It was back in the summer of 1992, while in a small studio apartment in downtown San Francisco (in the infamous Tenderloin) – way before psecret psociety was created and formally promulgated on Facebook (and obviously long before Facebook) – that I imagined myself as some kind of meta-real agent. I knew the agency part would fall into place sooner or later (actually, much later).
I found myself having another end-of-day grog at Sidle on N on Judah Street. (The bar, Sidle on N, is featured in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella, as well as in the short stories, A Search for Sidle on N; Water Hammer; Ok, Roll the Dice; and The Right Triangle.) As usual, and as prescribed, only three people were in the little dive bar in the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco.
There was a 40-something, slightly pudgy, mustachioed, white guy in a cowboy hat, who kept nervously looking out the door at the perennial late-day fog passing by. He seemed paranoid. Who is he looking out for? Is he hallucinating? Is he a marked gaucho from a lost gulch? I need to write that line down on a piece of napkin. Might use it twenty or so years from now.
There was an Asian couple, probably college age, talking softly in a corner. They’re probably reviewing notes for an upcoming exam.
Behind the bar today was an Amerasian dude named Dash. I was never sure if that was his birth name or just an adopted American nickname. I never asked him. He was about my age at that time: 28.
I got used to seeing him in there on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Today was a Wednesday. A Wednesday near-evening that seemed to hang by a mid-week tendril on a branch of disbelief. Well, perhaps.
However, no one in this so-easy-to-pass-right-on-by joint was howling for abstract poetry at this moment. And, believe the essence of yew, they weren’t aware of the cancer-fighting potential. And, for that matter, neither was I.
I laughed to myself when that last couplet sailed through my cranium, glancing off some remnants of gray matter. Dash caught my nascent chortle.
“Something funny, eh?” Where did he pick up that Canadian accent? Toronto? Montréal? Hamilton? Or, maybe in Yellowknife with a steak knife? Internal laughter.
I recomposed my countenance for anyone counting. But, wasn’t sure if Dash was.
“Yeah, just a one-two combination that I might use sometime in the future. That’s if I ever start writing.”
“Twenty-two years from now?” How odd that he would pick 22 years. It’s always odd in here, though. Shouldn’t really be surprised anymore.
“Maybe so, Dash.”
“You think that you’ll still be alive?”
“I don’t know. Hard to say. Do you mean exactly 22 years from now, not an even 20?” Score.
“Yeah, I think that I will stick with that number. Repeating digits, you know. Maybe some magic there.”
“Dash, you’re mad, man. But, you’re no madman.”
“You funny American guy, Mike.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s only parfait [perfect in French] if you can make it pay, mon ami. [‘my friend’ in French] Got to pay those bills. Must stay afloat in this stagnant moat.”
“You better write that one down, man, before you forget it.”
He handed me a red ball-point pen and a cardboard PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) beer coaster. I jotted the line down and dated it. Then I tossed it into my green backpack and zipped it shut.
“Speaking of making it pay, how do you make it, Dash, just working three days a week? Do you have a second job somewhere? I mean, this is one expensive-ass city.”
“You aint kidding, pal. Let’s just say that I cut out a big expense.”
“Let me guess: You drive an older car that is already paid for; thus, no car payment.”
“True in part, Mike; I have no car payment. But, it’s because I have no car.”
“Well, I don’t have a car, either. This is one of the few American cities that you can live in delightfully without an automobile.”
“True dat, bro.”
“But, Dash, how do you make the rent if I may be so bold to ask?”
“I live rent-free, man.” What?!
“Are you a squatter in some Lower Haight, soon-to-be-razed, faltering flophouse? Or, are you in government-subsidized housing in the Western Addition?”
“No, no, Mike; nothing like that.” I bet he camps in Golden Gate Park and showers at the Y.
Dash grabbed his stringy goatee and ran his fingers through it like a four-tined rake. “I live in a very interesting, unique place,” he cautiously announced.
“A mental hospital?” I chuckled at my little zinger.
“You are very funny guy, Mike.”
“Oh, I’m just joking with ya.”
“You must want to be comedian.”
“No, not me.”
When Dash noticed that I was serious again, he continued with his lodging revelation. “I have a place in Golden Gate Park for the time being.” Ah-ha! Golden Gate Park. I knew it. Just as I suspected: a camper in the bushes.
“Oh, is that so?”
“Listen, I’d like to tell you where, but my girlfriend has sworn me to secrecy. She doesn’t want us to lose our kewl [sic] digs.” Digs? Maybe they live underground. Or, semi-underground. Or, maybe in a lean-to. A lean-to-a-sand-dune.
“So, somewhere in Golden Gate Park. That’s some prime, publicly owned, surreal [sic] estate if you can maintain the subterfuge. I hope they don’t find your tent behind North Lake.”
“Oh, trust me; we’re not living in a tent. I’ll give you a hint: It’s a permanent structure. That’s all I can say. I think that I shouldn’t have even said that. Can I take that hint back?” Don’t think so.
“Sure, Dash; consider it erased from my bean.” Not.
He looked at me and grinned. “One more dark brew to-go for the train ride back home?”
“Sure. Please put it in a brown paper bag, Dash. Thanks in advance and in retrograde.” What a strange one he is.
“I remember the routine, Mr. Mike.” Mr. Mike?
“And that is why I tip you so well.”
“You just want my sister’s phone number.” He’s onto my little scheme.
“Yeah, maybe so.” Of course you do.
“Maybe so next time,” Dash concluded.
I put a $5 bill and five quarters down on the bar and exited the tantalizing travesty of a tavern. I crossed Judah. Lucky me, an N-line train was waiting at the western terminus. Ah, just like I ordered it.
I jumped aboard the front car. I couldn’t stop wondering where Dash and his girlfriend were living in Golden Gate Park. Are they living in a large storm drain vault? No, that would be too damp. Couldn’t imagine a 20-something female voluntarily living in such a space. Are they really living in some subterranean void? Where do they use the bathroom? Outside in the woods? No, I couldn’t imagine a girl living like that. I can tell that he’s not living like that, either; he is getting a fresh shower every day. Does he have a key to some park maintenance building? I bet that’s it. I’ll have to poke around out there this weekend.
The MUNI train stopped at 22nd Avenue. The man from Sidle on N with the cowboy hat crossed the street with his head down, headed south. He glanced at the front of the train as he passed by. The last new passenger got on the rear car of the train, and we were rolling again. I never saw him leave the bar. I wonder what his story is. Lost to time. Another mystery gone to the fog.
Twenty-two minutes later, the N train pulled into the below-Market-Street Civic Center station. I got out and walked up to my Hyde Street studio apartment, wading through the aggressive panhandlers. I couldn’t stop wondering about where Dash and his girlfriend were living in Golden Gate Park.
Four days later, I spent a whole Sunday checking out the various structures in the park for signs of human habitation. Nothing looked remotely lived in, even when I zoomed in on the sheds and maintenance shop windows with my binoculars. I was ready to call it quits in the southwestern corner of the park, when I noticed the old, broken-down, closed-up, sail-less Murphy Windmill.
I glanced at the little rectangular windows. In a middle one, I thought I saw a face. I quickly looked through my binoculars. There was a young Asian female’s face surrounded by long black hair. She was looking down at me. What the heck! Is she a ghost? Am I really seeing this?
I saw her just for a few milliseconds. Then she was gone. She disappeared that quickly. So suddenly in fact that I wondered if I had truly seen a real living person. I then doubted the visage altogether, and wrote it off as just another one of my dehydration delusions. Need some water, and quick.
However, a trip to Sidle on N the next Wednesday confirmed my initial impression.