Bookends. Or something.
[Alt text: Christmas tree ornament that is a bust of Yayoi Kusama, with red hair and trademark yellow and white polka dots.]
On February 1, 2001 I arrived in California.
Moved in with my grandmother, 100 miles south of San Francisco.
Just for one month.
I lived with her while I looked for an apartment in the city.
Using Craigslist.
And a dial-up connection.
This was back when she was still my grandmother.
Walking, driving, cooking, playing mah-jongg with her girlfriends every Tuesday afternoon.
She was 78 at the time.
One night that February, the phone rang.
The call was about her oldest son.*
We needed to get to the hospital in Salinas ASAP.
I drove.
She told me what turns to make.
I dropped her off at the emergency room entrance and went to find parking.
When I walked into the hospital, her grandson, B., was standing there, waiting for me.
He said, “You are Jed’s sister.”
I said, “No, Jed is my brother.”
A lame attempt at a joke.
I didn’t realize that B.’s father was dead.
Until I followed him into the room and saw his father’s body on the gurney.
A massive heart attack.
Sudden.
My grandmother saw me walk into the room and ran to me.
“It should have been me,” she sobbed.
_____
On December 15, 2021, one day before I left California, my phone rang.
It was B’s sister.
B. had just died.
A massive heart attack.
Just like his father almost 21 years ago.
He was about my age.
_____
I left California last Thursday.
A one-way Jet Blue flight east.
While I was in the air, my father slipped on some ice in New Hampshire.
Shattered the top part of his femur.
Right near the hip that was replaced a year or two ago.
He was driven to New England Baptist in Boston.
The best hospital for that kind of surgery.
The surgery was a success, but he has a long recovery ahead of him.
I’m looking forward to visiting him at the rehab place.
I imagine him struggling with a walker.
And saying, “This goddamn thing.”
_____
On March, 1, 2001, I moved into a shared apartment at 15th and Shotwell in the Mission.
My roommate, his friends, and I spent several nights a week at a bar called the Hush Hush.
It was a dive bar on 14th between Valencia and Guerrero.
We'd drink three-dollar bottles of Budweiser all night long.
And ogle the bartenders.
One of them, V., was incredibly sexy.
And she knew it.
She wore low-slung tight pants and bustier-style tops.
To show off her figure – and her tattoos.
She probably made a fortune in tips.
Over the last 20 years, I’d see her every now and then.
Usually at Slim’s, when I was there to see a show, and she was working the bar.
She always recognized my face and smiled and told me how her daughter was doing.
I’d order a drink and hand her a twenty.
She’d hand me my drink and my change – always twenty dollars in small bills.
I’d leave half of it for her on the bar.
_____
Last Wednesday, the night before I left San Francisco, I went to Bottom of the Hill.
To see Fishbone, one of my favorite bands.
It was quite possibly one of the best sets I’ve ever seen them play.
Maybe because they were playing with their original lineup.
At the end of the night, I looked over and saw V.
She wasn’t working, she was just there to see the show.
Drunk, dancing her ass off, still sexy as hell.
We were all wearing masks, so she didn’t recognize me.
I thought about saying hi.
But decided against it.
It was enough just to see her again.
Like nothing had changed in almost 21 years.
_____
Links
It's been a while, so some of these are old, apologies, etc.
I spent months volunteering in a hospice program. Here’s what I learned about people’s final moments. (WaPo)
Hookers and Blow Save Christmas. (Bookshop)
Gingerbread dive bar kit comes complete with a sticky floor. (Boing Boing)
This SNL skit, because of course her name is Margaret. (YouTube)
Quiz: Which “Succession” character are you, you horribly irredeemable monster? It's not technically a quiz, but it's very well done. (Hard Times)
I don't have a place to live yet, but I do have tickets to see Junkyard in a couple weeks. I'm looking forward to seeing this played live. (YouTube)
There is a band called the B-69s. They do B-52s style covers of modern pop songs, and it's fucking brilliant. Start at the 3:36 mark here. (YouTube)
*My grandmother is actually my step-grandmother. So when I talk about her sons and grandsons, I am not actually related to those people. It's confusing as hell, and took me a long time to figure out.