welcome! Some of you have just completed a tour of the facility and I trust you found it interesting and informative. You others will take the tour at another time. Now, let’s open our folders and take out the packet titled OUR BANK – THE HISTORY AND PURPOSE.”

For the next hour she takes us through three packets of information. The other two packets are titled A WEALTH OF OPPORTUNITIES and EMPLOYEE BENEFITS RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES. There are slide shows accompanied by recorded music, graphs and charts of lines and bars, and Miss. Wright’s cheerful presentation. I am immediately overwhelmed by this long stream of information and fighting to stay awake, but my eyes keep rolling back in my head involuntarily. I do everything I can think of to stay conscious, reciting lyrics to songs in my mind, chord changes, names of everyone I have ever known, important personal dates, places I’ve been. I scribble on the pages as we turn them one after another, underline words randomly, draw faces, fill in typed letters, and then finally it is over. “Thank you all for your kind attention. That’s a lot of information, isn’t it”, she jokes, “and we don’t expect you to remember all of it, but you can keep your folders and will want to review them at home. Now, those of you that took the tour are free to go. The others should please stay so that I can have a chance to talk for a few moments with each of you.” I consider sneaking out with the tour group but lose my nerve and stay put.

There are only seven of us remaining and she calls my name second. I advance to her table in the back of the room and take a seat. “Do you have a resume?”, she asks. A jolt of fear shoots through me. “No, ma’am”, I say meekly. “Not a problem”, she assures me and goes on to quiz me about my work experience and education. The conversation is short. Fearful that everything is slipping away I take my best shot, turning on my voice and face of sincerity and telling her that all I want is an opportunity to prove myself. “There isn’t anything I can’t do when I put my mind to it.”, I tell her. “I’m especially good with numbers and am positive that I will be an asset to the Bank” Then I remind her that I recently completed a four year tour of duty in the United States Air Force and though I have been struggling a bit since, I am now ready to buckle down and build a career. Apparently all this works. She offers me a job in the Account Reconcilement Department on the midnight shift starting the following Sunday night. I should report to work at 11:30 PM. She fills out a form that I will give to the security guard, stands up and shakes my hand, and calls the next name.

When I return to the apartment I notice that Richie’s duffle bag and dirty clothes are gone. He’s flown the coop! My first reaction is one of relief: He’s finally gone, along with that high twirling energy. I have the place to myself once again. Then I remember the rent money he had promised. A quick scan of the room and I know he has left nothing and blown me off. “That fucker!” I’m thinking, but then say to myself, “What did you expect? This is Richie, just one line of bullshit after another. The up side is that he’s gone and even if he does return I’ll never let him back in. I’ve got my privacy back!" Then I think of the landlord and shiver as I consider the options. I start work on Sunday night but I won’t be paid until two weeks later and then I owe half of that to the employment agency. I know what I have to do.

I leave the apartment, drop down the two flights of stairs quickly and find myself knocking on the door that says: #1 MANAGER. The door opens almost immediately and there he is, smiling and nodding his bald head. “Yes, yes”, he asks. “Hi”, I say, “uh, I wanted to talk to you.” “Yes”, he asks again. “Yes”, I say, then lurch forward. “Uh, I know I’m late with the rent.” “Yes”, still smiling. “And, uh, I just got a job today!” “Yes.” “That’s the good part, but the bad part is that I don’t get paid for two more weeks.” “Yes, yes”, like questions. “And I was just wondering, uh, can you wait two more weeks? I mean, I’ll pay this rent then, and two weeks later when I get my next check I’ll pay the next month’s rent.” I’m running along kind of fast now, having caught my line of gab. Richie pops into mind and I realize I’m sounding just like him, but I want to be sincere about what I am saying. I really will pay the rent, and I want him to know that. “I’ve got a great job, you see, at a bank, I work the midnight…” “Yes”, he cuts me off completely, still smiling, by raising his right hand slightly and looking directly into my eyes. “OK”, he sings, “OK”, pauses, then closes the door leaving me standing in the silent hall, wondering what just happened. I climb the stairs slowly. “Is that it! That’s all I had to do? There’s something real about this guy.” In a short few minutes Richie has back stabbed me, and the Chinese landlord has saved my ass. It’s not always easy to know who your friends are.

Feeling high and relieved I call Maxwell to give him the news. He and Clara invite me over for dinner to celebrate my good fortune.

They have put out a great spread: baked potatoes with butter, sour cream and chives, corn on the cob, and thick New York steaks grilled under the broiler with onions and mushrooms. A true feast! We sip the two bottles of red as we work our way through the meal. At times like this all the suffering and doubt one has endured fades away. We don’t remember our pain nearly as vividly as we remember our joys and ecstasies, and they are emblazoned in the mind so that even forty years later they can be recalled and appreciated complete with moods, tastes, sounds and smells. This was one of those meals, one of those moments.

Maxwell is telling a story about his family in the Northwest, railroad workers, hard drinkers, and always slightly off key, at least the way he tells it. “Amigo”, as he likes to start his stories, holding up one finger to capture my attention. “I’m visiting my cousins, you see, and Uncle Horace and Aunt Frankie up in Cheney, where they live right next to the railroad tracks. Almost everyone around there works for the railroad, you see, and on a regular basis the trains rumble by, vibrating the house with a metallic roar that brings everyone to silence until it passes. ‘That’s the 8:41 for Coeur d’Alene’, says Uncle Horace consulting his railroad watch which is always on-time to the second. Then we pick up right where we have left off, hardly aware after a while of the interruptions.” He takes a pull from the wine direct from the bottle, then holds it out to me.

“Us three boys”, he continues, “sleep on the top floor of the three story house. We fight for space on the two beds that have been rolled together, then yank and pull at the blankets all night. It is cold, under 15 degrees at least, so that ice forms on the branches of trees and then cracks when the sun comes out in the morning, making sharp snapping sounds. Crack. Ping”, he says, making a humorous face for dramatic effect.

“At night, not wanting to go down the cold staircase to the bathroom on the second floor, we pee out the window onto the composition roof where it freezes solid before reaching the eaves, creating a slightly yellow ice slick.” He pauses again for effect, then continues, “Now, it just so happens that Aunt Frankie has been pestering Uncle Horace right about this time to go up on the roof to adjust the TV antenna so that she can tune in her favorite programs…” and this is where I start to crack up, now knowing just where this story is headed. But, it isn’t usually the story itself that captivates us, what holds us is the telling, the acting, the song. Story telling is an art that some of us appreciate in great part because of the theatrics, motions, interpretations, laughing, shouting that goes into the telling. We want to get pulled into the story, and not only that, we want it construed for these times and these conditions. This is where history meets the future, the imagination, while the essence of the story holds together and is passed on.

“So, Uncle Horace is inching his way along the crest of the roof this Sunday morning, grumbling about the imposition just for some stupid TV show. The antenna has been attached to the window dormer to our bedroom and Horace is feeling more confident with each step he takes. Instead of crossing the dormer on the up side, he decides to pass below the window where he has the window sill to hold on to as he passes.” Pause. Dead-faced grin. “Big mistake! In an instant Horace has stepped on the ice slick and is shooting helplessly down the roof with a rumble that startles us boys inside. Instantly we realize what has happened and turn to the window just in time to see Uncle Horace shoot off the roof, arms flapping, and disappear into thin air. There is a moment of silence followed by a loud crunch and splintering sound with an ‘Oomph’, another moment of silence and then a deadening thump. Now complete silence, as we look at one another in wonder, and then break for the stairs to find out what has happened to Horace.

“He has been very lucky, but at this moment he isn’t feeling that way. He is half buried in a snow bank at the foot of the house. After shooting off the third floor roof, he was fortunate to land on the roof of the old abandoned chicken coop which buckled and crunched under his weight, serving to break his fall. From there he rolled off and into the snow bank below where he now lay, stunned and disoriented, but none the worse for wear. We see him blinking his eyes and looking about in a stunned wonder. Before he can focus in on us we turn and scatter like snowflakes, feeling the rising up within us of the laughter and joy that only children, at such precious times, can ever know.”

Clara goes off to bed, leaving Maxwell and me to finish off the wine. “Remember the bull fight ring that night with Tomiko?” asks Maxwell to get us started on our favorite subject, our days on Okinawa when we were in an Air Force band together. “Wasn’t she the one that had that long straight arm pit hair that opened like a black fan whenever she raised her arm?” “Yah”, he says with a dreamy look, “marvelous woman!” But I’m not thinking of Tomiko, I’m thinking, as usual, about the woman with whom I had lived for more than a year over there, Hiroko, my first pure and honest love. Women and love and all that comes with them are enigmas to me. I know nothing of love, coming only from my feelings and instincts, which seldom serves me well. We knew from the beginning that I would be leaving the island on the next May 11th and this relationship, this love, this fantasy life we lived would come to an end. It was given, unavoidable, set in stone. And one day it arrived, just as we knew it would. I was sitting with her on the bed when we heard the noon whistle which was the final cue. We embraced, looked at one another for a moment and I turned and left, barely able to breathe. Love, I remember thinking, now I know what it is. A great wind blew between us and we never met again.

Maxwell is driving me back to the apartment, still running through our Okinawan highlights, while I am reminiscing about Hiroko and love in general. Six years have passed since I came back to the States and I haven’t had a girlfriend since – a few flash involvements, but nothing real, nothing even approximating the love Hiroko and I shared. Perhaps I was locking it out, how would I know. I only know what is in front of me now, in this moment. Maxwell has driven off and I am standing on the street in an empty state of mind. I look around me, taking it all in. The City! Churning in all directions with an energy all its own, its own personality. I have only been here for a few short weeks but I am becoming a part of what the City is, a resident, I am beginning to belong here. I have a job, an apartment with a Chinese landlord who is wise, generous, brief and to the point. I have made some friends and lost some friends. I have struggled to find my bearings and am now rising up on wobbly legs, gaining confidence and strength with each day.

As I enter the apartment and flick on the light. I sense that something is different, out of place. I notice the lamp is on next to the bed. Stepping to the open doorway I am shocked by what I see. “Laura, what are you doing in my bed?” “Waiting for you”, she says with a smile. “Really?” “Yes, really”, a little impatient. “But, how did you get in here?” I am incredulous and caught off guard. “Richie gave me his key”, she says, “He’s gone now. Went back to Ohio.” “Ohio? Richie’s from Ohio? I always figured he was from New York or Chicago, L.A. maybe, but Ohio?” “Yep, a farm boy gone wild.” But at this time I am not interested in Richie. “So, Laura, what are you doing – here?” “Well, I can leave if you want”, she says, kind of put out, “but you did invite me in the other night, didn’t you?” “Yes.” “So, OK, here I am – in”, she says. “Do you want me to leave?” I just look down at her, my mind and body empty of sense and sensibility. I have no thoughts. There is a pretty girl in my bed. She has blond hair and blue eyes that are ready to laugh. She is offering herself to me. I unbutton my shirt and kick off my shoes. I pull off my pants and am standing there nude and empty in spirit, hallow. I slip into the bed and she is folded into my arms. Her neck smells sweet, like star jasmine. She is a flower, unknown and unknowable. She is a mystery that I welcome into my being for this moment. For this moment, this one moment, I am offered love and my heart opens. I am loved and I am lover. At least for now, in this moment, there is love.