Dear Saloon Jesse, I left my steady on the stool. Mind if Pabst Blue and I chat with you? What? We just met and you’re inviting me to your therapists’ yacht in Sausalito? Sure, what time? You might know this, Jesse, but you look a little or a lot like David Bowie in Labyrinth, you ought to get some sparkles to go with your getup. I think. My boyfriend’s at the bar getting another round from the bartender. Did you know he’s a fully-functioning heroine addict? Not my boyfriend, the bartender. What’s your business anyhow? Sorry I’m shouting, it’s a wild night and yes, I come here often. You should really check on that cougar in the corner, she could use a dance like you. Huh? No, I didn’t get your social…your social? Like social security? My mom always told me never to give that out, Jesse. I know you look trustworthy and famous and all, but I can’t do that baby. What? What’s thi—a BUSINESS CARD! Jesse, you have your own business cards! And they look cryptic as hell! Right on. I see you’ve written your number on the back with a sparkly gold gel pen, a nice personal touch. What kind of business did you say you were in? Magic?
And the World Spins Madly On…
THERE WAS NO LONGER A SUSPENSION BRIDGE OF BRIGHT, RUST ORANGE, temperate highs of 65 and strolls along the cloudy or sunny Bay. No uphill both ways or days of Union to Columbus (“Christopho Columbo”) to Kearny to Market, Market to Third. The 71, 49, 6, 45, 30 — all one less passenger. No Tuk Tuk Thai dining on tom kha gai, Citrus Club noodles, North Beach pizza pies. SoMa and NoMa, MoMA and BART, and the Market on Embarcadero, Piers 1 through whatever, Fisherman’s Nightmare (or Wharf), love in Haight, pushing through Powell—gone. Gone. Gone.
I stood in line with a giant suitcase of my summer: New clothing, hand-me-downs, souvenirs, and rolled laundry still wet from the prior evening’s wash. My life was seventeen pounds overweight. I spewed the belongings over the sidewalk outside the airport in despair, as though to hold on, as though to cling to those last moments in the San Francisco air before going through security, and the insecurities of leaving.
Now this, North Dakota and Minnesota—this bittersweet hello. No question I cannot take these values from my mind of the state I was raised, though question enough if I’ll stay here too long.
It took me six days to get to California. It took me five hours to get home. Time works unfairly, I’ll maintain until I go back. The next year will hold the millstones of working toward returning to the Bay, and I’m keeping this chin up all the way.
TO SAY THAT I’VE NOT BEEN DOING MY SHARE of writing lately is an understatement. I’m seriously slacking. The good news is, things are really wonderful; the bad news is, it’s almost time to move on.
Over the past few weeks I’ve been trying to uncover more layers of the city. I’ve cut back quite a bit on the walking—I was taking the same paths each day—and have taken to public transit. I’m comfortable connecting from bus to bus (I’d never really ridden a bus before I came here) and getting around. Life has been more than fair, and there is no lack of excitement. I like the city more each day, it seems, and am convinced I’ll return someday in the future.
As for my last week in San Francisco, I’m hoping for relaxation—a last hurrah before getting back to school…
Take care and be well—
j
San Francisco, I really love you.
Just looking out on the day of another dream.
WE’RE WAITING AT THE BUS STOP FOR THE 22 when you lean in to grab my hand. To the left, the street builds to a hill and disappears into the sky. Everyone around us is ready for something, work or life or sleep, pressing play on another city day. I sense that there is something different about my day than theirs, that I am going to continue smiling long after I step off the 22 or even the 41 at Stockton and Columbus. The bus drops you at Market. Now people swirl around and alone, I put my hands in my pockets and nervously fiddle with the transfer slip that brought me to the present moment. I smile anyway, and look forward. Washington Square is full of Chinese men and women doing their dance, dogs and owners, lovers and lovers. To everyone, something. Me? I have you. No more waiting.
Towering,
Welcome to my office, way up, Alcatraz there, then climb, toward buildings and their fog.
Hello, I’ve waited for this face, this one too cool, still cool, still climbing, solid lonely water.
A city, his city, the city, I’m not really alone, everyone’s city, we climb.
approximatelyes.com 