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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