For years I have thought that there are three kinds of running. There is running toward something that compels you. Like a bumble bee to honeysuckle or a Bear to it’s mate. Like anything to it’s mate. You can run away from something behind as a fox from the hounds. And there is just plain running. I have run thrice cross America in combined fits of all three. And now I am going to run North like a squirrel flushed and scrambling for the dark safety of the Redwood trees some two hundred miles away.

San Francisco in the cloudy June morning. Warm and damp and all grey daylight commerce. Sweet white haired old woman at the front desk of the Motel says have a nice day honey. I’ll try ma’m. Nerves all a jangle. Where did I get that coffee last night? Must take stock in what I have. One slightly aged red station wagon. A green and white tent very nice. Two plus pairs of smooth blue jeans and many short sleeved shirts. My guitar and favorite books. Worn sneakers and count ‘em three sleeping bags. A total of about one hundred and fifty dollars. No food and no job and no place to live. One paper cup of that dark hearted coffee. Tanned hands and freckled nose from driving. Optimism and fear and the whole summer rolling before me like a great green sea.

Blocks of cars end to end and tricky traffic. Dots of red stop lights like a runway. Hills above pitch and tumble like waves. Ancient cable cars and more wires than you ever saw pulled taught over the road. Electrical and telephone and cable and rail car. Somewhere in all of this foggy Metropolis my compadre Don Parker is sleeping. Best not to wake him for this story. Not just yet. Slip into the main artery and go with the flow. In a flash I am at The Golden Gate. Tufts of fog race over the road. The Pacific to my left is but a bank of white puffs. Through the great harp strings to the right a stony island sits in a harbor. What’s that over there well I’ll be it’s Alcatraz. Infamous penitentiary. Tourists in droves walking the sidewalk over the bridge and snapping away pictures for the folks at home. Proof. Look it really exists. Above on a steely span an insect - no a human - human insect is painting away tiny blotches of flower pot red. I wonder what they pay him? Or her. Impossible to tell from here. Maybe it really is a big spider. No way to know. God get me to the wild highway.

The sun is warm and June optimistic. Blue and white dome above watches to see what I will do next. Roaring trucks heading for the vineyards. Radio full of sound fades to electric hisses as I edge farther and farther from the City. Country music sung in Spanish on the radio. The vineyards ahead are gold stripped hills. And glad I am that Frisco is gone behind. I think it’s Tuesday.

All along my plan was to pitch my tent somewhere in the deep sanctuary of the Reds. Build a small cookfire and find some clean running water. Start from scratch like the Indian Brave that I am. That this idea would appall some or cause one to think ill of my mental state saddens me for the concensus of our modern and electric hearts. I need to Make a homebase. Get to know the neighboring towns, get involved. Find a job. Pull my weight. Find out how long I want to stay here and maybe get real digs. From what I had heard the weather in a Northern California summer would allow me to do just this. And also I had come to understand that others here doing the same. So ok.

Wine country rolls away gold with the clouds. Just to the left I can glimpse the area where just days ago I had last seen Jim Dove. Awaiting the dreaded bus of destiny to cart him home. Christ he’s still on it somewhere. My morning optimism has cleared away. A blue sky noon feeling sets in. God what am I doing out here? The impending forest which seemed so comforting when first I left Frisco now threatens me up ahead. What am I going to do? I am fairly certain that I had given Kathryn the impression that I was well taken care of. By the Earth I suppose I meant. So I dare not show my face there until I am settled. Which leaves me with just the Earth I guess. Which is like saying I am left with Everything. Wine country fades behind me.

Be careful what you ask for. My thought was to first find a place to pitch that tent. Nice spot near the road. Just off the road in fact. Up how about a little dirt road. And not too far from Kathryn’s. This is what I wanted to find. And as Leggett looms ahead in the early afternoon is what I will search for.

Ok. A simple five miles past Kate’s I find my dirt road. To the right. Just up which is a neat patch to pitch a tent. Exactly what I had asked for. Except for two things: the road is impassable and the tent spot visible from the road. My car gets quite stuck actually. Which takes time to unstick. One wheel is actually off the ground and the under carriage groans an unusually vocal complaint at this. Sorry Julia. Hmm I think I should have been more specific. I need that spot to be auto accessible and not near the road. About an hour later I find my spot. Even closer to Kate’s. Except there is a house right nearby and the land is marked for Private Property. Sheesh. At this point it occurs to me that I need to be even more specific. It’s now hot brass colored afternoon. I am ready for a nap and discouraged. Nab a coffee at the general store and think about it. I carefully review my specifications for a campsight. Close to Kate’s. Hidden from view. Auto accesible. No houses or private property lines. No danger in fact. All of this sounds too good to be true. Perhaps I won’t find it. Back up the road and north scanning the roadside for my venue. I reach the first spot (where I had gotten so hopelessly stuck) and turn about. Now almost desperate I have scoured meticulously these miles. Man, what am I going to do. I guess I’ll head for Kate’s and talk it over with her. Less than two miles from her house I double take at a real estate sign to my right. Quick U turn and park to inspect the sign. Oh my, look at this. A nearly invisible road drops just over this hill. The wheel ruts nicely concealed by tall green grass. I wonder if I can drive down there. Sure enough. The road is more of a path that dips down about sixty feet. Above route 101 is hidden behind trees and tall grass. The roar of cars shushed nicely. I am unseen down here. How nice.
Get out and inspect this road. Simple dead end and it looks like no one has been down here all year. Goody. Promising spot. And just over the hill is a sharp cliff that falls over one hundred feet to the sparkling eel river beneath. I love it. Where to put that tent though? Minutes of wandering in the area and I find that an animal path leads to a spot where the cliff blends into a hill. Up the hill is the road but I am still invisible. Just below the river gleens emerald at me. A great Redwood stump would conceal me if I put my tent here. So ok. I try it. The tent fits too nicely. I throw an elaborate brown tapestry over it’s white dome and tie it down. The effect is complete. A little elf bubble behind the stump where something might live. Me that something. Closer inspection of all of this land reveals the following: no spot for a fire. The summer will be too dry and I am too close to the road for smoke. Oh well, this will do for now anyway. I place some purple shells and green stones on the great stump in front of my tent to appease the local spirits. Keep me safe please. Which they do. To celebrate I buy a tin of sardines and some cheese crackers at the store which is about one mile away. Then back to my spot. That stump makes it just about impossible to spot my tent unless you are right on top of it. This is good. No waking up to angry land owners. But the car isn’t hidden quite so well. Must take my chances. Never better sardines sitting cross legged in the mouth of my tent. Three feet in front of me is the edge of the cliff. Toss a cracker to it’s spiraling doom. Must be careful in the middle of the night not to fall to my death looking for the camode. Who cares. Now I am a Hawk living on the edge of a rocky cliff. Eating my fish and preening my feathers. Fix up the nest and how about a nap.

I have often considered and discussed at length with friends and strangers the following: what are we to do in this world anyway? I mean after work, after your chores are done, wood’s split, icebox jammed. After Church on Sunday or during that Heart of the Saturday afternoon. Time that is really our own. Gravy time. What do we do? And I have often thought that people of all incomes and locations and creeds do just about the same things. Read. Watch television and take a walk. Converse with loved ones about the day behind. The day ahead. Drink a little or eat a little extra. Maybe paint watercolor flowers or work in the garden. Anyway. I, like others rent movies. A movie is a myth of the twentieth century. And it is the only art form that we do better now than hundreds of years ago. Painting has suffered the centuries. Symphonies have evolved into rock and roll and rhythm and blues. Sculpture has lost it’s grandeur. And great works of literature have given way to paper back bestsellers. But movies. Moving pictures and sound all nicely edited for content and viewing pleasure. Myths for our time. And movies today are, we must admit, much better than they were in the 1600’s.

There’s that funny feeling in the throat at first and then oh, I’ve been sleeping. Sun is going down and the air over the river is thick with gold. Spring pollen and light. I am nicely rested for twilight. Scout for bears sniffing for them sardines. None. Damn. Wander down the hall - I mean path - to the car hidden in the high grass. Now what to do? What else, rent a movie and go see Kate. This act will officially begin my relationship with her. As a friend and one to one. For this is real gravy time and we can do whichever we choose. And if we watch a movie together it is not because we have to but because we choose to. This choosing over time defines our real relationships. There are people in our lives we see all the time and never think of having any kind of relationship with. And there are people in my life with whom I have relationships with but never spend time with. Best not to dissapoint. In this way I am a great big loser. Hell if I wasn’t so, I wouldn’t be four thousand miles from everyone I know how to spend my gravy time with.

Dusky coffee and up to Kate’s. The rented myth is immemorable. She squeals with gladness for my appearance. Trevor is gone but I am still knocking around. Like the left over ghost of a dream. Or I think more appropriately like the drunk cousin who passed out in the bushes and slept through his ride home after the yearly picnic. Oops. Oh well, I guess I have to stay until next year then. Look what I got. An always welcomed movie. Moving pictures with sound you know.

Kate and I sit cross-legged on her floor ignoring the flashing sounds and images on the television screen. Pass the coffee and smoke. We are glad for each other’s company. She is pinkfaced from sunshine and I am feeling like the whole world is here with us. Like the future is laid out on the floor right here. “You gonna stay?” she asks. “Sure. I’d like to I mean.” “You can put up a tent here you know.” she points out the window matter of factly. “Nah, no really. I’m all set. I’m up on a cliff down by the river.” like a lunatic. “No way man, you can stay here. No problem.” she insists. But I can’t bring myself to just yet. She is my ambassador from home and I know that she knows better than I but not yet. Must first get that job and generate some income here. Then we shall see. And hey I suddenly realize that I feel solidified. They way you need to during your gravy time. When your dog rushes up to you at the end of the day it reminds you that you are loved. When everyone smiles and nods at you when you enter your favorite pub you know you’re home. Validation. And though I am thousands of miles from familiar, Earth is my home. And Kathryn is my family. Immediate family now. We break into conversation at an increasing speed. Both of us with dragonfly hearts. Gregory or someone would later joke that listening to her and I talk was like listening to the murmur of bees. Fast and intelligible but full of meaning and depth. Smoothly spinning like the gears of the starry dynamo of the machinery of night. Hours fly by and the movie rolls credits. Soon she is exhausted from working all day and talking with me. “I gotta turn in but you can make yourself at home” she bows toward me sincerely like a Chineese Monk. Enter Honmi (the Siamese cat) in agreement. “Hang out take a shower or whatever. Kay?” “Okay thanks” I have to smile still sitting. She grins. “I gotta work till five tomorrow. Come over later yeah?” “Yes ma’m. Ok I will.” And I did. Long enough to brew and drink a completely unnecessary cup of black joe. Rewind and catch some of that flick. Scratch Honmi behind the ear. He perks at some unseen force and is gone. And I reluctantly head out into the dark world.

Moving down the path by the lightning like flashes of the flint on this disposable lighter. Flick flick forward like a firefly. Trees loom like monsters. Then my guardian stump. And the hawk perch elf dome. Brown bubble unzip the door. I am awashed in soft sleep oh so fast. If I dreamed that night I do not remember it. But I do remember peeing off of the cliff in the middle of the night. Leaning on a sapling please don’t break.

What I hadn’t realized about my camp spot was that I was almost underneath the highway even if invisible. Not inaudible. Trucks roaring by in the middle of the night virtually shook my tent. But I am a champion sleeper and it didn’t take long to adjust.

A great quality of this spot was that I was in deep shade. The sun didn’t strike the tent ever and so it was cool when I climbed out onto my ledge after ten in the sunny June morning. Squinty elf eyed and long locked. Slug off the jug of clean water. Strange California birds whistling away glad of spring and sun. Pick my way to the car and back into the world. Beeline for Kate’s though she is at work.

I think I shall brew my own coffee this a.m. And a morning shower. Then my Gift to Kate. I spend the best part of the doing our dishes from the night before and washing and cleaning everything I can get my hands on. Not that it really needs it. Just the kind of spring cleaning I never get around to in my own homes. Windowsills a gleaming white. Glass sparkling clear. The kitchen floor shines. Polish trinkets and arrange shells. What a fabulous place this really is. Livy vacuumed to perfection and why not help myself to rearange the furniture a bit. Increase the angles. Maximize space. Jam the couch here in the corner. Honmi looks on fascinated. The sun porch chimes gladly at me though I don’t know that Kate will be. I hope so. She was. Herbert the landlord smiles up from the driveway. “I see you cleaning up thar.” he hoots. I wave stupidly. Vagabond housekeeper. One more dank brew and I shall skeedattle before she comes home from work. Like the shoemaker’s elves.

Just enough light in the day for a walk on the river. Hunting bits of jade and chasing lizards. Plunking stones into a pool Soft wind rushes through the trees in a warm pour of summer sun. Hard for me to beleive that just days ago there were three of us. I feel alone as though in a dream. In a world all my own. Sitting beside this deep green pool all alone it is the same to laugh for fortunes sake as to weep for lonliness. No one but ravens and fish to hear. Crystalize this moment like a glass bead. What a long string of these have I. Alone on a mesa in the brown green sage land of northern Idaho. Atop a smooth sunset cream colored stone in a dark pine forest in the heart of Wyoming. Sleeping in a long tree over an emerald swamp (where are those gators) in steamy southern Florida. Crouched by a windy cliff dwelling carved of soft red stone in Arizona. Well at least these lonley moments are pretty. Makes it easier to have so many of them.
A quick hawk nap at the nest and rent a movie. Back to Kates for gravy time reflection and how was your day. She is tickled at my houskeeping but oh you really shouldn’t have. But I feel I had to after all I was there three days straight before she returned from Aikido camp. Comfort in our dragonfly talk and coffee and some fantastic meal Kate magically throws together. The movie flashes away and the clock spins. In an instant it is past her bed time and I am sneaking down my path to my little nest. The sun and solitude is clearing my soul and I can’t beleive how deeply I sleep.

Days pass in this fashion.
Birdlike slumber and solitary exploration. A twilight movie and Kate’s council. Coffee and eggs and sardines deluxe. Living sleeping napping and reading in my overlook perch. A phonecall to Trevor produces an epilogue for Jim Dove. Jimmy was supposed to arrive at home at about sunset. Trevor was hoping to pick him up and we though this poetic. That Trevor should be there when Jim got on the bus in Ukiah and then would be waiting for him when he finally climbed off at home. But Jim’s four day bus ride had sufficient lag to put him behind by about eight hours. So he was a no show for Trevor. And in fact he abandoned the bus fifty miles early in Hartford Connecticut. Borrowed a car from an ex girlfriend and made a midnight beeline to Jessie’s house. And I can only imagine the stories that poured from him then.

I started to settle in. Got myself a post office box. Fantastic provision of the American Dream. Six dollars a year for global accesibility. Then a toll free number for the kids at home. I exist officially. Can be reached as they say. But my car is wearing tracks into my field and sooner or later someone is going to find me down there. I must consider the next step.

Kate reafirms her offer to stay at her place. “Checkitout man there is so much room here. You are my guest and I insist that you stay.” she says over hot tea with honey. Okay I will think of it but I need to offer her landlord some money. She disagrees. She pays plenty of rent and is never here. I see the logic in this but am concerned that Herbert and Joanne will corner me when she isn’t around. Best to get in front of them when Kate’s not around. Which I do. Hot afternoon and down by the laundry building Herbert is leaning on a beat pick up truck. Watching one of his tenants move car parts to and fro. I wave him over come here if you would. He does. I extend my hand and in my most professional bullshit tone greet him. “Hi. Tim Ludlow. Glad to meecha. I’m a friend of Kate’s from back home and will be around all summer. Like to talk to ya about it.” He smiles. “Well ok, let me finish with this and we’ll talk.” His wife Joanna beams uncontrolably. She seems to like me. Introduces herself. Up at their house we stand around in the shady grass. “The way you come up to me like kat,” Herbert says nodding downhill “goes a long way with a fella.” Good thing I’m thinking. And the ice breaks. Lemonade? They are originally from Okalhoma and like so many others from the panhandle area had come to California to settle. The southern heartland rings in their voices. Joanne tells me she always wanted to see Nashville. I’ve been through there and tell her this. This too goes a long way. And over that lemonade we agree on the following. I can put my tent up behind Kate’s house in a little patch by the bathroom window per Herb. Full use of her gas and water and whatever for a total of fifty dollars weekly. My own concern this fifty dollars I don’t want to tell Kate about it. She would dissaprove and best to keep everybody happy. Though truth to tell I am going to have to do something soon to generate rent money. So ok. We all happy.
Back to my cliffy perch to dissasemble my home. Which always breaks my heart a little. Fold the tent and scatter leaves and sticks to leave no evidence. Not even an impression where the tent stood. My most gracious thanks.

They say that home is where you hang your hat. I don’t wear a hat. So I have thought that perhaps home is where you sleep. Or where you live. Or where you relax anyway. Maybe home is where you are standing. I just don’t know. But my new home is a flat gravely spot under a tall pine. Just beside the white and red cottage in the shade. I spend hours sweeping stones clear and making a perfect place to lay my body. Put down the bedding and try it out for a nap. Perfect though I can hear the stereo inside the house that I left on. Proximity. Kathryn is glad of my move. Nice to have me near and she is happy I feel comfortable enough to accept this offer. Best not to bother her about that fifty a week I have agreed to pay. “Gregory and I are going to this fabulous art fair this weekend wanna come?” she asks while mixing cookie dough or something with a big wooden spoon. All brown eyes and strawberry curls. Sure I do. Time to mingle a little. My solitary expeditions are making me broody. Art fair sounds nice.

The Festival is lain out sweetly on a long stretch of field that runs just beside a wide stretch of Eel River. Ahead of time the local folks use small buldozers to persuade the river to pool and deepen which it does. Like a small pond though I think they actually call it a lake. And the tents and booths along the grass are themselves art. Some tarps wide and group inspiring others are gypsy swirled with colorful strips of fabric. Some are downright renaisance elegant. Lemonade and popcorn in the air. Bubbles and balloons and kids twirling colored ribbons. At the head of the field a sweet little bandstand sits with a small brass ensemble swinging away hits of the big band era. Stardust. A grove of Redwoods behind them stands like a dark castle. Colorful California summer wear on everyone and berry brown faces and arms. Little angel girls with two feet of blonde hair. Hippies and artists and travelers. The smell of incense an coffee and patchouli. A day from a painting all blue and cloud rimmed. My long hair shining wet and ragged denim shorts I fit right in. At a small green booth a rotund older woman is selling rare plants from around the Earth. I turn and inspect a small coffee tree in my hands for some time. She watches me moonfaced. How long till this little one sprouts beans I wonder. Years she grins at me. I don’t buy it but wish later that I had. I first spotted the girl while talking with a long white ponytailed man about his hand made leather boots. Reproduction from another world I think. Flattened old coins for buttons. And there is this dark girl. Long black hair in a gentle curl and black shining eyes to match. Tall and angular and elven. Purple overall shorts and a white tank top. Summer tanned already. She smiles an impish curl of lip at me. Something in her reminds me of a friend from home. Then she’s gone. “Hey! Ya made it!” a woman shouts. Kate all sun rosy with Gregory in arm. Paper cups full of soda (or lemonade maybe) and smiling at me. She dons a green leather medieval vest and matching brown dress. “Hi, hi.” I say. “How long’ve ya been here?” Gregory asks shielding his brown eyes from sun and smiling. “Oh a while,” says I brushing my hair from my eyes and looking around. “S’great.” And we three paruse the booths and vendors for a while. Kate and Gregory are entranced at a table where a tall skinny man in red has some fantastic stones. “My God look at this one!” Kate says. Mutual oohs from a clear and smooth bit of sunny amber crystal full of threadlike striations. What on Earth? But they must have it and do. Today’s treasure found and tucked away. How about a swim?
So we pick our way along the river’s white and sun hot stones to the water. Folks swimming in their underwear or in long pants. Spontaneous dip they can’t help themselves. Nor can I though I am dressed for it. And a few minutes under water hits the spot. I splash around like a kid and do a backflip for joy. Kate and Douglas twirl a dance of love in each others arms. Their smiles are rich and genuine. And I leave them to their bliss as I hunt the fair grounds cool and wet for some hot java.

Sitting at a white plastic table in the Redwood shade and I am in heaven. There goes that girl again. She gives me a knowing glance and quick smile. Then leans to tend a child in a group of men and women about our age. Sits right down next to a long haired tanned fellow in a white tank top. They speak without looking at one another. Must be her boyfriend. Oh well. Quick run to the car for some dry shorts. Sun hot clothes from within the oven of my car. Hot on cold wet skin. Nice but watch those buttons. I wish I had more money. Those boots that guy had were to die for. He takes a cast of your foot and mails you the finished product. Custom fit. Kate and Douglas have plans this evening and I look somewhat forward to the respite of her cottage empty but for me and the cats. And my old pal coffee. Have to show my hand stamp to get back in to the fair. Well looky there she is the dark girl checking hand stamps. Wearing an orange vest. She wasn’t there a minute ago. Aw hell with it. Must talk to her. “Hi” I say sheepishly and extend my hand for shaking not stamp inspection. “What’s your name” she smiles and asks in a shockingly husky voice. Takes my hand squeezes firm. She is Susan. We get along instantly. A young blond girl mystically appears to take her place checking hand stamps. “Thanks Susan. I really had to go.” she says tossing the orange vest over her head. She wiggles a little dance and it settles on her frame. “Cmon.” Susan says. So we walk together like old friends. A visual pair she and I. Half elf half human all hair and angles. Susan is young old. She has been on her own since about age twelve and has no fear of recounting her life’s tale. Sounds practiced. Or told many times anyway. And though we talk while walking it doesn’t take long for us to look silently though together at the glass beads of this booth and the hand made drums of that one. She introduces me to everyone she meets. Including the man I saw her sitting beside - he who I thought was her boyfriend. “Damon this is Timothy” she says. We shake hands. He goes on talking with his brood and I lean in to whisper to her. “Why do you keep introducing me as Timothy?” I ask. “Because” her voice is so low “that’s what you told me your name was.” I have to laugh. Never have I called myself Timothy. Evidence of exactly how off-guard she had caught me asking me that with that sneaky deep voice. Don Parker calls me Timothy. And then our magic meeting comes to a fruition. “You have a job?” she asks otherwise aware of my situation. “No. Actually I was thinking that. I really need one. Do you know if there are like any restaurants around here? I could do dishes.” I offer. Though I could do more I have always found dishes to be mindlessly gratifying. An easy job to get and easy to leave. “Can you cook?” asks Susan in her sweet baritone. “Well no, I mean yes. Actually I really like dishes.” “They need a pizza cook where I work. I could tell Roger if you want, he’s my boss.” she offers. I can tell she is the real thing. Not offering me this opportunity because she likes me (though maybe in part) but because she is responsible and Roger will trust her. I sense this from her. A genuine offer. “Sure I’ve done pizza. That would be great.” I mean it. My God get me to work. My funds is low. So I get her phone number and promise to call her tomorrow. So ok. We’re both happy and she is suddenly gone. Back to her world my new friend. I walk around the fair a few more times in a daze. What a great day. And a mysterious dark girl and possible job to boot. Hot damn. “Hey you!” a man calls to me. Who me? Spin around. Well I’ll be. “I saw you out there Mr. Backflip.” it’s Jacob from Usal. My benefactor - the man who introduced us to Northern California. Blonde bearded he is still all sunglasses. He greets me like an old friend. I’m a bit surprised that he remembers me. “My God I did like one backflip. You saw that?” I am amazed. “I see all baby.” he grins hugely. Maybe he is a robot behind those silvery shades. Maybe he’s God. Hmm. Just checking up on me he’s glad I’m still around. I’ll see him later but not again today.

Kate and Gregory are sun soaked and tired and all smile. “We’ve gotta hit it” she aims generally with her hand. “Aikido tonight” he finishes. She pinches him in the waist. He jumps and they wrestle a little. “Ok boy,” she tells me “make you self at home. We’ll be back latah.” and off they go. Me too.

Quiet and lone evening of coffee, movies and reflection. Purple twilight and dancing stars. Me and the cats in the cool summer night. Wondering at our future. I am taking gentle root here. Paying rent and a possible job? And Susan. I feel blessed. What could go wrong? Wish I had bought that coffee plant. And those boots.

The next day I make official contact with Don Parker. Who has been in San Francisco for months now. He had worked with and for his uncle providing transportation for a small and independent movie company. Though he was between movies and conspicuously bored for a month or so. I had missed him when in San Fran but was really trying just to get the hell out. Now I had been petitioning him via answering machine to come and stay with us in Leggett for a while. His return messages indicated this would be great though might be difficult to coordinate. Though this hot sunny morning I had purchased a five dollar phone card and had him in person over the wire. Payphone at the general store. “You comin up or what man?” I jeer. “Yeah. Ok so I have to just get a bus ticket. An look into that.” he agrees. Don is a baritone clarinet. I being that alto trumpet. “Man I can’t believe it - you’re in Cali-for-nia!” he says. “Just get up here. We’re all set. Kate says you can stay of course. I think I got a job. Let me make some calls about that bus. God I met this girl dude, hey I’ll call you right back.” “Ok, look forward to it.” I can hear him smiling. Ok. And while I am at the height of my glory and good mood standing afore the post office and listening to the monotone recording of bus departures and arrivals, fate strikes. Just to keep me in mental check. A little torture. I smell gas. Look around. What the hell is that? Strong smell of gas. Listen. I can hear water running. No, can’t be. But it is. Gasoline is pouring as though from a hose right out of the belly of my car and pooling on the pavement. Tick tick tick a bomb waiting to blow. “Jesus Christ!” I slam the phone down. Drop to the ground and sure enough the fuel pump is disconnected or some such horror. The smell is overwhelming and now the store owner - the new store owner from India - glowers at me and my pool of gas. “Dat stinks. What are you doing dere? Get dat outta here.” he motions with a frown to me and my poor red wagon. Panic. Run into the post office. “Jeeze, Harry do you know anyone around here who works on cars? My car is like leaking gas by the gallon.” I stammer. Postmaster Harry looks out the window and raises his brow at this. “So it is.” “Do you know anyone?” I plead. He tells me of a guy that lives about a mile from Kate’s. “Fixes all kinds of cars.” Perfect. Thanks Harry. Race to my car. “Hey stranger.” says Marylin. Marylin is Kate’s neighbor. In her late sixties she is white haired and dark sun browned. Freckled and deep brown eyes. And has an inner youth that puts her at about three years younger than myself. Grew up in Hollywood and boy, can she tell you stories. “Headin’ to Kate’s?” she smiles. A religious walker she hits the store maybe twice daily. That’s about ten miles a day. “Mind if I catch a ride?” “No” I stutter “not if the threat of exploding doesn’t bother you.” indicating the gas pouring onto the hot pavement. She couldn’t care less. Maybe she didn’t understand. I don’t know.

I hop in and drive a miracle and terrifying three miles to drop Marylin off. She is chatty and glad of the sun lately. I am sweating a cold sheet of ice but her gladness is soothing. I guess it’s all in what you let get to you. “Thanks Timmy, good luck with the car.” she slams the door. Another hideous mile and I am finally at the garage. All the while gas leaking like a fuse from beneath me. I can see it’s black stain of a line in the rear view on the road. The gage drops steadily before my eyes. Last of the gas as I roll into the gravely parking lot. Big green yard and steely white garage. The mechanic is unphased by my panic. “Bring her on in.” he blandly instructs wiping his greasy hands on a pink rag. Young guy with kind stubbly face and blue coverals. My car pools the last of it’s blood - gas - into a black plastic pan he tosses under her. He drops to his back and scoots underneath. “Hmm. Ah,” bad news voice from under the car “how old is this fuel pump? Original?” “Yeah I think so,” how the hell should I know. My precious wagon had eighty thousand miles of her own when I got her. “Well,” he rolls out “the end here is corroded entirely. Shot. See?” He holds up some brown and black rusted matter for me to inspect. “Oh, I see.” says I. “Now I could try and jimmy it.” he says. “Cheaper than replacing the fuel pump.” My heart stops. Replace the Fuel Pump. Sounds official. Sounds expensive. He’s even bracing me for it by suggesting alternative medicine. “Yeah, hey go ahead.” I bumble. I am a sudden leaf at the mercy of the wind. And while I mill around his driveway looking at clunkers and sculpture from old wrecks he invents a little gizmo to fix yon fuel pump. He shows me how it should work. I am really impressed. Rubber ring and a spring and a little clamp. Nice work. Maybe this isn’t such a big deal. An hour of stress and no gas and I’d be happy to leave it at that. Back under the car. He puts it all together. I scooch in beside him to see though I suspect it annoys him. Hmm. A nice fit, it should work just fine. “Ok, start her up.” he grunts. Which I do. Pop. Off it comes. “Ah,” he sneers “I don’t think so. This ain’t gonna hold.” My heart drops into my stomach. “Ok, then what does that mean? A new fuel pump?” I grovel. “Yeah, that’s what it needs alright. I’ll try to order one today.” Crawls to his feet. “Take a few days though.” he is resigned but secretly glad to have my business now. Wipes them hands. “How much are we talking?” I ask like a rich man but you know I have less than one hundred bucks total to my ashamed name. “Hmm” he calculates on yellow paper. Calculator and price guide. “What year is that?” I tell him and he wipes his hands again. “Well, with labor looks to be about two seventy five.” Gulp. “Yeah, hey ok. Go right ahead.” I am full of shit. “Here’s my number, call me when it’s all done. I’m just down the road.” “Ok then.” he smiles. I am horrified beyond physical reason. Sick to my stomach and dizzy. But just then this little piece of sweetness. Three boys come a runnin into the garage. All short haired and stripped shirts they are out of a Norman Rockwell. “Do you have inner tubes?” they pipe at him in unison. His name I never knew. “Inner tubes,” he leans on his knee. “Well, I got great big ones for ten dollars and regular ones for about six. You guys going down river?” he asks. They nod but suddenly solemn. Haven’t any money. He can tell. “Or,” he says “I can rent you some for a dollar. But you have to bring em back.” he tells them with deadpan seriousness as though this is his policy. I can tell he is making it up as he goes along. Jimmying it for them. The kids stormclouds burst away to toothy smiles. And they are championed off rolling their big bouncing black donuts. “Ok, give a call.” I holler on my way out. Then walk back to Kate’s with my tail between my legs to stew in my carless poverty. Holy God what do I do now? That sun sure is hot. Feast or famine boy. Out in her garden Marylin spies me. “Howd it go? With the car?” she asks taking off her earthen gloves. “Oh hey fine. No problem. Just be a few days.” I reassure her. We needn’t all worry.

Must get control of this situation. After a cup of determination I slap on my pack and hike those three miles to the store. Following my black gas trail. Hot and sweaty blue sky miles. Marylin could kick my ass. I finally make it to the post office and have to buy another five dollar phone card. Two calls of importance. Susan tells me that Roger (owner of her restaurant) wants to meet me. I can start almost immediately if he likes. But I explain to her my car dilemma. And after all, the restaurant is some thirty miles North of Kathryn’s. A thirty mile span that I would memorize this summer. So she agrees to tell Roger I will be up in a few days. An oddly I feel less like I am talking with a girl I just met and more like I am setting up an interview. But Susan and I both seem to take one thing at a time. First things first. Fix my car then meet Roger. Then socialize. Our conversation is short and boy does that girl have a deep voice. Then Don. “Jesus Christ man my car,” I tell him “gas was like pouring out of it.” Gasps. “Wow. Now what?” he asks. I explain to him the financial situation. “I’m like almost two hundred short of paying this guy.” “Well hey I get a check tomorrow. See if he can wait a few days and I’ll take care of it when I get there.” he instructs. Light at the end of the tunnel. And Don is probably the only human on Earth from whom I would allow this kind of assistance. He and I having an exemplary financial background. It works something like this: I lend him money when I have it and he needs it and he does the same for me. In this way we have no idea who owes who what. So we always feel like we owe the other. This makes it easy to give what is needed. What a pisser more humans on Earth don’t share this feeling. Take care of one another because it is only money, people. So. “So my bus comes in you know at like four a.m.. Tuesday” he says. The bus stop is about five miles from the house. My first thought is of Don and I hiking those miles in the dark pre dawn hours. He with his canvas duffle over his shoulder and I with his suitcase. Lunatics for sure what are we doing out here? “No problem” says I. Because it isn’t, not really. “Tuesday? Ok. I’ll be a waitin for ya. God man what the hell am I gonna do without the car?” “Don’t worry. Couple more days.” he says. It’s settled but not my stomach.

The next two days were to set a precedent. A new level of reduction. Here I am in California. No car and little cash. Three miles from the store. No telephone or television. Kate working untold hours and twirling with Gregory at night. And most of my junk loaded into the hatch of my wagon over at the garage. Pretty much very alone and without gear or a guide. Two days till Don. Life reverts to the turn of the century.

In the mornings I devoured my dark hearted joe to the songs of strange California birds. Honmi for counsel. His brother Aengus a ghost in the daylight. Then a day pack of provisions. A book about cowboys (the Dalton Gang) and two apples. Bottle of water and almond oil for tanning. Dry shorts and blank cards to noodle in for folks at home. Wildflower identification guide. My old pipe and black bandanna and hope. Yank my hair into a tight pony tail. Then those three long sunny miles to check my mail and messages. At the store I pick up a tin of sardines and some cheese crackers for lunch. And past the dirt road down the hillside to the green blue river. Note no water. Pastoral glory on a warm June day. A cold plunge and some greasy sunshine. Read a little and devour the fish and crackers. Save an apple for later. Catch me a lizard or two. They lie on their backs in your hands and let you stroke their blue purple bellies. If you can catch them. Listen to the ravens cawing and clicking what are they saying? Ball up my t-shirt for a pillow and read some. Nap in the shade. I feel as though I can breathe all the way down to my feet. Too beautiful a day to be lonely. I have the murmuring water and the whispering trees to listen to. Talk with those ravens. And then pack it all in for the four mile hike home. Home I said. How about that. At the payphone I have exactly no messages. This breaks my heart a little. I at this point would give a finger to have someone from home to talk with. Apparently nobody at home feels this way about me. Though I need remember, my friends are still in the Old World. Living a life in which I only left a few days back. And I feel as though it were years since I have seen them. It's ok though. Sunset coffee at the house alone. Kate and Gregory dancing Aikido. Can’t really afford to rent a myth - I mean movie. Kate has a few eclectic tapes she owns. I watch these over and over again. More or less just listen to them. Sometimes I think all I am listening to is the whine of electricity from the television itself. Creature comfort or weakness of the late twentieth century. Never a tastier apple in the windy twilight. Chimes are music on the porch. My throat is thick and itchy from having not spoken all day. Best get used to this feeling. There would be many days like this to come. Nobody to call and no one to pop in on. Nobody to pop in on me. How to spend such time? Read I guess and try not to brood. Sigh. Clean my dishes and feed the cats. Damn raccoon climbs in through the cat window every night. Helps himself to their food and leaves muddy paw prints on the counter. I’ll fix his wagon later. Shut down the house and crawl into my cave. And cold summer dark lulls me to immemorable slumber.

Tomorrow the same. I wonder what my family is doing back East?

The next day Kate produces a magical car. Grey import ten plus years old. On loan from her boss. Kate’s own magic beast being a great red pick up truck. Four wheel drive beautiful and tall. But it died tragically and mysteriously soon after becoming hers. No matter. California is a walkers paradise. And people take care of each other. Getting a ride is a matter of course. “Check it out man" she hollers rolling up the driveway, "you can use this to pick up Don tonight!” Oh yeah. Tonight or that is tommorow morning at about four a.m.. Mad reuniting of two old friends now somewhat crazy. Meeting in the orange sodium haze of a single street lamp in empty center of summer night. Old friends new place. Like desperadoes. I’ll be sure to have him coffee ready.

But it didn’t happen.

At three a.m. Kate’s little buzzer pulled me to waking. Sleeping on the livy floor these last few hours for the electricity of time. Or the time of electricty. Up and brewing of course java (the seeming main character in this story) and sneaking like a secret agent down the driveway in our loaned coupe. But I waited at the bus stop in the darkness for over an hour and Don’s bus finally came and went. Sweet little country store and payphone all an orange sodium glow and no Don. I drank his coffee oddly satisfied anyhow. I after all had lived up to my end of the bargain and been here. I hope he is alright. This coffee shouldn’t keep me up. It doesn’t.

“Hey ah, what happened to you last night?” I ask him at the store wringing dry the last few minutes of this phone card. “Oh, heeey I had to stay and work another day” or some other equally legitimate story. I can’t remember. It didn’t matter, really. “But I should be up Thursday at about three in the afternoon.” he affirms. Nice timing. Much better arrival time. If we have to walk it will be pleasant. “I’ll keep ya posted.” he says

And the days pass as they have. Summer warm and all color and lonliness. Perhaps I am really asleep somewhere say in Indiana in that hotel dreaming of all of this. Damn the Corn Witch. The solitude is more potent than I am accustomed. Must develop a tolerance. A new threshold for how much singularity I can endure.

The day finally comes for Don’s arrival. But before all of this I am going to see if I can’t get that job. Susan on the payphone is glad I am coming up. We have been talking breifly for days as I keep her posted about my car. Our relationship somehow shifting from boy - girl to employee - contact. An evoloution less frequent than brother - sister. She instructs me as to the exact location of the little pizza place. Right across the street from where Kate and Gregory dance Aikido.

Thirty miles north of Legget I find the sweet little town. And I remember the Aikido studio from when Trevor was still around. Dust motes in the gold shafts of afternoon sun. The pizza places is a white painted stone building. Glass fronts and a side window where you can watch the pizza cook spin pies. I am oddly nervous for this interview though it may have been the best I ever had. Roger collects antique signs. The walls of the restaraunt are plastered with advertisements for sodas and ciggarettes that no longer exist. Creamsicles and root beer and cough syrup signs all colorfully painted on square and round tins. Swinging doors to the back kitchen and the pizza station. Two tall ovens and a great metal sign for White Rock Soda featuring a blonde and long winged faery on a stone gazing thoughtfully into a clear pool. And Susan sits at the bar (though really just a few stools and counter) eating some pasta and green salad. Blue apron she is perfect in here. Her home. “Hi” I say. She smiles mischeviously and shakes my hand. “You found us.” she says quietly. “So I did.” says I. “Rogers in the back - I’ll get him” she tucks a green between her lips with her pinky. So here it comes I am thinking. Roger is in his early fifties and tanned browned like a native. White curly hair and friendly eyes. Shorter than Susan and muscular. “Tim?” he asks. “Hi.” I shake. Mans best friend. “Tim can you make a pizza?” “Yup. Yes sir.” “Make me a pizza” he waves his hand over toward the White Rock faery. “Ok.” I feel a little impish. “What kind?” “Plain. Just cheese.” And though it has been years since I worked with a ball of dough, the body remembers. My hands remember. Under Roger and Susan’s scruitiny I manage to spin out a nice full moon crust. Swirl the sauce with the big silver ladle into a tight spiral and speckle it with soft shredded mozzerella. Then slide her into the oven on the big wooden spatula. Quiet minutes go by. No small talk. Glances from Susan. I expertly slide the pie back out and whip the roller blade across it. Eight neat triangles for Roger. “Howzat?” I ask. “Tim, your hired. Can you start at three today?” he smiles. Gasp. Fantastic. But it’s two and I have to pick up Don at four. “Ok,” he likes me “tommorow then at three. Okay?” Sure mister you got it. Susan smiles. Maybe because I am going to see her all the time now or maybe with pride for having found me. I didn’t know. But we’re glad and will see each other all the time now. Next thing I know I am zooming back down 101 to Kate’s with news and anticipation for Don.

Kathryn is tickled pink about my job. I can sneak over and see them at Aikido if I like. And she and I waste no time (only a minute for joe) heading down to the bus stop. First check my messages at the payphone. Three. All from Don. Each at forty mile intervals along his way north. He is on time and on his way. We are early in the late and golden afternoon and decide to hide on him. Just for fun. After all he will never recognize our borrowed car. Look here comes thet bus! Quick we hide behind an ice cream sign. The bus rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust. Tall dusty black man eases out and opens the luggage compartment. Scan the line of people filing out. One after another and then the last. No Don. “Excuse me,” I say to the driver sneaking out from behind my sign (eliciting not a few odd looks) “did you have a passenger - tall guy, shaved head? Build like a basketball player?” He scruitinizes me. “Who wants to know?” Kate and I exchange baffled looks. The driver breaks a smile and points back down the road. “Bus was full. He’s on that one.” On cue a second bus comes round the corner. Bah! Back to our ice cream sign. Second bus plows to a stop. Driver preceeds passengers and looky there. Climbing out of that bus is Don Parker.

A bit about Don. He and I attended the same High School. Mostly. I knew him only in name and face at age twelve. Though we weren’t really friends I liked him. He left and schooled Elsewhere from about thirteen on. Afterwards he had moved to Chicago to live with distant family. A fatherly artist and inventor named Russel Rose who had been a green beret in Vietnam. His wife Natasha was also an artist of exceptional calibre. Together they provided Don with something school often fails to: education. And when we became first friends at age eighteen his experience was evident. Wheras I am creative and an artist almost but only of forgiving mediums - words, music and other such etheral forms, Don is an artist of the tangible. He can make things. Anything really. Oak or steel. Invent or concoct. There was no Earthen burden that he could not (as I had once heard) be eased with a handle or set of wheels or pulleys. Be fixed or improved. And his grasp of the substantial combined with my grip on the astral laid the groundwork for a life long friendship. Together we seem to have explored the universe in more and more detail. Went through some kind of spiritual apprenticeship together. He is one of the only people I know who’s inner priorities are in line in this mad century. Perhaps I think this because they mirror mine. Sanity then shelter then food. Everything else is electric icing on that cake (not that we don’t like icing). Don and I have had many great adventures together. Perhaps because we feel the inherent adventure of being alive in this world. The art of balancing the terror of being human with the wonder of being one. Whatever. After all of this Don is like me a Spirit Warrior Sailing the Wind of Destiny. Walking the Earth. Going here and there, meeting people - getting into adventures.

There he is at six foot three all stubly skulled with his bag over his shoulder squinting in the sun for a recognizable face. Kate and I giggle and watch as he grabs his duffle from the clever luggage compartment. Sneak out and up behind him. “Hey stranger!” I poke him in the ribs. He jumps to a smile. “Heeey!” he drawls. “How’d yall get here?” looking around for our car. The driver smiles. Thank god we aren’t the FBI or something he is thinking. Don’s pack barely fits in the car. While jamming it I have a sharp memorable moment of oddness. Picking him up is like meeting him at home. Oh there you are. Like funny meeting you here some odd four thousand miles from where was it - home? Though funny isn’t the word. Inconceivable is more like it. And I can’t wait to show him around. Though he has been in California longer than I. I am his ambassador of the forest. He is a representative of San Francisco. Kate is mother Earth.

Back at the homestead I demonstrate my coffee making ability for Don. Pan of hot water and single cup funnel. Paper catch and about three heaping spoons of black oily beans ground as fine as talc. Opaque hot liquid in a glass. Hold it up to the light. Kiss of cream. Ahh. Don is quite possibly the only person in this world as deeply connected to the Java bean as myself. In fact he would take this artform to a darker level this summer - so dark I could hardly follow him there. Silt on the bottom and all. Fiends us two we made this joke once: one of us is brewing some coffee and the other walks in and says “hey what’s that” (knowing of course what it is) and the other replies: “shut the hell up”. In this regard we have at times called the hot beverage shut the hell up.

dark stars moon sun spheres sky dark

I inundate Don with the details concerning the past few weeks. Try (though impossible) to catch him up to speed about the trip cross country. “Can you be-leive it man that Jim Dove was here just last week?” I wave my hands indicating all of this. Cottage and California and all. He smiles and shakes his head. Aquaint him with the house. Kate and I interrogate him a little. She has to split to see convene with her Man but will return. Peck on the cheek see us later. “Oh man, it’s so cool up here.” I confide in him. “A different world altogether.” And I tell him about Jacob at Usal and some other charachters I have met. There is a culture here that I never knew existed. A blonde girl is coming up the driveway. It’s Nora. Seventeen year old local beauty that I once walked home from the store with. Hair to her waist she skips like a kid up the dirt drive. Black sweatshirt and jeans. I run to the porch “Nora!” I call. What the hell is she doing over here? “Nora!” Spies me on the sun porch. “Hey! Hey man!” she smiles and skips up the hill. Toting a great white plastic bag. Don in the window is eyeing me suspiciously. She sure is a cutie. “Hey hi!” she says. “I didn’t know you lived here?” Neither did I. Not really. I live Here. “You got a plastic bag?” she asks. “Don this is Nora, Nora Don.” I say. “Hi” “Hi” She sits down on the porch and slowly peels back the white plastic she is holding. Pulls from its crinkly mass a green freshly dried frond of weed odorous as spice. Big around as my forearm. Don gasps. I click my tongue. “It was Tony’s.” she muses turning it in her hands. Tony was her big brother figure in town. A wild spirited local boy. He was killed in a bizzare motorcycle accident only a few weeks ago. She and I had walked the long miles from the store together one day and she had told me the whole story. “After his funeral we thought we should divide it up. Some of us.” I can sense her sadness. “Wanna try it?” Twist my arm why dontcha? And she twists a clumsy cigar from a big sparkling chunk pulled off. It burns funny but is of superb quality. We choke all teary eyed and before it is gone she snatches up her sack. “Hafta go. Here. Some for you. See you!” “Bye Nora.” Watch her go. “Thanks.” Don and I look at each other stupified. Visited by an Angel. Lesser Deva or Greater Faerie. He shakes his head still choking with wonder. People are so nice here. She was the omen for his visit. “Hey man, wanna see a Redwood?” says I. “Absolutely.” he sputters. Grab your sneakers and off we go like kids. Kate has the car so Don and I walk. Let’s head for the Drive Thru Tree.

Down the road we stand on the concrete arch bridge. There is one single pine that reaches about ten feet above the bridge. Look over the edge but don’t lose your breath. Wow that pine must be a hundred feet tall. When the wind blows it sways and the effect is that the top half moves away from us almost fifteen feet. “Imagine jumping out to it” I say. Eerie pull of the stomach and lean back. “So Timothy on the movie” he says refering to the independent film he just worked on “we shot in the Marin Headlands. Did you check that out at all?” No sir. “It’s so beautiful man. I spent a lotta time there. All rolling hills and meadows and whatnot. I got to stay in a trailer right on the beach during filiming. Whata really pristine area.” Sounds awesome. Burning blue afternoon sky and long shadows. “The City’s nice but it gets to you after a while. Just the other night” he goes on “I saw a bum taking a complete shit right on the sidewalk. Not in a corner or like down an alley but right there.” points to the ground in front of him “That kind of gets to you.” He nods sideways. This all told somewhat in jest but true. “I threw a brick at him.” matter of factly. I have to laugh. Don dishing out justice in the west. My God though I never saw such a thing - not even in New York (though I know it has to happen). Thank the Lord for the woods. Past the volunteer fire department (and first payphone) and around the big bend. “We don’t shoot again for almost six weeks.” he says. Excellent. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do until then.” “Jesus man stay here. Do nothing. I just got that pizza job today - in fact I start tommorow. Stay with us at Kate’s. She won’t care.” And this I know because I cleared it with her earlier. “I’ll make enough for both of us. Just relax man. Have a summer.” Like have a beer. Have a sandwich. And this I owe him. Part of that endless back and forth debt but most specifically because of the strawberries. And corn that is. See two summers back I worked on that nice farm. Strawberries and corn and just me and my young boss Samuel - younger than me by seven years in fact. And really too much work for just us two (not counting his buxom girlfriend Jasmine). At one point during the sweltering July steam I asked Samuel “hey I got a friend in Vermont who I’ll bet would like to come work with us here.” Sam liked the idea but after reviewing his budget decided he couldn’t afford it. “But what if he worked for free?” I ask. “I mean he could stay with us in the farmhouse and I’ll take care of his food and cigarettes and what have you.” Sam agrees but doesn’t think anyone would go for such a scheme. So I drive two hundred miles north into the heart of Vermont to offer this to Don. Who of course goes for it. “He can’t pay you man but I’ll take care of ya. I mean I don’t make much but how about it? Strawberries and corn and the farm all ours really. You can have the bed I’ll sleep on the floor.” Don gladly accepted the proposal. Something to do. And we worked like slaves in the hot summer heat. New England humidity. Ten plus hours daily and farmhouse life. Good food and great sleep and what a tan. Don did this for over two months for the weekly income of zero dollars. All the cigs he could smoke and fresh veggies from our farm and from neighboring farm trades. He in fact stayed on longer than I. To and through pumpkin season. Hayrides and cloudy grey days and kids o’ plenty. He actually took over my weekly salary (though nominal) when I left. And I never felt Even-Steven with him for this. So. “Just stay here. I’ll take care of ya. I still owe ya for the farm.” He laughs. Oh yeah, the farm. “I have to work tommorow in fact. I’ll bring us home a pizza. Just kick around. How bout it?” Shrugs and why the hell not. Look up ahead the Drive Thru Tree. But we ain’t paying no five dollars to go down there. Jump the guard rails and rush down the steep hill into the thick green wood. They call the wood here rain forest. This is because it rains over one hundred inches in the winter. The summers are airid and dry as a bone and hotter than you might imagine. These conditions are what cause the trees to get so damn big. Ferns exploding eight feet across and firm to the touch. Lucious green fog of undergrowth along this nice little (but dried up) stream bed here. Smooth footpaths for tourists. Dark pools of shade. Not unlike a plump greening New England forest in late May except for that grey monolith over there. “Jesus look. There you go.” I say pointing through the trees. Move a little left then right and that grey tower or building or whatever doesn’t move with perspective. Like the way the moon follows your car against the dark horizon. It’s that huge. Don gasps and we pick our way up the hill through clouds of barberry and what looks like mountain laurel. Strips of bark and twigs from high above are long and perfectly straight. We are shrinking. There it is. Our Redwood. Like a secret leader or queen or something this singular monster out of place. Hundreds of feet high. Maybe sixty feet around. Stone grey with age it is impossible. Don dissapears around it’s back. “Man.” I hear him say. I feel like an insect against this tree. Insignificant. Which of course we really are. But the shade and afternoon threaten us with dusk. Not yet the heart of summer it is cooling off. Hang out a little and best to head back.

Don’s check is just enough to cover (with what few dollars I have left) the cost of the fuel pump. Only problem being that he has to first cash this check. Worry about it tommorow. Throw in that old movie. Eggs for dinner sure. Catch up and bullshit until we are exhausted. Honmi curled up on the rug. Aengus tenatively comes through the cat window. A plumper and crosseyed siamese he is wary of us. Wary of all I think. Reach to pet him and zoom he’s gone. And exhausted from this long day we crawl us two into my little tent. Which really isn’t so little. Bear cave. Plenty of room for two. Wow, perhaps this is where the story really begins. Please don’t kick me in the head that’s all. Instant darkness.

The next morning Don is up before me. Slips out of the tent before I awake. And when I come in the cottage all crinkly and puffed from sleep he has a hot glass of shut the hell up with my name on it. Talk about service. There he sits in knee long black jean cutoff shorts and matching black t-shirt. Holding a book and a cigarette in one hand and tap tap tapping grey crumbs of ash from an old pipe. Nods and smiles. Nagchampa wafts across the room. Honmi with him in a rare morning visit. Kate long gone to work or Gregory’s but mystically left me that loaned car. The same movie flashing at us it’s unchangeable myth in the morning sun. This would be a template for many mornings to come. “Ah, whadaya wanna do today?” says I. “I dunno. Whatever.” optimistically. Closing his paperback with one hand. “I gotta work at three. Let’s head down to the river. You gotta see this place.” So we do. And how could you not love that swimming hole. We walk along the waters edge our bare feet shooshing in the dry river gravel. This here is the fruit of that farm job. During which we talked incesantly about summering out west. Out West. Here we are desperadoes two years later. Spin the morning gold.

Hours later at the house. “You sure you’ll be ok? I should be back by ten.” “No problem” he grits through teeth clenched around a filter free cigarette. “Ok I’ll bring a pizza. Stay awake. Nap if you have to.” Agreed.

Those thirty miles take forty minutes to drive what with the curves and bends of route 101. Snake right through two maybe three Redwood groves. And the restaraunt is glad to see me. I have to work this first day with a younger kid name Oliver. He is the reigning pizza master and look alike to my pal Jessie from home. For which I instantly like him. And he guides me through this first day. “First you gotta make dough” says Oliver. So for two hours he and I make four thirty pound balls of dough. From which ten trays will be cut. Large smalls and mediums. “But you gotta know how many you need.” he says. Shows me the inside of the cooler. “We need three large and two medium. The rest are all smalls.” Ok. And I love to work with the living moon white stuff. It grows. It breaths. It moves I have seen it. It can work with you or against you. And I have put my time in at other pizza places so it is inclined to work with me. Good thing. It can be a real mess otherwise. Then we are on. At five we make pizzas out in the restaraunt for all to see. Until ten then we clean up. Which takes about an hour. Between starting and finishing there is just about no time for a break. One or two and short ones. Three to five minutes. I love it. I love the restaraunt team. The cook. The prep cook or two. Dishwasher (which I usually am). Waitresses. Hostess. Busboys. Calm confident kids with California community hearts. I like them immediately. Family. And Oliver is teacherly almost monarch like. “I’m the best pizza cook. Everybody tells me so. Roger tried to fire me twice but I wouldn’t let him.” he says while pounding out a great medium dough. His cockiness is almost charming. Just a kid. And there’s something I enjoy about being bossed around by somebody younger than me. Maybe it’s that I have a emergency cord in my head I can pull if things get too touchy. Like I can say hey buddy, I’m older than you. My adolesent saftey chain. “Try not to use too much cheese. I use just the right amount. Also heap the toppings on. If Roger sees you being chinsy he’ll fire you.” Egad methinks. Fire me? I would later learn that this is just Oliver’s perception of the world. But boy does he heap those toppings on. “Not too much though or it won’t cook. Got it?” he says. The first night is all of this nature. Oliver scruitinizes my large house special. “Too much red pepper and look stretch the dough out really stretch it.” he grabs it and pulls. I have to like him. This kid really goes for it. I think this is going to be a great job but man my hair is a bitch. Bangs keep working their way out of the tail and my hands too floury to do anything about it. We’ll see. Oliver heads out for a break and leaves me to man the station alone for the first time. I am in my Glory. Wipe down table and scrape dry flakes of dough off the grainy cook board. Quick polish for the White Rock faery. Tidy sweep and brush out the soot from the oven. “You’re good.” says the waitress Rain. Boy these folks got neat names. My favorites would include Seisha, Belen, Sheeba and Kalea. Rain is my age and freckled silly. She is a beautiful woman and looks like my cousin. Not that she resembles a specific person but she could be my cousin. Family nose and hair. “Yes” I say raising my index finder “but Oliver’s the best.” She rolls her eyes and laughs. We would become great friends. “Hey ah, wheres Susan?” I ask. “Not on tonight?” “Nah,” says Rain “she usually doesn’t work tonight. But actually she went to Frisco for a few weeks.” Stirs the ice in her soda with a straw. “Too bad.” I had really hoped to work with her my first day. By the time she comes back I will already be one of the gang. Where are those artichoke hearts? “She told us all about you.” Rain says mischeviously, straw in her teeth. I give a little laugh like I know what this means. What the hell does that mean? Rain shrugs and goes back to her tables. Oliver returns and whizes with me through cleanup. Takes about forty five minutes. This goes here and refill this. And this. Sweep under there and scrape those. Turn off the fan. Off go the lights in stages. Gone are the cooks and waitresses. Hostess counts the money and busboys sweep. Then they are gone and me too. Only the lone dishwasher remains. I am suddenly glad I am not him. Though we two would become good friends. Grab that chicken garlic pie. Hope Don is still up.
Back at the cottage Don is crosslegged with a book. "Hey whatcha got there?" he smiles. Kate fast asleep in the other room. We eat like savages all greasy fingered and kneeling on the floor. Out of and over the box. Chunk of chicken for the cat. Speaking of which. “Lookit this.” says Don. He produces from behind the couch a miniature Honmi. Siamese kitten. Butterscotch cotton ball not bigger than two rolled socks. “Kate dropped her off earlier. She wants to call her Katana.” he says. The blue bug eyed puff shivers at me. Mimes a meow. Silent plea. Don smiles. He has raised cats before but not me. Three siamese now huh? How adorable really. My back and legs are weary from standing and leaning into the dough. I am satisfied with exhaustion. There will be many days to come that have today’s shape to them. “I gotta hit it. I’m dead.” I say groaning to stand. “yep."
Set the kitten up for sleep she mews like a newborn. And we two bears clambor into the cave for a starry night’s slumber.

Full moon pizza dreams.

Timing is everything. Kate allowed me to use her bosses car for the next few days. During which (and after considerable struggle) Don was able to cash that check. I received my first weeks pay from the restaraunt and between our mutual funds we were able to pay for Julia’s new fuel pump. Just about three hundred big ones. In the heat of the day I walked over to the garage, casually as I had left, and paid the mechanic. “Here ya go.” I says jamming a crumpled wad of bills into his hands. Five dollars over. “Keep it.” “She’s good as new, you know.” he said flipping through the bills. I gunned the engine to prove it. The new fuel pump whined at a quiet pitch. A sound it would take months to get used to. Actually it would take time to convince myself that it wasn’t a bad sound. Just a new sound. But she ran strong. He grinned slyly though I suspect he never liked me. Run of the mill long hair transplant from back east. Come to think of it he never looked me in the eye. Not once.

Two weeks passed.

Don and I drank dark coffee in the warm mornings. Hung tin cans from a tree in the backyard and took turns pinging at them with my BB gun. Read book after book on the sun porch and hiked and swam and sunned by the blue water of the Eel River before work. Hand washed and sun dried our clothes. I had to use a brush to scrub the flour and bits of dough off my sneakers. In the starry night I brought us pizzas and calzones and eggs for the morning. We ran the same movies over and over ignoring their content but being warmed by their sound and light. Honmi and Aengus slowly but surely accepted Katana as family. Cleaning her fuzzy head and tolerating her tiny attacks. Kate came and went like a dragonfly tending her nest (do dragonflies keep nests?). On the weekends we drove my thank God Julia to Usal and hiked along the shore. Pondering the universe where the prairie meets the sea. Hunting for green sea jade and purple shells. Can you beleive it Jim Dove was here just days ago? Saturdays we drove North searching for different Redwood groves to explore.

Time flies. Only when you are having fun. During intense moments of fear or months of grief it crawls. I've seen it. But not this summer. This hot summer it virtually evaporated. I can’t remember where quite all of those days went. Maybe I'll find them one day. Or even just one. Stuck under the passenger seat floor mat or some such location. I hope so. Anyway.