Been Around the Block. Got Some Stories. These are Them.
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“You smell like doog poop,” Adrienne told her.
It didn’t go over very well.
In fact, later that day, the little girl’s mother confronted Adrienne out in front of school. Forty or fifty children and teachers were watching. The little girl’s mother was angry.
“Did you tell my daughter that she smelled like dog poop?” the woman demanded. Adrienne looked up at her.
“No,” Adrienne said, “No, I didn’t.” The woman was flustered.
“Are you sure you didn’t say that?” she demanded again.
“No,” Adrienne said, “No, I didn’t.”
As the woman stalked away, Adrienne became aware of three things. First, that what she’d done, telling a lie, was really bad. Next, a kind of triumph that she could fool them all. Last, a kind of pity that they could be so easily duped.
I can remember telling a lie, in my grandmother’s house. I’m no longer clear what it was, but I remember the bitter-sweet feeling of being able to mislead the grown-ups, but anxiety that I’d need to remember to keep this story straight … forever.
As it turned out, time erases the need.
This morning I’m driving to some doctor’s appointments in Marin, where we have Kaiser coverage. It’s a days drive, and we need to change our insurance, but for now, I must drive. Adrienne told me, “If Celina (her daughter) wants you to bring presents up, it’s OK.”
I looked at Adrienne in puzzlement.
“I mean,” she said, “I won’t peek. I would never peek.”
Since only yesterday afternoon, she’d peeked inside the wrapping on a present from one of her ex-clients, I was dubious. On the other hand, this was great teasing material.
“You’d never peek?” I said, “When you were peeking just yesterday?” It didn’t phase her. Not one bit. Women. Made for deceit.
On the other hand, I can remember, at age eleven, how badly I wanted the little plastic spacemen figures, and how this one box rattled just like plastic spacemen. I couldn’t wait; in secrecy I peeled the wrapping open, slid out the end of the box, and pried it open. Plastic spacemen!
Aha! I thought. But then, the anxiety of wrapping it back up so my mother couldn’t tell. Then, wondering if she knew. Then, on Christmas morning, opening the spacemen, trying to act surprised and pleased.
It ruined the pleasure of plastic spacemen. I’ve not peeked since. Peeking, I decided at age eleven, carries its own punishment.
I can recall, earlier, perhaps at age four, standing in our miniscule living room. My mother’s brother was Dr. Hurn, she was his nurse, and we lived behind the doctor’s office. We had a large kitchen, small bedroom and bath, and this tiny living room recaptured from a storeroom.
There I stood, hardly older than an infant, perhaps four years old, startled because I’d just got a strange picture in my mind. I’d suddenly imagined that all grown-ups were a kind of dark angel, and that they could see me, even when they weren’t there in the room. It was a startling and frightening realization.
I could see them, somehow, even though they weren’t there … and they could see me.
When we’re very young, and have so little judgement, we make decisions that affect our lives all down the stream. But they’re not exactly like decisions. They’re more like perceptions. We see that life is a certain way. And all our subsequent thoughts and beliefs are built on these primitive building blocks, these decisions that happened as perceptions, made with so little knowledge. And because they’re so basic, it’s eternally difficult ever after to find our way to question them, because life just looks that way.
You can imagine that, given my perception at age four that grown-ups can always see us, it was a great relief at age eleven when I discovered that I could mislead them. And the wonderful thing was … they didn’t know.
Now, as an adult, it’s clear that neither perception was exactly right at the time. Times I thought they knew, they had no clue. Times I thought them ignorant, they surmised. Still, both realizations were turning points, of some kind.
Adrienne tells me of her friend Jenna, now nearing ninety. Jenna says that one Christmas when she was young, sitting beneath the tree some days before Christmas, she was overcome with curiousity, and unwrapped every package under the tree. She just couldn’t wait. Of course, she was quite unable to wrap them up again.
I don’t know what happened then, but she said that from then on, she just accepted that she couldn’t wait, and would unwrap presents before Christmas. Her husband Maurie worked out a Christmas solution.
Every year he found her two presents. One to put beneath the tree, which she’d invariably open before Christmas. And another which he’d hide, so she had something to open, come Christmas morning.
On the far side of the clearing was the stage, with mirrors and exercise bars extending back into the room behind. The woman who ran it hauled the backdrops up from New York city. An artsy-type, wearing dance clothes and a headband.
There the little girls learned to dance. Toward the end of the long summer, a recital, and in the twilight, with the meadow filled with parents and friends, and fireflies flickering through the dark beneath the trees, the girls danced and presented their play.
Does the dance ever end?
Fifteen years ago, Adrienne told me this story, describing how magical the place was, how she sometimes seemed to see glimmering fairies brushing through the leaves, how the light was golden and the music floating across the meadow.
Ten years ago, when I came to see the house she’d rented for herself and her daughter Layla, I noticed the small sign of carved wood. Secured to a metal upright, it stood in a corner of her garden. “Meadow Hearth” it said.
And did the home become Meadow Hearth? Adrienne worked so hard, year after year, planting the bright flowers, fixing up the house. The landlords couldn’t have cared less. I moved in; her daughter moved out. There were ups and downs and a neighbor on the sun side proposing a construction project. It came time to move away.
In our new home in Mount Shasta, I notice in a corner of the garden, a small sign of carved wood. A bit more weathered now, but still proclaiming “Meadow Hearth”.
Are we in Meadow Hearth?
My personal belief is no, we’re not. I think perhaps Meadow Hearth is far away, further than miles, further than rivers, further than roads. There at the far side of memory, Meadow Hearth remains, bright, perfect, shining, as once upon a time.
But the dance goes on.
This year the teams were neck and neck, and the final game was held in Dallas. I drove down from Denton with my girlfriend Carolyn to spend the evening with Dr. Martin and his family for the big game.
The Fairmont Hotel is old and snooty, so that’s where they stayed. I’m lukewarm on sports, but I was looking forward to a great meal in the hotel restaurant.
We started down in the elevator.
Everyone in the elevator, honest Texans all, were all a-jabber with excitement about the game. The elevator kept stopping at floors, adding more people going down to the restaurants, looking forward to the game.
The elevator was growing packed. Folks became quieter.
The doors opened on floor three.
A very tall brunette, very stylish in a black and white dress and rather a large hat stood at the door. Pinned to her bodice was a cardboard sign.
It said, “To HELL with Texas.”
Nobody said a word, just soberly watched her. She seemed to shake herself slightly, then stepped into the elevator, and turned to face the door.
Just as the doors closed with a soft thump, from the rear of the car, a man spoke up in a friendly voice.
“Hiya, Oakie,” he said.
Actually, I personally believe that riding the motorcycle, which is both very physical and kind of dangerous, kept me wide awake, and staying slim was pretty easy.
I saw a lot of women, too.
And then one day I had a wart on my nose.
When I was a kid, I’d got a wart on a finger. That was frozen, cut off, and stitched up. A few years later, another on a knuckle was treated with radiation, which made it very unhappy and it went away.
And now, when I was getting plenty of dates, there was a wart on my nose! Not like it was hidden away somewhere. Right there on my nose, as if scouting where I was headed for.
Not attractive, no.
I decided that I didn’t want a wart on my nose.
I decided to make the wart uncomfortable, so that it would go away. I decided that I wanted it to drop off my body.
Every day, in the morning and again in the evening, in the bathroom of Apartment #5, I stared at the wart in the mirror. I touched it with my finger, and said — with lots of intention — “I want you to extend out of my skin, turn into a ball, and fall off.”
Every day, morning and evening, I focussed as best I could.
In a couple of days, the skin around the wart changed shape. It began to protrude from the skin, and then, at the base, grew thinner. Finally, one day it just fell off.
My nose again proud and happy, I returned to my busy life.
I hate to be rude, but some visitors are just unwelcome, and that’s all there is to it.
Lands End, San Francisco, 1976: The radio was all abuzz. A tzunami was coming. It would arrive around 8:30 just after dark. San Francisco residents are advised to avoid the beach and low-lying areas.
Naturally, we all wanted to see it.
As I rode my motorcycle out Geary Boulevard, I remembered Playland at the Beach. I’d since seen movies from the thirties, showing a boardwalk thronged with crowds in strange bathing costumes. But the week I’d moved into Ms. Douglas’s upper room, I’d driven down Ulloa Street to the ocean.
Playland at the Beach was abandoned. An empty boardwalk, in the middle of the day. I walked around like a human on mars. I heard a garish, distorted laughing and followed it. Through an open door I entered a building, the Fun House, now empty, sunlight coming through the windows. There, a huge mechanical clown inside a glass cage rocked back and forth, bellowing with wild laughter.
Nobody was around. I went back outside. It was all closed. Rides closed. Concessions closed. No cotton candy. No crowds. Two blocks off the beach. Wild laughter echoing round the corners. Empty.
Not long after, Playland had been razed. Ugly apartment buildings were to spring up later, but now, just empty lots two blocks off the beach.
I parked my motorcycle at Land’s End. Land’s End is a cliff, just above the Cliff House restaurant and the winding highway. Once there was a house there but only foundation stones remain, and a gazebo. It rises a couple of hundred feet above the ocean. A great place to see the tsunami.
From the verge of Land’s End, with a crowd of excited people, we peered down past the trees and brush to the highway and the beach below. We watched a fool dash past the police cars to the beach and back. The radio had said Do not go to the beach. Repeat. Do not go to the beach.
They’d not said anything about Land’s End. We laughed at the fool. We wondered at the police cars. A tsunami can be 30 feet tall, and in record cases 100 feet tall. Either would sweep over the seawall and engulf the police cars.
The time approached. Bottles were passed around. A scent of smoke and wildness in the air.
You never know, maybe the tsunami would sweep up the cliff. Maybe our laughing crowd would be killed, carried and buried into the crushing black of the ocean. It was a beautiful night for it, the air so fresh and clean.
The time grew near. Sometimes a big tsunami will first pull the water back, exposing the ocean floor.
The time came. No water pulled back. The waves on the beach seemed about the same, just like always.
We waited a while, but that was it. This particular tsunami, said the radio next day, was only about an inch high.
Teeny-weeny.
The tsunami.
North Beach, San Francisco, 1978: Adrienne found the black cockapoo on Christmas, and so the little dog was named Holly. Found abandoned on the freeway, Holly lived out her life with Adrienne.
Holly led a charmed life. The night she dug out of the back yard to investigate the neighbor’s swimming pool, first she tumbled in, and then was unable to climb up the pool’s lip, so she paddled through the night. In the morning, when Adrienne followed the tracks, Holly, now very feeble but still paddling, was pulled from the water. Holly tried to shake off the water, but stumbled and fell. But soon, after a few hours wrapped in a blankey, she was chipper as ever. That gal!
The Beach Blanket Babylon chapter of Holly’s story came later …
Adrienne was dating an actor named Jay, and when she heard of the auditions for Toto the Dog, for the upcoming Beach Blanket Babylon version of The Wiz, she figured Holly had an inside, because Holly looked like Toto. Adrienne signed Holly for an audition, and Jay was suitably impressed.
Beach Blanket Babylon, now the longest-running musical revue in America, had begun its run in 1974. Now located at the Club Fugazi dinner theatre (across from the Green Street Mortuary, the home of the famous marching band), the Beach Blanket troupe produces parodies of current happenings, and is famous for gargantuan and peculiar hats.
In 1978, based on the Broadway smash hit, a movie called The Wiz appeared, starring Diana Ross and Michael Jackson, with a Quincy Jones soundtrack. This was a natch for Club Fugazi!
At the Saturday morning auditions, the line of dogs and owners stretched out the front door. The theatre was dark, smelling musty of last-night’s alcohol. Holly patiently waited her turn. Adrienne was nervous.
Finally, it was Holly’s turn. She jumped up the steps, looked back smiling as Adrienne followed. Adrienne introduced Holly to the audience and to Mr. Silver, the guy in charge. “Go ahead, dear,” he said. Adrienne turned to Holly.
“Are you ready?” Adrienne asked. Holly looked ready.
“Sit,” Adrienne said. Holly lay down.
“Shake,” said Adrienne. Holly sat.
“Speak,” said Adrienne. Holly held out a paw to be shaken.
“Lie down,” said Adrienne. Holly barked.
Adrienne couldn’t help laughing, along with the audience. First one, then another of the audience, rose to their feet, clapping wildly. Holly was a hit. Tears running down his face, Mr. Silver said, “Thank you, dear,” but the audience kept clapping.
It was Holly’s standing ovation.
