Sketches of Those We Have Known: BERKELEY PEOPLE
Watson walked on listening for the creep of the bus behind him. It
reminded him of an animal, old and slow but indomitable and fated to rule
the Earth. He turned and watched the old eyes glower through the mist that
were like beams of radiation. In the distance were the buildings; only two
were visible. One was brick, with large rectangular windows. The other was
a steel obelisk directly across the street, it's windows retracted into
the black steel. The fog hung along the tops of each,
concealing the watchtowers. There were two watchtowers he remembered. One
on the old building faced east, toward the surrounding hills. The other
faced west across the green expansive bay between the spires of the Golden
Gate and out to where the ocean and sky danced together in a vaporous
line.
He had been here before. He briefly thought of the women in those buildings. He thought they
were damsels from another age looking for heroes. One used to stand all
day combing her blond hair that fell down her back and rumpled along the
floor like some hairy snake. Occasionally she would pick up glasses and
search along Grizzly Peak looking for places she had been.
The other paced with a cigarette in her mouth and held a trembling
mirror to her face blurring the room in the background. She had told him
that work was boring. "But at least it's work and honorable, useful work
is hard to come by."
He had forgotten their names but remembered vividly the day he had met
them. He was downtown and went to the little cafe by his place of work. They the women were there. They said they would search Shattuck Avenue for the "loners" and cheer them up.
They were sitting in a cafe on the corner of Shattuck and Allston.
"Am I a loner?" he had asked defensively.
The blonde one laughed like a little girl who sees her father naked
for the first time.
"I'm not a loner!" he demanded.
The one with the cigarette nodded her head, "That's right, you have
your pestering dreams. I can always tell a dreamer by the fog in his
eyes....and mister, you have fog." Then she laughed a husky, friendly
laugh that made Watson smile.
They said they worked for the city "in the building", and when he told them he worked for
the post office the two of them took him down to the park. He forgot about work. It was not late
but it was starting to get dark and Watson held onto the two hands that escorted
him down to the tiny creek running through a cool bankside.
There was something supernatural about these women even if they said
they were simple city workers.
Watson asked the blonde how old she was and she turned her head and
looked into the creek.
"I'm a silver leaf." Watson opened his eyes and, yes, it was true that
a leaf was snagged on a rock and the woman bent to put her hand in the
cold stream and swirled it gently until the leaf was bumped from the snag.
The current pulled it gently into the middle of the stream. The other
woman flicked her cigarette into the water, then stood behind Watson and
brushed her hand through his hair.
"I'm from Neptune," and her hand slid before her and moved down his shirt.
Watson quit asking them questions, in the park, down by the creek, empty
of sound but the hurried feet of the squirrels somewhere behind them.
At that moment he would have given a five-dollar bill for the croak of
a frog.
Watson perceived a groan in the creek. It wasn't a bellow but an eerie
sigh that became a groan in that delicate gurgle of the water rounding
over the pebbles and rock.
"We're all from different worlds, aren't you?"
A green stake, like the one used for surveying, suddenly became visible
to him. It was stuck in the middle of the creek directly in front of him and
he wondered at the illusions of night that could make noise and things,
alternating like drunken eyes, look like blinking neon signs.
The two women were then opposite him, asking personal questions. They
wanted to know everything. His age, his income, address, phone
number, place of birth, exact time of birth, his favorite color, favorite
books, favorite music. Did he sleep on the left side or right?
Right-handed or left-handed? Smoke? What was his philosophy of life and
if he was too boring to have one, where had he been? What did he do? What
did he know...exactly?
"Where we come from we can make a man a powerful being, almost a god."
He answered as best he could and when he stumbled over something they
went to another question, to return to the previous one later. He didn't
question what they were doing. "Oh they are the typical crazies of Berkeley," he thought. Perhaps it was out of the ordinary he
didn't know because, often, he wasn't sure what he was going on. "The crazies have a certain advantage over me," he thought. Even in the
cool air he felt hot and sticky with sweat.
The last thing he remembered saying was "letters" then they attacked
him.
On the bank they stripped him of his clothes and threw them in the
water. "What...what are you doing?" he yelled, kicking and scratching as
he tried to pull from the women who had suddenly turned on him. They
didn't say anything and proceeded with nearly mechanical frenzy.
When his clothes had been disposed of in the creek, the blonde one (and
he remembered the monstrous green eyes palpitating in their sockets)
pointed up to the moon that was half a yellow grin, toothless but filled
with a pale cheek.
The two stood and started running through the park and when they had
disappeared Watson could hear a chilling, whining shriek that was joined
by a rebel call, "yeyeyeyeyeyeyeye" as if the tongues were vibrating like
the blades of a reaper against the roof of the mouth.
Watson was cold for a long time. He sat stunned, unable to fetch his
clothes from the water. They hadn't drifted downstream. His shorts and
pants were twisted around the rocks and fallen twigs that lay haphazardly
in the water.
On the bank naked and shivering, Watson could hear the squirrels or
ground birds rustling behind him. He knew if he turned there would be line
of curious and staring eyes, twinkling and fixed and bright. Odd vision, he thought. Perhaps it's the stress of the moment.
The bus was coming up behind him now and he ran, then walked quietly to the
stop that was in front of the railroad tracks. The tracks ran parallel and
lay out for a mile before bending around a small hill that was part of
someone's backyard. They were filled with broken green glass that nestled
with the crushed rock between the ties. Watson himself had thrown a few of
the bottles there late at night. That is, when everything was shut up in
the neighborhood and he could experience the extravagance of sound that
exploded from the glass breaking on steel.
Before he reached the bus stop he suddenly halted. He had seen a crack
fissured slightly in the concrete. It had split just a fraction and he had
seen it, seen it like one could see the hands of a clock move when the
mind was concentrating adequately on it; on anything. Just so the eyes
blinked occasionally and not miss the movement of the hand. He was glad to
be outside. He had lived with earthquakes all his life and recognized,
now, how subtle they began.
He bent closer to the crack still reminding himself that he'd seen it.
After all, there it was. But then, he had seen a sign in the distance
that enlarged his imagination and turned out to be a swab of paint some
vandal had put on.
He dropped his eye into the sliver that was nearly a foot long. It had
split through a handprint someone had made in the cement years before. The
hand that made this, he thought, is now red and beat like the porches and
roofs on the cottages that fell inward throughout the neighborhood.
The print was larger than a child's but smaller than a man's hand. They
had pressed hard because the print was framed by a rim of cement.
Watson pressed his ear to the crack, remembering an old prophecy that
earthquakes could be heard coming before they struck. He heard a faint
roar as if it were caught deep in the interior of the Earth and yelling
for help. He didn't hear any cries of help. Perhaps it was the ubiquity of
the ocean.
He looked to see where he was in relation to the telephone pole but
when he raised his head the bus rambled past him and he stood to run after
it, fingering his pocket for the quarter. But at that moment the red
signal light changed, black and white arms crossed the road, and in an
instant the area was shook by the stampede of cars, one after another, in
an endless row, led by a Gothic engine, all the wheels clacking like
playing cards hitched to a bike wheel.
Out of breath, hunched over with hands on his knees, feeling disaster was going to strike at any moment with what he'd heard from the
crack, from the depths of the Earth, sweating, his belly punching in and out in short pants, wondering in a flash what had happened to him, why
he was on his hands and knees in the dark without a job or prospect, riding busses with the poor and crazed, in this state he looked up to
see the two women, standing on the back of the train, with no expressions, arms crossed, flicking a cigarette off the train to the ground below.
1976
David Eide
January 24, 2014