39. A Trek to Zeke’s Island (March 2015)
Back in mid-September of 1986, the late, ever-so-great, sprightly Agent 107 (Frank von Peck) and I traversed the 4,800-foot-long, crumbling, stone-and-concrete breakwater from Federal Point (just south of Fort Fisher, NC) to Zeke’s Island, a large estuarine sand shoal near the mouth of the Cape Fear River.
The other day, lo, hi and behold, I found an old cassette tape (remember those?) in a drawer of an oaken chest that had captured the audio from our twenty-two-minute walk on that five-star day. What follows is a condensed version of the transcript.
Future Agent 33 (me): “Well, do you think we have everything, Frank?”
[the sound of a pickup truck door closing]
Future Agent 107 (Frank): “Man, we’ve got enough food and drink for two days. When does high tide come in?”
33: “It’s been going out for the last two-and-a-half hours. We’ll be fine. The water level will still be going down, even when we come back.”
107: “You had better be right. I don’t want to be stranded on that island overnight.”
33: “Afraid of Blackbeard’s ghost, are we?”
107: “No, I just have stuff to do.”
[only the sound of seagull caws and splashing water for several minutes]
33: “Now, watch your step in this breach. These rocks are slippery, especially the green mossy areas.”
107: “You just figured that out? Listen, I’ll be fine. We just need to worry about you.”
33: “Are you feeling anything yet?”
107: “Just feeling high adventure.”
33: “Wow! Those clouds down the river … they seem to be wavering ever so slightly, like on that day last year with Slim at Wrightsville Beach.”
107: “Oh, not already. We’ve just started this rock-hopper.” [sic]
33: “Rare coinage, dude. That’s definitely what we’re doing.”
107: “I wonder when this jetty was built.”
33: “It’s a breakwater, Frank. A jetty just juts and a breakwater breaks … the water.”
[splash]
107: “A jetty just juts? You’ve lost another marble, dude. Maybe your last one.”
33: “I still have three or four left.”
[both of us are laughing]
107: “So, what’s the story behind this breakwater?”
33: “Well, Frank, back in 1873, they wanted to make New Inlet vanish, which they did, to keep a deep Cape Fear River channel for oceangoing ships.”
107: “Hmmm … 1873. Hey, did you just pluck a year out of the air?”
33: “I’m not a magician in this kind of weather.”
107: “How do you know that it was built in 1873?”
33: “I placed the last stone with my bare hands. I was there with the Corps of Engineers. It was epic, Frank. Make that epik [sic] with a hard Germanic k.” [chuckling]
107: “Already getting silly, I see. Great. Just frigging [sic] great.”
33: “Ok, I’ll divulge my source. I saw 1873 mentioned in a pamphlet in the gift shop at the museum.”
107: “What museum?”
33: “The one next to the seafood restaurant with the cannon out front.”
107: “You’ve already lost your mind. That was not a restaurant; that was Fort Fisher, you flipping fool.”
33: “I was just testing you, Frank. You gobbled up the bait.”
[more seagull caws and the sound of wind gusts for about ten seconds]
107: “Test this, dude.”
[the sound of coughing]
33: “We’re already to the first bend, Frank. We’re making good time. We should be there by midnight.”
107: “Fawk [sic] you. I’m not going to be on this sinking pile of rocks after dark.”
33: “Why not? It would make the high tide more exciting.”
107: “Forget it. That’s a tragedy in the making if I ever heard one.”
33: “Ever think that it’s all a tragedy in the making?”
107: “You’re bringing me down, dude. You need to elevate your thoughts above the waterline.”
[some more coughing with some wind gusts]
33: “Do you think that you could swim across this lagoon?”
107: “Sure, if I had to. But, that’s not a lagoon; it’s an estuary basin. I thought you studied maritime geology in college? Were you sleeping in on that day? Didn’t you study coastal features?”
33: “Uh, yeah … I guess I did. Hey, let’s swim it!”
107: “Nah, I’ll pass. But, you can go ahead and drown if you like. I’ll wave to you as you go under for the third time.”
33: “So much for high aqua-adventure. Hey, you’re right: Sometimes it does appear that this rocky trail is sinking, doesn’t it?”
107: “You need to get a grip. Don’t wig out until we’re back on land, or dry sand.”
33: “I’m not wigging out; I’m just having a laugh. Ha-ha. Ah-ha-ha.”
107: “Do you think we’re over halfway there yet?”
33: “Over halfway to where?”
107: “To Zeke’s Island! You know, the intended destination.”
33: “We’re close. There’s the turn for home. Relax. We’re going to make it. The crowd is cheering.”
[several minutes of no one talking with just the sounds of splashing water and wind gusts]
107: “I’ll race you the last hundred feet. I’ll stay in the left lane; you stay in the right.”
33: “Excuse me, pal o’ mine, but I don’t see any lane markings.”
107: “Just stay on the right side of this linear rock pile.”
33: “I’ll forfeit the race for the sake of personal safety. Thus, you win. What do I owe you?”
107: “You owe me a gold coin.”
33: “Well, who knows, Frank, there may be some buried gold on Zeke’s Island. Did you pack a spade?”
107: “No, just a club.”
33: “Ha-ha. Now that’s genuinely hilarious. Good one, Frank. You clubbed that low-hanging fruit. You punctured that plump piñata. You made that cute girl smile.”
107: “What cute girl?”
33: “The one in that cheeseball dance club last night at Carolina Beach.”
107: “The short brunette?”
33: “Yes, her. That sexy rod-popper.”
107: “Was she looking at me?”
33: “All the freaking time, man. All the freaking night. You should have made a peck move on her, captain.”
107: “I don’t know; I think she was with the bartender.”
[sounds of the wind howling for several minutes]
33: “Well, we’ve made it to Zeke’s Island. It wasn’t that bad; now, was it, Captain Stacks?”
107: “No, it really wasn’t. But, at full high tide, it may be a different story.”
33: “It’s always a different story, Frank … until you find out that you’ve just retraced a deceased person’s pattern.”
107: “Man, lay off the morbidity. We’re still alive, dude.”
33: “You think so?”
107: “Oh, pleeeease. Please do come back to Earth at once, Astronaut Mike.”
[the sound of a helicopter passing overhead]
33: “Oh, crap! They’ve found us, Frank. Put your hands up before the snipers take us out.”
107: “Stop freaking out, man. Put your hands down. You’re going to get them to land over here if you don’t stop. What’s wrong with you?”
33: “Ah, they’re on a training mission. Probably headed back to Camp Lejeune. They don’t have time for our nonsense.”
[about two minutes of no one talking]
107: “Does the other side of this island front the Atlantic Ocean?”
33: “No, there are a series of tidal creeks and marshy shoals between us and the deep blue sea. If you want to hang out on that deserted beach, you’ll have to get wet.”
107: “Hey, let’s do it! If the creeks are less than four feet deep, we can keep the dry stuff dry, by holding the knapsacks over our heads.”
33: “Wait, are you for real?”
107: “Yes! C’mon, man. Don’t wuss out on me.”
33: “Ok, sport. Keep heading this way.”
[several minutes of just walking sounds and the wind howling]
107: “Well, here’s our first crossing, dude. The middle looks less than three feet deep. We can do this.”
[no more voices or sounds, just tape hissssssssss]
40. Vermont Street (April 2015)
We, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), decided to check out San Francisco’s second-most curvy street – the largely unheralded Vermont Street – before the Giants-Padres game on Wednesday, August 24, 2011. I remember thinking at that time: A psecret psociety pshort pstory [sic] could come out of this. And, of course, I had my DAR (Digital Audio Recorder) running on a fresh charge.
It was a quiet, uneventful, still-foggy, noontime, mid-week N Judah train ride from our two-star Outer Sunset motel to the subterranean Civic Center MUNI station. Once there we exited and walked up to Market Street to the sound of drums and the sight of beaming sunlight. Darn, I preferred the fog and overcast sky.
At the route 19 bus stop on 8th Street, we saw the source of the percussive reverberations: a bright-red-vested street musician with a dozen miniature drums of various types strapped to his body. What an odd act. Only in San Francisco.
The 40-something, brown-bearded, portly Caucasian dude billed himself as Beat the Con-Un-Drum. He actually seemed to have some rhythm. I placed several silver coins in his black top hat. Maybe import him to an MLS match in Portland. Pso psinfully psyncopated. [sic]
Then a mid-to-late-60-ish, white-haired, Caucasian guy of slight build, sporting an SF (Giants) baseball cap, walked up to the bus stop. Monique surveyed him. I spoke first.
“Going to the game tonight?”
“Yep, yep, yep. Malloy never misses a home game. Well, not since the big earthquake.” Wow! It’s him. The real Malloy. [The Mr. Malloy character also features in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco as well as the short story A Search for Sidle on N.]
“The one in 1906, Mr. Malloy? Hey, I’m just kidding. Just having a laugh. We’ll be there, too. Great to see you again after nineteen years.”
“Likewise and wise-like,” Malloy said. “So, where are you two wily wascals [sic] going now?”
“We’re going to check out Vermont Street – the serpentine section,” I said. “Ever been there?”
“Many times. Many, many times. We used to roll old bowling balls down that street back in ’79. We invented a game. Even had a league. The Potrero Hill Potatoes was our team’s name.” Huh?
“The Potrero Hill Potatoes?” I asked out of bemusement.
“Yep, yep, yep. We would call our heavily gouged bowling balls potatoes, as they would wobble like misshapen spuds. Yep, yep, yep.”
“Ok. So, how did the game work?” I was very curious to know what kind of street game a younger Malloy would partake in.
“It was uh … well, it was kind of like bowling, but with just one pin at the end of the run. Play would start about a hundred feet south of 20th Street, just before the switchbacking descent. Yep, yep, yep. We would chalk a foul line across the street. The object was to bowl your team’s ball down the street, alternating bowlers, in as few bowls as possible to set up for the first easy shot at the lone pin. Whenever the ball touched – or jumped – the curb, it was out of bounds and a chalk mark was scratched where the ball struck or jumped the curb. The next bowl would then be from that spot, and so on until someone knocked down the pin at the bottom of the zig-zigging slope.” Wow!
“Sounds pretty cool, Malloy,” I said.
“As in K-E-W-L? That’s the hepcat way to spell it. I invented that spelling long before the hipsters of today.” I doubt that, but I won’t challenge him on it.
“Ok, I’ll make a note of that.” I then looked down and saw the green light on the DAR (Digital Audio recorder) inside my shirt pocket. Excellent. It’s on. We got that recorded.
“Let me tell you something. [I immediately thought of the Durutti Column song when he said that.] Yep, it was one helluva [sic] game. We would hoot and holler. The neighbors despised us at first, but we won most of them over; they became epic all-leaguers.” [sic] What?!
“How did your team do?” I bet Malloy was on the misfit team.
“We won a few Saturday night extra-spatials.” [sic] What the hell did he just say?
“Extra-spatials or extra-specials?” I calmly asked, seeking some clarification.
“Yep, yep, yep. We lost in the quarter-finals, though. Won a ribbon or something. I think Ed has it now. Late at night was the only safe time to bowl.”
“I see. Did any bowling balls ever hit any people, cars or houses?”
“No, not that I am aware of. Bowlers were spaced up and down the hill, wearing thick gloves and steel-toed shoes. However, we did lose a ball one night. I never heard it hit anything. It just quietly disappeared in a hairpin turn.”
“Did that cost your team a penalty? Did your team have to forfeit the match?”
“Yeah, I think we lost that round. Yep, yep, yep.” He sure still loves to say, ‘yep, yep, yep’. Nothing has changed on that count. It must drive his wife insane. Or, maybe he has no wife now.
The orange-and-white, freshly washed MUNI bus pulled up to the bus stop. We all got on, but Malloy sat up front and we drifted to the back. Maybe we should have sat behind him and just kept the DAR running. There’s a novel in that guy. Make that three. At least.
Malloy got off at Mariposa. Monique, who had been mute thus far, then spoke up.
“I wonder what his life story is, Parkaar.” [my ailing alias]
“Oh, it’s probably an interesting tale, Monique. A most propitious tale, no less.” What?
“Propitious?”
“Yeah. You know, he won the state lottery back in ’90 or ’91. That lucky bastard.” I chuckled. “But, he likes to appear near-destitute as he wanders around San Francisco, muttering ‘yep, yep, yep.’ What a life.”
“Ah, well, there goes the rich man in disguise,” Monique said as she looked back at Malloy one last time as the bus pulled away.
“Yep, yep, yep,” I said as Malloy-esque as I could manage.
Monique laughed. “You almost sound like him.”
“Well, maybe in good time.” ‘Good’ time?
We had a chuckle and then quieted down. It was a splendid day by the bay (even if the sun was very bright now).
Two minutes later, I pulled down on the stop-request cable. The sign illuminated and the bell dinged.
“Well, this is our stop, Agent 32.” He obviously has his DAR on. That’s the only time he calls me ‘Agent 32’.
We got off at 20th Street. We were now on Rhode Island Street. Vermont Street was only two blocks to the west.
“Well, Monique, it’s just a short walk from here.”
“Ok, lead the way, Parkaar.”
“I like how you pronounced the Dutch double-ah, sexy Agent 32.”
“You always say that, 33.” She’s right. I’ve probably worn that groove out. I’ve worn everything out. My mind is worn out. My time is worn out.
“Are you sure that your great maternal grandfather wasn’t Dutch, Monique?”
“Maybe Spanish or Chinese, but probably not Dutch.”
Soon we were on Vermont Street, looking down at the series of curves through the cypress trees. What an über-super-duper [sic] street.
“Well, this is it, 32: the other curvy street in San Francisco that some say is more crooked than the famous Lombard Street on Russian Hill. Want to walk down it?”
“Sure. But, let me take a picture here first.”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead. It’s some view.”
Monique then got her cell phone out of her handbag and snapped a few pics at the top of the hill. We walked down the sidewalk to the bottom of the curvaceous section, occasionally stopping to snap some more photos.
“What is that green space over there, 33?”
“It’s McKinley Square. Want to check it out?”
“Sure. Why not? We’ve got time, right?”
“Yeah, plenty of time before the gates open for the game.”
We then began walking up a trail that roughly paralleled the sinuous section of Vermont Street. About halfway up, Monique stopped, needing a water break. She gulped down some mineral water from Iceland. (I noticed the text on the bottle’s label.)
While Monique was drinking the Icelandic glacier water, I looked down at an evergreen shrub. There seemed to be something bulging under its mulch. I bent down and brushed the mulch and thin layer of earth away to reveal a third of an old, black bowling ball. I used a nearby stick to dig around it. Three minutes later I had the ball extricated.
I held up the old, chipped, black bowling ball like a trophy and made a pronouncement. “Well, Agent 32, I truly believe that this is the one that got away from Malloy’s gang.”
“Maybe so, 33. Does it have any deep gouges in it?”
I twirled it around in my hands, and sure enough it had some chasms of missing plastic.
“It sure does,” I said, noticing a jet flying overhead at a low altitude. Wonder if any of the passengers on that airliner can see me. If so, are any of the window-seat passengers now saying to a middle-seat passenger, ‘There’s some guy holding up a bowling ball down there.’ Oh, why do I think such ridiculous things?
“Yes, I would bet that that is Malloy’s missing bowling ball,” Monique said. That that.
“Yeah, this has got to be the one that went AWOL [absent without leave] thirty-two years ago.”
“It really does look about three decades old, Parkaar.”
“What should I do with it, 32?”
“I’d just leave it right there, 33.”
“Oh, I know … I’ll leave it in the playground.”
“A small child may get hurt by it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, 32. Hmmm … I’ll just let it roll down this open area towards US 101.”
“Are you crazy, Agent 33?! It might hit a hiker or jogger. It could be rolling fast enough to kill someone. Do you want to be charged with murder for some silly stunt and serve ten years in a California prison?”
“Uh, no, I most certainly don’t, Monique. But, I don’t see anyone – not a soul … anywhere.” And, he’s a safety guy?