Trifter

It was just a little hole-in-the-wall on a back alley in North Beach, where the patrons looked like they had been sitting on their stools for the better part of the last 30 years. It was four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon; it was the kind of day that reminds you why San Francisco will always be a part of you, no matter where on God’s green earth you choose to lay your head. The old black southern bluesman crooning into the microphone, fabulous red-striped suit, scarf draped about his neck and a whole lotta soul- the guitar player called for another cognac while off the stage to the right, in front of the restrooms, the far-out cat with the frizzy hair made love to the bass: he was in his own sphere, the brother was, scarcely seeming to notice as the patrons of the bar ducked and skirted, dodging the neck as his fingers worked their magic and the vibes flowed out, from him as much as the strings of the instrument. Your knee touched mine, softly, and I let it stay, leaning into you as you tugged gently on my sleeve and moved your mouth closer to my ear. At the corner of the bar, the little old lady in the pink sweater set down her paperback and started to dance.

           How many roads had I traveled to get here, to this moment, to this place in time? It was always about the music- in bars and stadiums, in clubs and houses and hotel rooms, and cheap speakers half-blown in wildly painted cars, with one tape stuck in the deck and 1200 miles to go. Life on the road was not always the hardship one might imagine it to be- there was a certain sweetness, freedom tinged with creativity and the mind-expanding view that comes from living outside the box. It was as if life itself was richer, deeper, more primal; memories burning into the more tender parts and becoming embedded, integral, for the mere passion and pleasure of each new experience.

I was 18 years old when I found my way to San Francisco, after following Jerry and the boys around the country yet again; driving across the Golden Gate Bridge at 3 AM to drop off a brother who needed to find his way home. Alone but just a little lonely, I made my way on instinct to the top of Diamond Heights, where the lights of the city spread themselves out at my feet, undulating, glimmering, a bit surreal. I was lulled, comforted, by the gentle breeze coming off the bay and a certain feeling that I was home, even though I didn’t know a soul and I had spent my last 10 dollars on a half a tank of gas and a pack of double-a batteries for my little radio. I drifted off to sleep, oddly peaceful, with the music playing softly and the far-off sounds of the city carrying faintly up the hill.

That was nearly 20 years ago. I have spent some of the better parts of my life walking the streets of that city- some of my best memories were made there, and also some of my worst. I have lived, laughed, loved, danced and played there; I have cried, fought, swore, broke the law, gotten high, and almost died there. There are parts of San Francisco that are almost as comfortable and familiar to me as my own soul; North Beach is one of those places.

            On the stage, the guitarist is reciting poetry while the singer moves up to the bar for a drink. The little old lady is back on her stool, reading a novel; her drink of choice seems to be pink lemonade. More patrons have found their way into the bar, and it is a little crowded now; as the singer retakes the stage and starts singin’ about seeing his woman in the motel parking lot “as I was checking out and you were checking in” a few more of them get up and begin to dance. You move off to the bar for another beer and I follow you with my eyes, watching the way you move your body as you weave your path through the crowd. On my right, a man with a soft-spoken European accent is trying to get my attention; the poor bastard doesn’t even have a chance, but it isn’t because of you.

            I have learned through stone-cold experience that you cannot go back, no matter how enticing the memories seem to beckon and call; sensual dreams that dance on the fringes of your waking life, like a crimson poppy growing among the boulders. I appreciate my experiences, both good and bad, for they have made me what I am today; but I am always moving forward, to the next chapter of my life, for this IS what it means to be alive. And even the best of memories are but illusions; seductive bastards they are, for their allure lies in their hazy, far-off quality that puts them just beyond the borders of complete recall- it is easy to remember the best of times, the brightest moments, and to lose sight of everything that happened along the way, the mundane, the dirty and the painful, the awkward and the ugly.

            Once my friend Panda and I decided to hitchhike home to San Francisco from a run of shows at the Garden, in New York City. I had hitched many times up and down the eastern seaboard but had never gone coast-to-coast, a grand adventure that I took on with enthusiasm. I have recounted this many times as a high point of my life, but in reality I remember little about the trip, just flashes here and there- an underpass in Indiana, where we took shelter from the pouring rain; the half a day we spent in Boulder, sitting in a coffee shop on the Mall; and standing on the salt flats outside of Salt Lake City at 4 in the morning, huddled miserably in the wind as the sparse traffic passed us by. The sunrise was spectacular, to be sure; but numb from cold and half-stupid from lack of sleep, all I could think about at the time was getting myself home in the warm safety of California.

            I stepped out of the dim interior of the bar, blinking my eyes at the sudden brightness as I walked lazily up the street, past the Italian restaurants and jazz clubs, music and laughter mingling with the smells of pizza and car exhaust. The funky scene I left behind me had lost its novelty, as things tend to do, and I was ready for the next adventure; the whole evening, and all of life, beckoning to me as bright as the late afternoon sun glinting off the Oakland hills across the bay.