Take me!!
Against my better judgement I drove Mathilda, now officially interdit on the road, her registration having expired, into town, following Jen, who had to work late. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, driving through a cloud, the temperature dropping a good fifteen degrees, deposited Nick, a professional pianist, off to practice, and headed into the Mission. We took one look at the line at Tartine, and instead made it to the Painted something or other – a stupendous second-hand store that had a tremendous assortment of books on tape, not to mention actual cassette tapes. I really scored – Cormac McCarthy, Barry Lopez, Anne Tyler, and a couple other authors I’m too embarrassed to mention. Also nabbed U2’s Joshua Tree album, along with a Kenny Loggins. Too good.
We walked over to Dolores Park, pausing briefly to investigate a very sweet Airstream.
Installed in the park I remembered once again what a not very attractive city Philadelphia is. I mean – it’s just not, at least compared to the bodies on display. Do I think we could kick San Francisco’s ass with both hands tied behind our back ? Yes, yes I do. But the runway – no dice.
Jen went off to babysit, and I stood in line at Tartine reading more Teju Cole who, strangely, I can’t put down. No matter how light-hearted I got, his prose seemed to keep the feeling in check. I got a soppresata sandwich with fiorentina cheese and broccoli rabe. And a chocolate torte for later.
With both eyes on the road for the fluff, I headed north back to the Golden Gate on South Van Ness, one hand on the wheel, one hand chomping on a pickled baby carrot served with the sandwich. I took a wrong turn trying to get on 101 north, and was busy negotiating my way, trying to make it back around the block, with half a sandwich now in hand when a Honda Accord came to life from the sidewalk and pulled out from a parking space in front of me. The truck shook and I heard the clatter of metal. I pulled over – not against the sidewalk, as I should have, but in the bike lane, and put on my flashers.
It was a chick and three dudes, and by the time I made it back there they were out inspecting the damage – a ripped off bumper, and the front quarter-panel caved in.
The first thing she said was « sorry » which I took as a very good sign. She had mousy hair, cut-off jeans, and a lost look about her. The guys looked like they had just come out of band practice in a some dank Oakland garage. I asked for her insurance information on instinct. Then it occurred that surely the authorities would be along in no time. My entire trip flashed before my eyes, Mathilda impounded, made into scrap, Cal and I homeless.
I checked out Mathilda – nary a scratch. The steel deer catcher I believe caught hold of her bumper and ripped it off like a hangnail. I gave her my information, and pretended to take hers, and gave a half-hearted attempt to re-attach her destroyed bumper.
« I need to leave – good luck, though, »
« Can I get your number ? » she said. Then I saw it – there at the end of the long block. A police cruiser coming toward us, the way those black and whites, so shiny with their steel carapace of hate, just seemed to glide. Ugh. Maybe it was being seven when the Philly police dropped a bomb on city residents, burning sixty rowhomes. Or maybe it’s just Philly police period. Five-O gives me the shivers.
I mumbled something and walked as fast as I dared toward Ms. Mathilda, thinking I swear of Frost’s « Into the Woods, » « my little horse must thing it queer/to stop without a farmhouse near. » Got in the driver seat, and turned off the flashers. I heard the cop say something over his loudspeaker, and looked back in the passenger mirror – he was talking to her. I have no idea what she said. All I know is the light turned green and I took a right and went somewhere just beneath conspicuous peeling of rubber. I watched in the rearview mirror, sure to see the squad car, lights flashing, skidding around the corner. But alas, nothing.
Driving on tiptoes, if such a thing is possible in a manual, we made it back to the blessed peace of Mill Valley, and, to cool down, I took Colorado for a walk, and thought for a great long while about the Montclair section of Denver, and what stopped me from living in a suburb such as this, away from the mayhem of the city – aside from the stunning price tag. Part of it, I decided, surely had to do with water. To be near water felt – important.
But the light – more buttery than in Santa Fe, making flora and fauna glow rather than gleam – gave the feeling of security, and also of timelessness. Perhaps the difficulty of it – lack of concerted seasons. I love how the light changes in Pennsylvania – from summer into fall, honing itself on the tree bark, growing sharp as the haze of humidity clears away with the winds.
As Dog and I passed on the trail behind houses, we would look unabashedly into uncurtained living spaces – folks drinking wine, watching ESPN, chatting in the backyard. Invariably, folks waved back.
I thought of raising children, and what that might be like here. How they might take to it. I mean, geez. Sweet compact low-mileage Ford Focus. A small ranch house – all the culture one might ask for over arguably the most beautiful bridge in the country.
As we got closer I noticed one of those little green alien plastic guys with the orange beanies that folks put up to signal kids playing. In an unmistakable six year-old’s scrawl were written the words, « Take me » with two well-placed exclamation marks. I thought long and hard about whether it meant take the plastic figurehead – remove the panoptical interpolating eye of hegemony, the adult, symbol of caution and awareness, and would you please just let us fucking play, or whether it was more like a message in a bottle, and there existed a child in that suburban paradise waiting for some courageous passerby to free him or her from parental or otherwise bondage.
We arrived back at the house to witness a 1970-something pea-green F350 Super Camper pushing up obscenely on Mathilda. I mean, you leave her for one second … maybe it was her near brush with impoundment, a glimpse of her death by logic of insurance agencies and the Blue Book, or just the walk with children on the mind which got me in the protective mindset.
