« Tales: May 2005 | Main | Tales: July 2005 »
June 27, 2005
A Pair of Kings
I went to REI today after work, mostly to cheer myself up. Roomie and I awake with backaches when we use our Thermarest Trail sleeping mats, and I was tempted to purchase lighter weight, though non self-inflating air mattresses which are both thicker and lighter than the Trail. They also happen to be on sale. On the way in, I see a hobo type by the door putting some laces on his shoes.
I could not find the size mattress I wanted on the shelf, but the customer service clerk checked the computer and found there were supposed to be two there (there had been four when I called on the weekend). While clerk looked around in the back for the mattresses, I used the bathroom which was right behind the customer service area. Behind the flush plumbing on the urinal was a business card "Please Elect 'Iowa Poet Blackie PRESIDENT." On the flip side was an advert for a book of hobo poetry. Being the Sharpie I am, I put the card together with the figure by the door.
Clerk returns empty-handed, and proceeds to call in a floor clerk to pick up the trail. No luck. After passing by the area one more time, to see if perhaps someone was walking around with one and had returned it, I check out the lighter weight (and not as infernally hot as my Down Time) sleeping bags. Definitely lighter. On sale, too. In any case, I resist.
On the way out I walk past the hobo to the door. And then I think of Road Hog, who was once King of the Hoboes and who lived in Dunsmuir, and I stop. I return to the hobo, who is still lacing his boots (and probably ducking the rain and / or the sweltering heat inside).
— Say, did you ever know a fellow by the name of Road Hog? I guess he was King of the Hoboes some time back.
— Road Hog? Sure! I haven't seen him in years. How do you know Road Hog?
— He used to live in the same small town as me. A good guy.
— I heard he was a gravedigger.
— He was. He was the caretaker at the cemetary in the town I lived in. I remember when he took the job.
— Really? Road Hog was a good guy. Of course he had his brushes with the law.
— Yeah, the bank robbery. What was he thinking? I heard he died a ways back.
— Did he?
— I believe so, yes.
Blackie pulled out a Hobo almanac and reminded me that some robber baron was born on this day a long time ago. I told him I had never heard of the man. Then he pointed out that 100 years ago today, the IWW was founded. "How about that? Today is the centennial of the Wobblies!" And so it is.
Blackie then gave me a "free sample" of his poetry. I can't say I'm a fan; the rhyming of every other line makes me read just the rhymes rather than the words. However, I did notice that the sheet he gave me advertises a $30.00 price for his book of poetry, while the card in the loo advertises it for 10.
Recently, I have been trying to figure out whether it is better to think that things happen for a reason. Perhaps my reason for going to REI was not to indulge a thirst for lighter weight packs but to connect somehow to a fellow who has hitched a ride on the northbound freight. Godspeed, Road Hog!
Posted by Underblog at 9:07 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 15, 2005
Jim
I was responsible for turning Jim onto Lambrettas. He and I lived at this flophouse on Rausch Alley known as the Crossroads and he had admired my SX200. He knew that Lambretta's were what you wanted; Vespa's were simply too tinny. I took Jim over to the Batcave and before long he had a Series II TV175 of his own. He would smoke Winston's and talk about how he was going to ride it to Seattle and visit his kids, who had gone with their mom when she left him.
Jim had a pretty impressive résumé, but he was frank about the mental collapse that had thrown his life into chaos. Many people at the Crossroads had similar stories: bad luck or bad genes (or a combination of the two) had landed them there, at the last rung above homelessness. For me, after living in the Rambler, it was a step up. For others (like Jim) it was a step down. The scooter, however, was a very large step up from the bus: For Jim no less than the rest of us, it symbolized freedom.
He spent long hours every day at the Batcave fixing up the Series II. His purposeful ignoring of its cosmetics was refreshing. When the sidepanels were rusty, he primed them and left them unpainted. The primer attracted dirt, but it protected the metal underneath. He was content to leave the passenger seat uncovered; he wasn't taking on passengers. While the piston broke in, Jim would go on rides with us to Palo Alto or the airport.
He did make the trip to Seattle on his scooter. Evidently the scooter performed flawlessly. He described motorscootering long distances as more like flying than like driving. But something had changed in him: His cynical distrust of institutions had morphed into something more paranoid. It was going to take more than riding a scooter from San Francisco to Seattle to win back the love of his family.
The Crossroads had fallen into receivership and the new manager was an untrustworthy and greedy lawyer; I worked for him anyway. Eventually we all claimed some rights as tenants and got a small settlement. I lost track of Jim as I built a new life around working in cafés and flirting. The next time I saw him he scared the Bejeebles out of me: His hair had gone totally wild and his always penetrating eyes seemed even more so. He smelled of the street. "Eric Webster" he declared with some finality. We talked for a while and parted. Several years later I was living on Clementina Alley (still south of Market!) when I saw him again. He looked cadaverous. His eyes were all that spoke. In them I looked for recognition but saw only fear. I shivered as if I had seen a ghost. It was the last time I saw him.
At the Crossroads one night, Jim and I once argued over which version of "Mr. Tamborine Man" was better, the Byrds' or Dylan's. In typical mod fashion and with the hubris of youth I claimed the former. Jim thought otherwise. He claimed that the Byrds owed their careers to Dylan. Come to think of it, he was probably right about that too.
Posted by Underblog at 6:33 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
June 2, 2005
Résumé
The shortest item on my résumé is the entry for 1992-1998. "Nutglade Station: Owner-operator cafe, bar, and bed & breakfast. Did it all." Words do not seem to do justice to my involvement with the six year project.
It was an incredible learning experience, socially, politically, and economically. I began bright-eyed and optimisitic and left having learned lessons completely different than those I expected to learn. As with the most important lessons, I learned mostly about myself: what I could and could not do, what I could and could not expect of others (e.g. the public), and what the fun and distinctly unfun parts of operating a business were.
I also learned that worklife problems are secondary to personal problems: Nutglade was the first major test of our new marriage, which was quite literally born there.
I have delayed creating a proper homage to Nutglade, perhaps out of fear of all the emotions it will dredge up; saying goodbye to Nutglade was the first time Roomie ever saw me really cry. Babies will eventually grow up to break your heart, and Nutglade was no exception.
While Nutglade liberated me to make full use of all my faculties (from designing posters for the acts we hosted in the bar to schmoozing with the Sheriff), it was also extremely confining. I did not choose my friends, but rather they chose me: My worklife was my social life. Vacations were few and far between, I forewent my education, and nearly every day of the year was scripted. It is hard to imagine moving to a place for the scenery and spending so little time admiring it.
Despite the exhaustion I feel merely in recalling my worklife there, I miss it sometimes. The people, the sense of knowing what I am going to do next, participation in a real community. But I wouldn't go back there without one Hell of a budget.
Posted by Underblog at 6:43 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack