Authors: Annie Carroll
Another week at
Voices,
and we are busier than ever. Closing on Thursday takes longer than usual. It’s late when I climb onto the bus. Parking is almost impossible near our office so I’ve stopped driving my old blue Chevrolet, except occasionally on weekends. Fortunately, bus service in San Francisco is excellent and riding home from work gives me time to think. And I think of Austen Raneley a lot.
When I get home Ali is sitting on the blue sofa watching some show on our little black and white TV. Her job ends promptly at 5:3
0—much more orderly than mine.
“Some guy called for you tonight,” she says
. “He didn’t leave a message, but I think it was that guy from the band.”
“Oh
,” I answer and smile a little Cheshire cat smile. “Is there anything to eat? I’m starved. Closing took so long and—“
“Julia,
I can’t believe it. You actually gave him your phone number?”
“Yes.” I head for the kitchen.
“Oh. My. God. We move to San Francisco and you…I can’t believe it. After seeing them on that boat. Drunk out of their minds. I know he’s good looking, but have you totally lost your marbles?” Ali shakes her head as she gets up from the sofa and follows me.
“I’ve already been warned about those guys by a girl in my office. There are so many
musicians around because of
Rolling Stone
and the Fillmore being here. They have terrible reputations. No woman in her right mind—“
“I think I’ll have a
cheese sandwich.” I open the refrigerator. “I’m really tired.”
She shakes her head again. “Unbelievable. And you don’t w
ant to talk about it.”
I don’t know what I c
ould say to Ali to explain. I don’t understand my reaction to him, my attraction to him, but I hope he calls again. I hope he doesn’t think that I had my roommate lie and say I wasn’t here.
* * *
While there are no required “things-you-must-know” at
Voices
, I have quickly learned that to have any conversation and credibility with my fellow employees there are certain standards for cultural events and activities I should meet. For movies: see an important one the first week. Better yet: see it the day it is released. Best of all: see it at a private screening in Los Angeles before its release date. For albums: listen to the songs the first week—unless someone manages to get their hands on it before then. For art: best seen at the gallery opening. For books the pace is slower. If you haven’t read a significant book within a month, someone will offer to lend it to you and insist you read it.
Tonight we
—Ali, Drew, Sam and I-- have gone to a must-see-immediately movie:
Easy Rider
.
Ali
and Drew invited me to join them and Drew’s friend Sam, who is somewhat important in the antiwar movement. I can see why Ali likes Drew. He is the kind of man to inspire confidence. Warm, friendly, a trustworthy smile. He still has a short haircut and wears button-down collar shirts, but he’s an attorney and has to look conservative. Sam’s hair is growing out to that shaggy stage currently favored by counter-culture types. He’s wearing jeans and a slightly battered brown leather jacket, although the whole look may be something he has come up with to create an anti-establishment image. I strongly suspect this blind date is Ali’s attempt to get me interested in someone other than Austen.
We all agree that
Easy Rider
is brilliant as we walk into Vesuvios.
“It really captures the conflicts in this country today,” says Sam. “Dennis was telling me how they came up with the symbolism.”
We order drinks.
Sam goes on to offer his analysis—or is it merely opinion—o
f hippies and rednecks and the drug culture and motorcycles and then somehow brings it around to his efforts in the antiwar movement. He drops names in every third sentence. I have the feeling that we could have been discussing the price of tea in China and he would have figured out how to bring up his antiwar work. And, I think, if he is so ‘in’ with movie people why hadn’t he seen
Easy Rider
at a private screening before it was released in theaters?
I am bored
, so I sit back, put on my fixed smile and turn off the conversation.
Vesuvios is noted for two things: art and Kerouac. The owner, Henri Lenoir,
has hung his private art collection on the walls. He invited Kerouac and other Beat authors to do readings in his bar. No drinking establishment did anything like that before, but now other bar owners put art up on their walls. Not many are holding literary readings, however.
I gaze around the room at the art
works, then see Austen standing at the bar talking with a man I think is John, the one who writes most of the music for the band. He is tall and has a rugged, clean-shaven face, long, thick brown hair tied back. He looks like he might be a couple of years older than Austen. A blonde-haired young woman in a long blue skirt stands next to John holding a drink in her hand.
I
stare at Austen—willing him to look at me—and he does. I smile at him. He smiles back with that honey smile of his.
A couple of minutes later I excuse myself and walk over to look at one of the paintings. Austen saunters over and stands next to me.
“You like art, do you?”
“I
’m not sure about this one. I think I’ll have to come back another time to see this in better light.”
“You look bored.”
“Possibly. We are talking about
Easy Rider
. It’s an interesting movie but the conversation is not.”
“
Well, you could go back over to that table, pick up your jacket and purse and we could walk out of here together.”
I turn to him. “No, I would never do that, no matter how boring the conversation is. And besides, I’m not as bored now.” I smile
up at him. “I guess I’ll go back to the table.”
I am sure I sound more confident tha
n I feel. Pounding pulse. Vibrating body. It is a delicious feeling—certainly worlds better than the numbing boredom caused by Sam’s droning pomposity. Now—I hope—he’ll call me again.
* * *
I pick up the phone on Monday night and hear Austen’s honey voice. On Friday evening I hear him opening the squeaky gate in front of the cottage.
I am in my short, dark purple A-line dress with narrow low black heels. Earlier when I put it on Ali hissed: “You are really asking for it, Julia. Wear something longer.”
“I’ve got tights on. It’s not like I have bare legs or anything.”
“Dressed like that he’ll probably throw you into the back seat of his car and take you on the spot. Wear something else.”
I shake my head at her.
I’ve decided that going out with him could be the cure for me, a good way to get him out of my mind. Maybe he will turn out to be a vain idiot like that Tommy or really stupid—although judging from his lyrics that’s probably not true. And I might as well look cute while I’m finding out if he is as awful as everyone tells me rock musicians are.
He knocks and when I open the front door, I say “Hi” a little breathlessly.
“This is a wild-looking place. How did you find it?” He is smiling, happy. He wears more conventional clothes: black jeans, blue shirt, brown suede leather jacket, but it’s still the same black hair, honey voice and sky-blue eyes. My body starts reacting: my pulse speeds up, my breathing is already shallow.
“It’s even crazier inside,” I say. “Come in. I’ll give you the house tour. It takes about 60 seconds—this cottage is so small.”
Inside he looks around. Ali is seated on the blue sofa.
“You remember my roommate Ali
.”
“Sure
.” He glances at her. Ali gives him a small tight smile.
“I don’t know if the kitchen or bathroom is the highlight of the tour.”
He walks across the living room behind me and as we stand in the kitchen entrance looking in, he puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me toward him. I feel myself go all soft inside.
“Nothing like olive green and
fire-engine red to keep the cook awake.” I say, too brightly. “And now for the bathroom…”
He laughs when he sees the orange and purple. “Whoever did this must have been on acid.
Totally fried brain.”
Then he asks: “No bedrooms?”
“One big room upstairs we have to share.”
“Back to college days again
—huh?” He grins and raises an eyebrow. “Okay, done with the house tour. Let’s go.”
He helps me into the frosty blue raincoat with the City of Paris label inside
. I found it at my new favorite thrift store on Mission Street. I don’t think it’s going to rain, but it was my compromise with Ali: the coat covers up how short my dress is. I can wrap it around my legs when I’m in his car.
On our way out to the car he says: “Like your dress.”
How am I going to get through this evening? This is going to be more than a few words exchanged on a boat, in a bookstore, or a bar. My body is still humming.
The entrance to the Basque Hotel is on a dark, narrow
street at the edge of Chinatown. Austen parks the car nearby. He drives a brand new black Mustang convertible with an 8 track sound system in it. I am impressed.
How did you find this place?”
“I have my ways.” His arm is around my shoulders and he pulls me closer to him as we walk toward the modest entrance of a nondescript building. I am beyond melted, but hope it doesn’t show. “Let’s go have dinner, baby.”
In the
small hotel dining room we are immediately seated at one of three long tables. There are two seatings every evening and we are at the second one. Rather ordinary plates, glasses, flatware and napkins are at every seat. Food—it is real Basque food—is brought from the kitchen in big country bowls and the waiters serve everyone from them. Then the bowls are set on the tables and passed around, family style, for anyone who wants seconds.
Austen tells me the hotel was established decades ago for Basque shepherds who were brought to America to tend sheep on California ranches. It was someplace to stay when they came into the city. Someplace where they could talk to people in their own language. Someplace they could feel at home in a foreign country. And the
hotel kitchen’s reputation simply spread. Seating is always very limited; hotel guests have first priority.
“So you got a job, did you? Where are you working?”
Oh good. An ordinary question. I am calming down. It is beginning to feel like a normal dinner date with a normal guy—except when he touches me.
“For a weekly
newspaper called
San Francisco Voices
.”
“I’ve seen it. What do you do?”
“Nothing very exciting. I layout the pages—it’s like drawing a pattern to show where the editorial goes, where the ads go. It’s a fun place to work. I really like the people and getting to know everything going on in the city.”
I take another bite of lamb stew. It is delicious
, but I am not sure what herbs have been used in it. I will have to check out a recipe book about Basque cooking.
“Does that guy I saw you with at
the coffeehouse work there, too?
“No.”
What’s this? A little jealousy. Or more likely, simple curiosity. Or does he want me to know that he knows I saw him and pretended I didn’t. I have to turn this around.
“Okay.
My turn at Twenty Questions. Where are you from originally?”
“No-Where
Texas,” he answers with a grin.
“Oh yes. Famous No-Where Texas. Really. Where are you from?”
“A little town in Texas that no one has ever heard of.”
“You don’t sound like a Texan.”
“My mother is a teacher originally from up north and she did everything she could to keep my brothers and me from speaking like Texans. It worked more or less. And I’ve been away from there for a long time. I think what was left of Texas in me got scrubbed off in L.A.”
The waiters check to see if anyone else wants seconds and begin to clear the serving bowls. 15 minutes later people
start leaving the table.
“My turn now.” His honey smile is back. “Do you want to go to the B.V
.?”
We continue Twenty Q
uestions in the car. I learn that he has a younger brother, Mike; an older brother, Matt who’s a lawyer; his mother’s maiden name is Austen; he started the band with John about 5 years ago; writes the lyrics and some of the music. Peter, the drummer, joined them later. Other musicians have come and gone. Tommy is the newest addition. He learned that I have a younger sister, Joanie, still in high school; grew up in boring and dull Spokane; originally thought about being an English teacher, dropped out of college after two years and worked for
TV Weekly
in Seattle.
I also told him I love the song
“Night Ride across the Plains”. He wrote the lyrics and music and likes that I like it. It has been their biggest hit so far. I hope I don’t sound too much like some silly groupie fan.
The interior of the Buena Vista bar at the foot of Hyde Street is dark and packed with people—locals, tourists, even a few long-haired types.
Along one side is a long bar. Small round tables and chairs are lined up along the other side. We squeeze into seats at one of the tables and he orders two Irish coffees. I can hear the cable car bell clanging, outside.
His arm is around my shoulder and his fingers run
around my earlobe and down my neck. It feels good now. Not too scary, although my body is still humming and I feel slightly flushed. I think I have appeared quite poised so far—at least I hope so.
The
Irish coffee is served in a heavy stemmed glass and has a layer of whipped cream on top. I take one sip and realize there is a lot more of something else in it. “Wow, this isn’t what I expected.”
“It’s espress
o and Irish whiskey,” he smiles. “The B.V. is famous for it.”
“Oh, so now you’re going to try to get me drunk. Is that it?”
I smile as I say it.
The look on his face changes. He pulls me toward him and whispers in my ear: “For what I want to do with you I’d rather have you sober.”
I freeze, then look away. I feel paralyzed. I don’t know how to react or what to say. The bar is noisy. People are coming and going. I don’t see or hear any of it. Then I feel his fingers trace along the side of my face to my chin, gently.
“S
o you’re not going to look at me. Again.” He sounds amused.
My mind is churning
: ‘What he wants to do with me’. I know what he means but what do I say? What do I do? Finally I turn to him. “That was truth or dare. I’ve never been good at that game. I don’t have an answer.”
“A
t least you didn’t jump up and run out and leap into a canoe.” He smiles that honey smile again and his blue eyes are twinkling.
I can’t help but laugh
a little and the laughter dissolves some of my anxiety. “That night was so funny and strange. I know he is part of your band, but Tommy is awful. Ali and I laughed so hard after we left that we almost ran the canoe into a dock. Up close like that he is so different from his image. And so drunk.”
“That’s one of Tommy’s problems. It was his big idea to rent that boat and see the sights of Seattle
from the water. It was so damned cold. Well, at least I met you there, Lady of the Mist.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about Tommy.”
Lady of the Mist? The matchbook read ‘Lady of the Lake’. I guess he has forgotten that.
“Okay, Tommy’s off limits. What do you want to talk about?”
“How I can help you come up with the right answer, Julia.” He is serious again
or is he?
“I think time is what I need. Time.”
My answer is serious.
“Okay. I’ve got time.”
* * *
The gate in front of the cottage squeaks as he opens it. We walk to the front door.
“Thank you for this evening. I loved the Basque Hotel.
And the Buena Vista.”
“My pleasure.”
Then he takes my face between his hands, pulls me toward him and kisses my forehead softly. I close my eyes. He kisses one eyelid, “Sweet Dreams, baby. Then kisses the other: “Dream of me. Goodnight.
He turns and walks away
, back through the gate to his car.
“Goodnight,” I whisper.
I am barely breathing, my body vibrating. I feel I have been left hanging in an emotional limbo. Why did he do that? Why didn’t he kiss me?
The door to the cottage is unlocked, apparently Ali’s doing. She is waiting in the darkness inside,
sitting on the sofa, watching TV. I flick on the overhead light.
“You’re home. Thank goodness.” I can hear her relief. “Well, how was it? How is he?”
I have to tell her something, but I am definitely not going to mention ‘truth or dare’.
“We went to the Basque Hotel near Chinatown for dinner. Great Basque food served family style.
We will have to go there someday. Then down to the Buena Vista for coffee. I’m not even sure I will see him again.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Who’s this? Ali the investigative reporter?” I laugh and shake my head. “We talked about ordinary things—his family, where he’s from—nothing special.”
“Sorry. I was worried about you.”
“I’m okay.” I lie. “It was just an ordinary dinner date.”
I still don’t know what happened. Was that goodbye? But he said ‘Dream of me’.
And I have to admit to myself that this evening did not cure me of Austen Raneley. He’s not awful. He’s not stupid. My attraction to him is still there and, now on top of that, there is ‘what I want to do with you.’ What should I do about that?
* * *
Sunshine floods into the bedroom. It must be late morning, but when I look over at the clock on the floor next to my mattress, it is only 9 a.m. so the fog must have cleared early today.
Sleeping on a mattress on a floor is like camping indoors
and camping is something I’ve never enjoyed, even when my parents dragged my sister and me around to campgrounds in National Parks in summer. I really have to buy a bed one of these days.
Ali is in the kitchen
spreading raspberry jam on a toasted English muffin when I come downstairs. I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Should we continue our
city tour today? It is such a sunny day. Maybe we could go down to the Palace of Fine Arts.”
“I have other plans today,” Ali
smiles, smugly.
“Are you going someplace with Drew?”
“Yes, there is a street demonstration downtown.”
When Drew arrives, he invites me to join them, but I decline. I know antiwar efforts are important
and I have gone to one demonstration already, but today I want quiet. Besides, if that boring Sam is going to be there, I do not want to see him. He was so full of himself.
“Maybe next time.”
I decide to visit the Palace of Fine Arts by myself and take one bus, then transfer to another to get there. It is a complex of elegant and ornate buildings left from the 1915 Panama Pacific Exposition. It’s on the edge of the Marina District surrounded by a lagoon and a grassy tree-lined park. A new science exhibition, called the Exploratorium, opened there recently. I’ll have to come back another time and visit it.
The sunshine
casting shadows on the beautiful buildings, the fresh breeze off the Bay and the lush green setting are very invigorating. I decide to walk home up past the beautiful old Victorian homes in Pacific Heights—avoiding Lake Street. I definitely don’t want to be seen near there and be mistaken for a nutty fan or groupie. It takes well over an hour to get back to the cottage.
Ali still isn’t home. I wonder if they are still at that antiwar demonstration or if she decided to jump into bed with him.
The cottage is quiet. Should I finish reading
The Glass Bead Game
? No. I dig out my old copy of
Jane Eyre
and once again read about romance in the 19
th
Century. Back then rich heiresses married rich men with titles. Poor but educated nannies married poor ministers. Jane, however, escaped that fate. And no one jumped into bed with anyone else—except Tess. I never liked that book.
* * *
Monday morning at
Voices
and Dan comes breezing in. We begin going over the rough layouts for the upcoming edition. I’ll do the final layouts based on what he and David decided last Friday plus any changes that happen as the week goes by. The next Thursday night closing seems to be on top of us already.
About mid-morning he turns to me with a smile and says: “What’s this I hear that our own darling Julia was seen at the Basque Hotel in the company of
a notorious rock ‘n’ roll bad boy this weekend?”
I am shocked. He laughs.
“Who told you that?”
“Oh, I have spies everywhere, Julia. San Francisco is a very very small town. Everyone knows everyone else and who they area fooling around with. No secrets in
here.” He winks at me.
“So, did you have fun?”
I blush. “It was okay.”
“A blush like that and you’re saying ‘okay’?”
“Yes. Okay. Please no interrogation, Dan.”
“
Alright, but those guys…” He shakes his head. “No, I can’t tell you anything you probably haven’t already heard five times over.”
When Dan turns back to his work, I think ‘notorious bad boy’? He didn’t seem like that, well, except for truth or dare.
And I don’t think it is wise to ask my boss what he meant, what he knows.