At times inspiration comes at the oddest time. Inspiration can be long-forgotten memories, memories that you wish you could forget about. Time too, clouds memories, and at other times actually distort the event that really happened….for most people. I think that I’m recalling everything just about as it happened. (If you believe that, I’ve a bridge I can sell you, cheap.
It all started last night after a really nice dinner of Dungeness Crab and pasta. Sandi and I were both wanting some fresh crab, perhaps the last crab of the season. I went down to the dock and bought two live crabs from the dockside, Lilly’s Crab Stand.’ Lilly, now that I think about it bears a strange familiar resembelance to Myrtle in Orick. Remember, Myrtle is the one that owns the combination motel and trailer park, Myrtle's Pay by the hour Motel and Trailer Park.
So far, everything was going according to plan. We sat down to steaming hot fresh crab and the pasta. If you like crab, it was everything, fresh crab dipped in butter with a touch of garlic stirred in. If you don’t care for denizens that live their lives at the bottom of the ocean don’t reread the last paragraph again.
Everything was great until I woke up after going to the “Land of Nod” with a feeling that ‘I feel like I’m going to retch, quickly.’ It felt like the crab was reaching up with one of its large pinchers and grabbing my gizzard and trying to hoist itself back out. I lay there a minute, not quite believing that I was no longer in the “Land of Nod” but in a heightened state of panic realizing that I had about 2.23 seconds to get to a basin where I could dispatch the feeling in my stomach. If I would have had 2.24 seconds I would have not chosen the only sink in the house that doesn’t drain well. I’ll spare you all the details, but just suffice it to say, after I finished retching I couldn’t help but look at it and recognize that what was now contained in the basin was something a mother Velaciraptor may have regurgitated to feed her young chicks. A BIG Velaciraptor with many hungry babies. I half expected to see the arms and legs of some poor hapless victim floating in the sink. Just about that time Sandi got up wondering what all the commotion was about and offered some sage advice. “You should really try chewing up your food better.” Why is it that people offer this great advice only when the evidence is staring you in the face?
After about five minutes I was lying there in a fools paradise believing that I would soon start feeling better. It’s worked that way the last 53 years, why not this time? Just before I lay back down I tried to clean the sink by running some water, until I remembered that this was the only sink on the property that had a draining issue. I lay back down believing that the worst was passed. The worst had not passed. You might say that I was, even more successful the second time. This was one of those times when you can be too successful, and I was having success in spades. This time I noticed some of the vitamins I had taken earlier sinking. I was tempted to try to rescue the pills but came to my senses and let that brain flatulent pass.
Now, you may be wondering why I had made such an issue of getting sick and making you read this. I don’t very often get sick, but I like to think I’m above the rest when I do get sick, and I’m actually really tough. Sandi will argue this point with me. She always has to bring out her trump card and remind me that she has given birth to our two boys. Does anyone have any really good responses to this?
After I lay back down again a memory of my ‘old fishing days’ popped into my mind. There not really old, the age of Velaciraptors is old. Remember that brain flatulent I mentioned a minute ago? I think it may have taken a left turn at my cortex and manifested in a different way. BSIGM (before Sandi and I got married), I worked on a number of commercial fishing boats. You know the image, standing on the bow of the ship, much like that image in Titanic, the wind blowing through your hair, and her hair too, dreaming of the future to come. This wasn’t exactly like that. In fact, it wasn’t anything like the movie. There was no woman, the wind wasn’t blowing it was screaming with a cold spray coming over the bow, and the only thing I got to hold was Thomas Edison’s flashlight. It was that old. If I took the batteries out and held them under my armpit to warm them up the light MAY reach the anchor chain. You may be wondering at this point why I am remembering standing on the front deck of the boat. I’ll get to that in a moment. There was no future in the future of commercial fishing, but that didn’t stop me from arguing with my dad that there really is a great future in it. As it turns out, he was right, again.
My second experience with fishing was being hired as a deck hand on a commercial shrimp dragger. Even though I didn't have any idea what I was doing, the first two-hour tow, we pulled in about 5,000 pounds of salad shrimp. Lucky for us, that’s what we were fishing for. I knew that the shrimp sold at the dock for about $0.50 a pound. I did a few mental gymnastics and extrapolated out that since I had just made about $250.00, and the sun wasn’t even up yet. I’m not going to tell you about my first experience with fishing as it would just reinforces that fact that my dad was right, and I’ve already said that “He was right, again” so, sorry, I’m not going to bring it up. Since we were going to be fishing all day I figured if we could make a tow every two hours for 20 hours I should be able to make about $2,500 today. Boy, was I going to enjoy showing my dad my weekly check! I even started dreaming of buying my own boat at the end of the season. So, this is the “Great Secret” in Crescent City, this is how those fishermen buy brand new pickups every year!
Let’s just say that the rest of the season we never did have a tow like this. We had accidentally stumbled on the ‘Mother Lode’ of the shrimp grounds and we could never find it again. It did make me believe in those stories of those miners that trapped around in the desert for about a 1,000 years after finding the Mother Lode once never to find it again. At the end of the week I took home a whopping check of $268.00, and I had to scale down my purchase of the dragger I had set my eyes on. In fact I even had to forget about buying the new 4 X 4 Ford pickup. Shrimp season didn't turn out too well, but crab season was coming up!
Crab season, yeh, crab season. Being the eternal optimist that I am I agreed to work on crab gear without getting paid for two months prior to the season opener on Dec. 1. I had heard just enough stories of teenagers right out of high school making $10,000-15,000 in a one-month crab season to keep me inspired. Like a fool I agreed to work on the crab gear in a nice warm gear shed. Actually, it was only warm when I stood directly in front of the wood stove. Yeh, the very same one I had to keep full. Also, crab pots are heavy to move around and we had to move them around a lot for some reason. Well, as the Dec. 1 opener for the season was fast approaching we were all looking forward to dumping the pots in the water and catch some crabs. Money, money, money. The only thing that keeps a young buck motivated except for women, women, women. As it came closer to the Dec. 1 opener the skipper found more and more reasons to leave helping out to get the gear ready and make about five treks a day down to the harbor. I had a hard time complaining about this because this guy was a real live veteran. Now, that certainly beats the alternative type of veteran. He had actually got shot in the leg, and in fact he had a slight gimp in his stride. He said something to the effect of, “It hurts to stand for too long.” Who am I to complain about a veteran, especially given the fact that he had actually had a Purple Heart? He wasn’t bragging about it, it was just the way it was.
Well, as luck would have it the season didn’t start on Dec. 1. In fact it didn’t start until Dec. 20. It always happens, the DFG says the season starts on Dec. 1 as this is when the crab are usually filled out. Dec. 1 came and went. The price hadn’t been agreed to and the weather was too good. I think that there is an unwritten rule that states that crab season can’t start until the weather gets shitty. It never fails, if the weather is good, they won’t agree to a price. If the weather is dangerously nasty, “Cast off the lines, boys, we’re goin’ crabbin,’ “
The day generally went something like this; The skipper would announce the night before what time we’d go fishing. “Let’s meet at the ‘Chuckwagon’ at 2:30. The Chuckwagon was one of many “greasy spoons’ on the south part of town. In fact, it had gone through the 1964 Tsunami and there was still some driftwood on top of the roof. I think that owner left it on the roof so he could give the place a little class. I would try to correct the skipper by saying, “Don’t you think that’s kinda late? The ocean is going to be a froth by the time we get out there! What kind of lazy ass skipper am I working for? (actually I didn't say that, I just made that up)“ "2:30 in the morning, you goon,” he would bellow back. He always had these pet names for me that he liked to throw around to see which one would fit me better. As it turns out I answered to pretty much all of them, some under my breath and others audibly.
Waiting at the Chuckwagon went something like this. We all sat in booths, three to a seat, I would try to get there a little late so I wouldn’t have to sit in the middle of two guys that hadn’t changed their clothes since last shrimp season. When I did have to sit in the middle I would many times end up falling asleep listening to all the blather and provide a little entertainment for those on either side of me. I know that as I nodded off I probably looked like one of those ‘Bobble Head’ dolls with my head being pinballed from side to side by those on either side. Every once in awhile a table would empty out and the crew would walk as discretely and quietly as possible to the front door, trying to get an early start and not tell the others where they were going. This generally wasn’t very effective as everyone would mutter at the same time, “That dirty so-and-so, he’s probably going to get our there and run our gear too before we get out there. You have to keep in mind, not all of these fishermen are the fine, upstanding pillars of the community as you may think. Within about three minutes the restaurant would be empty, and the waitress would be cleaning the tables off waiting for the loggers to come in and dish out the same kind of stories. I know this because after my illustrious career as a fisherman I tried my hand at logging.
Back then the only way you could tell how rough the water was, or how tall the waves were was to stand on the front deck of the boat and using the aforementioned flashlight shine it toward the crashing sound right in front of you. Now, the boats have so many lights on them you’d think we were being invaded by the entire Russian Navy when the boats come back into port. If the waves came over the bow, they were really big. If all you could see was a bluish-greenish wall of water directly in front of you, it meant that a wave was going to engulf you and you were in imminent danger of being washed out the scuppers. The skipper always had an equitable way to see who was going to stand on the bow with the Thomas Edison flashlight; he would drag out two straws that he kept right next to his navigational charts. Come to think about it, those charts may have belonged to Tom too. The other crewman always drew first, especially on the flat days. He went out there and did his job, not getting wet at all. On the rough days I always drew first, and I ALWAYS did my job. It wasn’t until later that I figured out that maybe, just maybe, they knew something that I wasn’t privy too.
Since I was on the back deck I was the one to carry the pots and stack them neatly on the rear part of the deck whenever we had to move them. During my morning prayers in addition to requesting to come back with all my body parts I would always throw in something about not having to move crab gear. Meanwhile, the ‘block man’ would stand there operating the two ounce lever with his thumb and forefinger that controlled the hydraulics. Me, I’m grunting and groaning carrying these 80 pound pots on a pitching deck and he's already into smoking his second pack of cigarettes, yelling at me, and it isn’t even light yet.
For the first two weeks of the season, USUALLY, you could make about $1,000 a week. Remember, this was in 1978. When you’re experiencing this non-real universe you talk yourself into believing that this can and will go on forever. Rememeber? “non-real,” but it sure makes for good stories with your friends. I told a friend of mine that the first two weeks I had taken home about $3,000. That was all it took. The gluttony of mankind took over what little sanity he had and all he could say was, “Hey, if you hear of any boats that need a back deck man, let me know.” “Have you ever been on the ocean?” I asked him. “No,” he said, one of the few times he told the truth.
Being the good friend I am, I did ask around to see if anyone needed more crew. I didn’t tell the skippers that my friend got seasick taking a bath and had to take a dramamine before turning on the hot water when filling the tub. Boats need more crew for a variety of reasons; seasickness, extra crew on the backdeck, guys are too scared out there and put an application in for washing dishes at the ‘Chuckwagon.’ This was not for any of those reasons, the skipper just hadn’t started fishing yet. I told him to get some motion sickness pills and take them when we all leave the ‘Chuckwagon’ in the morning. The plan was for the two boats to run side by side to the fishing grounds, but as soon as we left the dock I could see that my friend may not have a future career as a fisherman. Before the boat was untied from the slip he was leaning over the rail, gazing longingly at the big boat I was on. To this I yelled over to him, “Let’s go fishing,” while making a motion of popping a pill and asking, “Well, did you?” In the excitement of getting on the boat he had forgot to take his motion sickness pill! I could see him take a package out of his jacket pocket and swallow one, dry. Now at this point the both skippers are backing their boats out of the slips and with a cloud of diesel smoke start motoring out of the harbor. “Maybe he’ll be OK,” I said to myself, not really believing it, but hoping none the less.
As we came out of the protection of the jetty into open water with the boats both in the trough I looked over and didn’t see my friend. “This isn’t good,” I said to myself, already scanning the water through the darkness looking for a person treading water. I looked closer to see my friend was kneeling on the deck with his nose just over the rail. Just about that time I see him convulse and a spray of coffee, pancakes, and bacon becomes food for the crabs. I see him lunge for something in the water and first think that he wants to retrieve a piece of bacon. Only later did I realize he was seeing what I saw last night; last night I saw my vitamins floating in the sink, he saw his motion sickness pill floating off behind the boat. Just about that time the boat pitched to the opposite side and I see him with a arm reaching out, now about 12 feet above the water. He told me later that when the boat pitched back he could still see the pill bobbing in the water. It’s unfortunate that he kept his eye on it though as the boat rolled back the other way, water washing across the deck filled his rain pants and boots with water. Remember, this was BRB (before rubber bands). Now everyone puts rubber bands around their rain pants and boots for these types of occasions. But, that wasn’t the worst part, when the boat pitched to the other side again, remember he is still on his knees leaning over the rail his arm outstretched reaching for his motion sickness pill. The boat rolled over so much that the water came all the way up to the gunwales. Unfortunately, he was in such a state of shock from the 44* running all the way up to the hinterlands under his rain pants, he forgot to retract his arm and the water went up his sleeve and down his chest. Now, mind you we’re still with in a stone’s throw of the inside breakwater.
Later, he told me that the seasickness passed and he was fine the rest of the day. The skipper told me that he climbed into a bunk and didn’t come out until they were tied up at their slip.
Moral of the story: Take your medicine and your sea sickness pills (1) before you get sick, (2) before you leave the restaurant. BTW, he did get that job washing dishes at the “Chuckwagon’ the next day.
Now, Dick will probably say, “Why didn’t Jim just tell us the moral first? He could have saved his a lot of blog space.”
In part, I wrote this to encourage everyone else to tell some stories of your early life. Certainly, it’s got to be more interesting than me telling about when I threw up! Remember, I didn’t go to academy!
Jim
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Year of the Ox Part II
Bucket list: check one. Sandi said that watching the Chinese New Years Parade in San Francisco is on the top 100 things to do in a person’s life. Hmmm………it just so happened that she was going down to watch it with a friend of ours. I’m not exactly sure whose list that she’s referring to, but I went with it. She had taken four 7th grade girls down there two years ago and had a great time. I wonder if now that she’s seen it twice she gets to mark off two of the “Top 100 Must See Things.” Anyway, she asked me on Thursday if I wanted to go with them. As a tax paying American I wanted to do what I could to support the economy without waiting for the president’s Economic Stimulus Package. I had always thought of a finely-apportioned woman as a stimulus package, but what do I know? I had a great weekend planned of going up in the hills and cutting some wood, maybe even painting the living room, but being the person I am, I decided to forego the work and play instead. At this point in the school year a person cannot get in too much playing, and I’m not talking about the kids at school. Besides, we were going to be splitting the cost between three of us. Win, win, win. P.S. The Bucket List is one thing you do not want to mark off as being complete any too soon.
The parade WAS very impressive! Our hotel was about a ½ block off the parade route and lucky for us we got there JUST before they closed the street off. FYI: Do you know that you can’t turn left or right once you get on Geary Street? Even if you drive right by, and yell, “Turn! There it is!” you can’t do it. No turns, period. Lucky for us, after a few figure-eights through the streets of San Francisco that started around San Rafael and came close to San Jose we narrowed down our spiral and ended up in front of our hotel. Before this point I was just a trifle nervous. You see, the last time I stayed in San Francisco it wasn’t by choice. I didn’t have a motel booked like Sandi did this time, but it was an experience that I didn’t want to relive again, or wish on anyone, even my worst enemy.
When we went to Mexico about six years ago, we all left at the same time, but we came back at different times. The guys had to baby our van back to Crescent City from San Francisco with a battery that had already expired, pulling up to stop signs only to be met by the sounds of silence when they tried to start out again. And, this was when they were just leaving the driveway of the motel where we had stored the van. The experience got worse from there, especially since they were still 362 miles short of Crescent City!
When I came back from Puerta Vallarta I thought I had it timed correctly; from getting off the plane at SFO to allowing enough time to get to the SF bus terminal for the remainder of my trip to Crescent City on the Greyhound. I was planning to sleep all the way back home on the bus, and I was hoping that everyone else on the bus was going to share my sentiments. Long story short, I missed the last bus north. The next bus north? 10:00 a.m. the next morning. This presented a slight problem. I hadn’t anticipated spending the night in San Francisco. San Francisco is known for a lot of different things, most of which I didn’t want to participate in, or even be around. Being in San Francisco may be a very special experience for many people, but considering the variety of people and the number of people, it wasn’t something I was looking forward too, especially at night with no plans of where to go. Being the frugal (I like to think of it as fiscally efficient) person I started looking around the bus station for a place to sleep the night. The choices were limited. All the good places around the bus station were taken, and the not-so-good places were taken too. I thought about staying at a youth hostel as we had stayed at hostels on our trip to Alaska a few years ago. Keep in mind, I am basically pretty fiscally efficient. I knew that I was pushing the envelope of the youth part of youth hostel, but I was willing to suck my gut in and give it a try. I started to look on the local advertising boards for a hostel that was close. Lucky for me there was one just down the street. You’ve got to understand, city streets are MUCH longer than regular streets, especially at night if you happen to find yourself walking and not sure where you're going. First, I called the hostel to see if they had any space left. Unlucky for me, they did. Second, I called a cab. No sooner than I got into the cab at the bus station the cabbie said something unintelligible that must have been muffled by his turban to the effect of, “We’re here.” I swear, if I had taken the time to look around I would probably have seen that I was probably right across the street from the bus station, but, I didn’t, I was still trying to get my seat belt buckled. After giving the guy a $20 bill, of which I was expecting about $19.50 back, considering how far we had traveled, he again mumbled something unintelligible and drove off…quickly.
There I was, in front of an unsigned dented door with what looked like deep claw marks, lit only by a single 40 watt light bulb dangling from two wires. Remember, by now it’s 1:00…in the morning…and I don’t really know what direction the bus station is. I was so intent on getting my seat belt buckled I couldn’t identify which direction we had left from the bus station. And, I didn’t have any more $20 bills, only about 9,237 pesos, of which I wasn’t sure the value of. But, I did know that, chances are, a hostel in San Francisco, or a taxi driver that is wearing a turban isn’t really up on their exchange rates either. From the phone conversation with the hostel I knew that it would cost $16 for a place to sleep. They were somewhat evasive on exactly what kind of place to sleep it was though. After rapping on the door for about 5 minutes I noticed a dark figure looming out of the shadows slowly getting larger and closer. I upped the rapping to knocking on the door. As the shadow wobbled into the light and came closer I started pounding on the door, just short of yelling. Suddenly, with my unprecedented visionary skills I noticed there was a doorbell with the light burned out. As a last resort I frantically mashed it multiple times until a sleepy voice crackled from a hole underneath the light, “need something?” “YEH, IN,” I croaked back. “Open the door and come in, it's not locked” the voice calmly answered back. I turned the open door knob and walked in…just before the mangiest cat that I’d ever seen walked by.
This sleepy looking hippy guy took my $16 and pointed to a closed door and said, “There are four bunks in there, take one where there’s not someone in.” Yeh, like I’m going to shove someone out of a bunk bed at 1:30 in the morning! Of course I didn’t want to wake anyone up so I left the door open enough to use the hall light to illuminate an empty top bunk. Bingo! I threw my bag on the top bunk and without getting out of my clothes I jumped up. Too quickly. "Damn," I said to myself, "I forgot to shut the door." I jumped back off the bunk just as the guy on the bottom bunk rolled over, his arm brushing down my leg and grunted something I didn't even want to try to understand. I'm not saying it was planned on his part and he was just feeling friendly, I'm just that I wasn't really prepared for his hospitality and it didn't really make me feel very comfortable. I didn't acknowledge him and quickly shut the door and did the Superman standing vertical broad jump straight up to the top bunk covering 5 vertical feet and 3 horizontal feet in a single bound. Only then did I realize how dark it was. I tried really hard to calm myself, trying to still my heart and quell my nerves. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it may wake up my all too-neighborly neighbor, him thinking that I was somehow ecouraging him with my beating heart. I tried to stretch out and make myself comfortable until I sensed that there wasn't a mattress on the top bunk, just a piece of plywood. My mind kept racing back to the bus station, replaying the not-so-good places looking suddenly looking much better and wondering how long it would take me to find my way back. I jockeyed my bag to the head of the bed wondering to myself, exactly which would be the worse place of the two evils, to put my head where people have put their feet, or put my head where other people have put their head. I propped my head on my bag and swore quietly to myself that when and if I ever got home I would take the hottest shower I could stand with the best flea soap money could buy.
I wish I could tell you I it was quiet and fell asleep and rested peacefully the rest of the night. It wasn't, and I didn't. Just as my heart rate dropped to about 120 bpm the door opened and in walked (stumbled) a guy talking to himself, stinking to high heaven. I pretended to be asleep, all the while keeping not one eye slightly open, but both eyes wide open. I was snoring with both eyes open, not sleeping, just snoring. I watched the guy take 3 quart bottles of Colt .45 Malt Liquor out of the paper bag he carried in and place them neatly beside the lower bunk against the far wall. He leaned on one elbow, unscrewed the cap, and chugged the entire bottle before burping and laying down on the jacket that he had put down as a pillow. Within about 5 minutes of heavy breathing he jumped up and ran across the hall to the bathroom leaving the door open so everyone could hear him relieving himself. Before laying back down he chugged the second bottle. The third bottle he put under his jacket and put his head on it. Within about 2 seconds he was joining the other snorers in the room in an impromptu chorus of loud and out-of-tune snoring. Myself, I was pretty sure even if I could go to sleep I didn't dare let myself go to sleep. I lay awake listening to the snoring, flatulating, and grunting until about 3:00. When I was pretty sure everyone was in their own world I quickly jumped down, quietly opened the door (as if that really mattered), and walked out of the hostel. I waved a cab down and asked him which way to the bus station. He pointed to the where a Greyhound was turning in and said, "Right there." I walked to a coffee shop, bought a cup of coffee, a donut, and a newspaper and pretended like I do this kind of thing every morning.
We also got to see, John Lee Hooker, Jr., the son of, you guessed it, John Lee Hooker, Sr., a great Blues singer.
The highlight of the trip was being able to have breakfast with Glenda. She is closing in on her Bachelors degree this coming May. You’ll be glad to know that she takes her studying very seriously. She even takes her books to breakfast. No wasted time with our sister!
On the way back from San Francisco we were going through Orick and we noticed that they (?) were holding tryouts for the Dallas Cowgirls. I’m sure all the hopeful future Cowgirls will be bringing their best stimulus package with them. Don’t ask me why they’ve chosen to hold tryouts there, but they do get some pretty big names there. In the past we’ve seen such names as ZZ Top, The Beatles, and even the Rolling Stones on the marquee board, so it really wasn’t much of a surprise to see the ad for the Dallas Cowgirls’ tryouts. The only problem is, where everyone stays. The only motel in town, ‘Myrtle’s pay-by-the-hour Motel and Trailer Park’ is hard to find.
Anyway, it was a great quick trip and it’s good to be back home.
Jim
The parade WAS very impressive! Our hotel was about a ½ block off the parade route and lucky for us we got there JUST before they closed the street off. FYI: Do you know that you can’t turn left or right once you get on Geary Street? Even if you drive right by, and yell, “Turn! There it is!” you can’t do it. No turns, period. Lucky for us, after a few figure-eights through the streets of San Francisco that started around San Rafael and came close to San Jose we narrowed down our spiral and ended up in front of our hotel. Before this point I was just a trifle nervous. You see, the last time I stayed in San Francisco it wasn’t by choice. I didn’t have a motel booked like Sandi did this time, but it was an experience that I didn’t want to relive again, or wish on anyone, even my worst enemy.
When we went to Mexico about six years ago, we all left at the same time, but we came back at different times. The guys had to baby our van back to Crescent City from San Francisco with a battery that had already expired, pulling up to stop signs only to be met by the sounds of silence when they tried to start out again. And, this was when they were just leaving the driveway of the motel where we had stored the van. The experience got worse from there, especially since they were still 362 miles short of Crescent City!
When I came back from Puerta Vallarta I thought I had it timed correctly; from getting off the plane at SFO to allowing enough time to get to the SF bus terminal for the remainder of my trip to Crescent City on the Greyhound. I was planning to sleep all the way back home on the bus, and I was hoping that everyone else on the bus was going to share my sentiments. Long story short, I missed the last bus north. The next bus north? 10:00 a.m. the next morning. This presented a slight problem. I hadn’t anticipated spending the night in San Francisco. San Francisco is known for a lot of different things, most of which I didn’t want to participate in, or even be around. Being in San Francisco may be a very special experience for many people, but considering the variety of people and the number of people, it wasn’t something I was looking forward too, especially at night with no plans of where to go. Being the frugal (I like to think of it as fiscally efficient) person I started looking around the bus station for a place to sleep the night. The choices were limited. All the good places around the bus station were taken, and the not-so-good places were taken too. I thought about staying at a youth hostel as we had stayed at hostels on our trip to Alaska a few years ago. Keep in mind, I am basically pretty fiscally efficient. I knew that I was pushing the envelope of the youth part of youth hostel, but I was willing to suck my gut in and give it a try. I started to look on the local advertising boards for a hostel that was close. Lucky for me there was one just down the street. You’ve got to understand, city streets are MUCH longer than regular streets, especially at night if you happen to find yourself walking and not sure where you're going. First, I called the hostel to see if they had any space left. Unlucky for me, they did. Second, I called a cab. No sooner than I got into the cab at the bus station the cabbie said something unintelligible that must have been muffled by his turban to the effect of, “We’re here.” I swear, if I had taken the time to look around I would probably have seen that I was probably right across the street from the bus station, but, I didn’t, I was still trying to get my seat belt buckled. After giving the guy a $20 bill, of which I was expecting about $19.50 back, considering how far we had traveled, he again mumbled something unintelligible and drove off…quickly.
There I was, in front of an unsigned dented door with what looked like deep claw marks, lit only by a single 40 watt light bulb dangling from two wires. Remember, by now it’s 1:00…in the morning…and I don’t really know what direction the bus station is. I was so intent on getting my seat belt buckled I couldn’t identify which direction we had left from the bus station. And, I didn’t have any more $20 bills, only about 9,237 pesos, of which I wasn’t sure the value of. But, I did know that, chances are, a hostel in San Francisco, or a taxi driver that is wearing a turban isn’t really up on their exchange rates either. From the phone conversation with the hostel I knew that it would cost $16 for a place to sleep. They were somewhat evasive on exactly what kind of place to sleep it was though. After rapping on the door for about 5 minutes I noticed a dark figure looming out of the shadows slowly getting larger and closer. I upped the rapping to knocking on the door. As the shadow wobbled into the light and came closer I started pounding on the door, just short of yelling. Suddenly, with my unprecedented visionary skills I noticed there was a doorbell with the light burned out. As a last resort I frantically mashed it multiple times until a sleepy voice crackled from a hole underneath the light, “need something?” “YEH, IN,” I croaked back. “Open the door and come in, it's not locked” the voice calmly answered back. I turned the open door knob and walked in…just before the mangiest cat that I’d ever seen walked by.
This sleepy looking hippy guy took my $16 and pointed to a closed door and said, “There are four bunks in there, take one where there’s not someone in.” Yeh, like I’m going to shove someone out of a bunk bed at 1:30 in the morning! Of course I didn’t want to wake anyone up so I left the door open enough to use the hall light to illuminate an empty top bunk. Bingo! I threw my bag on the top bunk and without getting out of my clothes I jumped up. Too quickly. "Damn," I said to myself, "I forgot to shut the door." I jumped back off the bunk just as the guy on the bottom bunk rolled over, his arm brushing down my leg and grunted something I didn't even want to try to understand. I'm not saying it was planned on his part and he was just feeling friendly, I'm just that I wasn't really prepared for his hospitality and it didn't really make me feel very comfortable. I didn't acknowledge him and quickly shut the door and did the Superman standing vertical broad jump straight up to the top bunk covering 5 vertical feet and 3 horizontal feet in a single bound. Only then did I realize how dark it was. I tried really hard to calm myself, trying to still my heart and quell my nerves. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it may wake up my all too-neighborly neighbor, him thinking that I was somehow ecouraging him with my beating heart. I tried to stretch out and make myself comfortable until I sensed that there wasn't a mattress on the top bunk, just a piece of plywood. My mind kept racing back to the bus station, replaying the not-so-good places looking suddenly looking much better and wondering how long it would take me to find my way back. I jockeyed my bag to the head of the bed wondering to myself, exactly which would be the worse place of the two evils, to put my head where people have put their feet, or put my head where other people have put their head. I propped my head on my bag and swore quietly to myself that when and if I ever got home I would take the hottest shower I could stand with the best flea soap money could buy.
I wish I could tell you I it was quiet and fell asleep and rested peacefully the rest of the night. It wasn't, and I didn't. Just as my heart rate dropped to about 120 bpm the door opened and in walked (stumbled) a guy talking to himself, stinking to high heaven. I pretended to be asleep, all the while keeping not one eye slightly open, but both eyes wide open. I was snoring with both eyes open, not sleeping, just snoring. I watched the guy take 3 quart bottles of Colt .45 Malt Liquor out of the paper bag he carried in and place them neatly beside the lower bunk against the far wall. He leaned on one elbow, unscrewed the cap, and chugged the entire bottle before burping and laying down on the jacket that he had put down as a pillow. Within about 5 minutes of heavy breathing he jumped up and ran across the hall to the bathroom leaving the door open so everyone could hear him relieving himself. Before laying back down he chugged the second bottle. The third bottle he put under his jacket and put his head on it. Within about 2 seconds he was joining the other snorers in the room in an impromptu chorus of loud and out-of-tune snoring. Myself, I was pretty sure even if I could go to sleep I didn't dare let myself go to sleep. I lay awake listening to the snoring, flatulating, and grunting until about 3:00. When I was pretty sure everyone was in their own world I quickly jumped down, quietly opened the door (as if that really mattered), and walked out of the hostel. I waved a cab down and asked him which way to the bus station. He pointed to the where a Greyhound was turning in and said, "Right there." I walked to a coffee shop, bought a cup of coffee, a donut, and a newspaper and pretended like I do this kind of thing every morning.
We also got to see, John Lee Hooker, Jr., the son of, you guessed it, John Lee Hooker, Sr., a great Blues singer.
The highlight of the trip was being able to have breakfast with Glenda. She is closing in on her Bachelors degree this coming May. You’ll be glad to know that she takes her studying very seriously. She even takes her books to breakfast. No wasted time with our sister!
On the way back from San Francisco we were going through Orick and we noticed that they (?) were holding tryouts for the Dallas Cowgirls. I’m sure all the hopeful future Cowgirls will be bringing their best stimulus package with them. Don’t ask me why they’ve chosen to hold tryouts there, but they do get some pretty big names there. In the past we’ve seen such names as ZZ Top, The Beatles, and even the Rolling Stones on the marquee board, so it really wasn’t much of a surprise to see the ad for the Dallas Cowgirls’ tryouts. The only problem is, where everyone stays. The only motel in town, ‘Myrtle’s pay-by-the-hour Motel and Trailer Park’ is hard to find.
Anyway, it was a great quick trip and it’s good to be back home.
Jim
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