As we came closer, I saw him passing the other people like they weren’t even there. And they were doing the same to him, avoiding him like they didn’t even see him. I could see from twenty-five, thirty feet away that he was angling straight toward me. I moved far to the right of the sidewalk as if I might go into one of the stores, but he knew I wasn’t, and he moved over, too, and kept coming toward me. Then at a distance of about six feet away he reached out his hand in slow motion. The palm of his hand was black with grime, his fingers were long and skeletal, I went by him without looking into his face. I made two more steps, then I jerked around. Because I had seen something in the palm of that hand that looked like an ugly sunken scar.
But as God be my witness He was not there. He was not there, sir, He was not there. No one was within ten or fifteen feet of where He should have been. No, sir, I had not made more than two or three steps before I turned around. And I should have seen Him as clearly as I’m seeing you now—but He was not there. Just this empty space between me and all the other people. Just empty space.
I stood there searching for Him. I looked all the way to the end of the block. I looked across the street. He could not have entered one of the stores that quickly. But nothing, nothing. Only the people rushing toward me or rushing by. I couldn’t possibly tell anyone what I had seen. They would have thought certainly I was mad.
I was terrified. And with all the traffic noise around me, I could still hear my heart beating—beating too fast, too loud. I forgot about the jacket, I went back home. I sat in my kitchen drinking a brandy, trying to calm myself. But I couldn’t rest, and I came back to Market Street. It was raining harder, it was colder, but I had to come back. I walked that one block between Fifth and Sixth a half dozen times. Late that afternoon, never mentioning it to anybody, I went back home.
I was a longshoreman then, working off Pier 50 in China Basin. Each evening when I got off I’d walk down Market Street. On days when I didn’t get work, I would walk down Market Street. I wouldn’t dare tell anyone what I had seen, afraid they would think I was crazy. But if I saw Him again I would tell the world and I wouldn’t care what they thought.
Market Street became a second home to me. For a couple of years, day or night, I would walk down Market Street. When I didn’t see Him again I got the idea that maybe He would not come back in that same form. Maybe He had already returned in a different form and I hadn’t recognized Him. Maybe He was one of my neighbors.
Though I continued to look for Him as I had seen Him that first time, now I searched the face of anyone and everyone I passed. I also looked closely at the palm of all hands I came in contact with, whether it was the hand of one of the dock workers, black or white; whether it was the left or right hand of a store clerk, a bus driver when I got my transfer, or the butcher when he gave me my change—I looked at all their hands.
And I have searched thousands of faces. I have been insulted, threatened with violence for looking too closely in the face of man, woman, or child. You have no idea, sir, what names you’re called for looking people in the face. And for Christ’s sake, don’t speak to a stranger. You speak to a strange woman, you’re a possible rapist; to a man, you’re labeled as a faggot; to a child, you’re suspected of molestation. You’re not supposed to speak to your fellow man anymore. Not anymore. At least a half dozen times the past thirty years I’ve been arrested for soliciting. And do you know what that means, sir, soliciting? It means looking closely into someone’s eyes, hoping that He’s Christ. Soliciting.
The people down at the Hall of Justice got so used to seeing me that they would hurry up and process me and kick me out on the street again as if I were some kind of San Francisco nut. Not nutty enough for the loony ward or even a halfway house—but just a benign nut, as though I were a certain kind of San Francisco character. So with a word of warning to not do it anymore—that is, look people in the face or speak to them—they would boot me back out on the street. And soon as they did, I would walk up Sixth to Market Street and begin all over again to search faces and hands, hoping that one of them would be His.
I began to think He might return in the form of the Trinity— Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. So I started concentrating on threes. Whenever I saw three men walking together I paid them very close attention. They could be white, black, Asian, or a mixture of the three. There could be three Jews or three Muslims, I would look them over. He’s in all of us, so He didn’t have to come back as any one race. I got so hung up on threes. One day I followed three Filipinos up Kearney Street. You see, by now I was looking for Him everywhere—not only on Market Street alone—but anyplace I happened to be. Of course, these little fellows I was following were much smaller than the figure I had seen that day on Market Street— but who is to say in what form He’ll come back? Anyway, I caught up with them—and was sorry that I did. Two wore sports jackets and the third one wore a seersucker suit and a bow tie, and he had the greatest command of the filthiest language you have ever heard. He called me every kind of faggot he could think of. He even said some things about my mother no man should say to another man no matter how he looks at him. I tried to explain to him why I had followed them and why I had looked closely at them, but he told me that all us Frisco faggots were alike—only our approach was different. Again I apologized to him and his friends, and I was lucky to get out of there with my balls, because those little fellows can sure use knives.
I was in Golden Gate Park one day, walking down Kennedy Drive, near the flower conservatory. Twelve Japanese were outside, taking pictures of flowers. Now, there could have been more than twelve—maybe fifteen; and there could have been less than twelve—nine or ten. But to me they seemed like twelve, and since that was the number of His disciples I thought maybe He could be among them. I came up to them and started looking into faces. Not satisfied, I asked them to let me see the palms of their hands. They were very cooperative; you know the Japanese—all manners—bowing, smiling, showing me their hands. I had gotten to number eight when I was suddenly grabbed from behind and thrown into a police van. The people at the Hall of Justice remembered me, and didn’t keep me in jail. They just told me to stay out of Golden Gate Park. I told them that I would—but I could no more stay away from that park than a priest from his church. I’ve walked in that park at least twice a week since the thirties. Especially on Sunday morning. That is my church. I’m closer to God there than any church building I’ve ever been in. When it’s cold I wear my old army field jacket, and I put peanuts in the right pocket for the squirrels, and bread in the left pocket to feed the ducks and the geese. And I spend an hour out there with them, every Sunday. And I feel so close to God there, with the squirrels and the ducks and geese, and the eucalyptus and pines swaying in the wind, and the fog coming in from the ocean and floating over the lake like smoke—that is my church.
Not to say that I didn’t go to any other churches, I went to many of them in search of Him. To the black churches in the Fillmore, to the upper crust in Pacific Heights, to churches in the Mission. For thirty years I’ve searched for that figure I’d seen that day. I’ve been arrested, beaten, robbed, knives held to my throat—all because I’ve looked too closely in faces and hands.
Sometimes on Sunday, when I came from the park, I would turn on my little black-and-white television set and watch the church services. I would watch any denomination and everyone I could find. But not once. Not once have I seen Him in the audience. Some of these hippies around here dress up like Him every now and then—but you can tell a phony when you see one.
Well, sir, that is my story. What do you think of it? Do you think it’s fair to show up once and never again? Tell me what you think of that.
“You down there,” I heard the bartender saying.
“You speaking to me?”
“Finish that drink and get out of here.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I said finish that drink and get out of here,” the bartender said. “You’ve been pla
ying with that one drink long enough. You’ll give the place a bad name.”
“My friend bought this drink for me, and I’ll take as long as I want to finish it.”
“You’ve never had a friend in your life,” the bartender said. “Finish that drink and get out of here.”
“I do have a friend,” I told him. “The gentleman who was in here a moment ago.”
“What gentleman?” the bartender said. “You’ve been playing around with that one drink the past hour.”
“You’re crazy,” I said.
“What did you say, you bum?” the bartender said, coming toward me.
“There was a gentleman standing right here talking to me,” I said. “He wore a pinstripe suit and a trench coat. And he wore a felt hat, to the side. He had on a striped shirt and a red tie. He bought me three drinks, and you served it out of that bottle there.”
The bartender glared at the bottle on the shelf. He started to look back at me, then he jerked his head around to look at the bottle again, staring at it for several seconds.
“Finish that damned drink and get out of here,” he said to me. “Ain’t nobody been in here but you.”
“You’re crazy or you’re—”
“I’m what, you lousy bum?”
“Nothing. Nothing. But tell me once more. Tell me true. You honestly didn’t see Him?”
“You’ve been the only one standing there the past hour,” the bartender said. “I just bet you have a friend with a pinstriped suit.”
“Why did you look at that bottle so long?” I asked him. “I’ll tell you why. You got three less drinks in that bottle now.”
“I can’t remember the amount of liquor in every bottle in this bar,” the bartender said. “Now, finish that drink and get out of here, or I’ll throw you out.”
“Just one more time,” I said to him. “Please. One more time, you didn’t see Him?”
“You’ve been the only person standing there the past hour,” the bartender said. “Your clothes probably scared all my other customers away.”
“Then I shall finish my drink and leave, sir. But before I go, let me tell you something, you’re one of the most unluckiest men in the world. You don’t have to worry about being a chosen one.”
“Just get out of here,” the bartender said.
“I’m on my way, sir. If I hurry, maybe I’ll see Him again!”
THE TURTLES
When we got to Mr. James’s house, my old man leaned the fishing poles against the fence and we went into the yard. Mr. James and Benny were sitting on the porch. Mr. James was fanning his face with his straw hat.
“It’s coming down,” my old man said. He put his foot on the step and leaned upon one knee. “You and Benny about ready?”
“Aren’t you and Max going to rest awhile?” Mr. James asked.
“Better not stop too long,” my old man said. “You don’t feel like starting again.”’
“I see what you mean,” Mr. James said. “Get the poles, Benny.”
“You want me to wake up Ma and tell her we’re going?” Benny asked.
“She knows we’re going,” Mr. James said.
Benny went inside and got his hat, then he got the fishing poles from beside the house. He got the can of worms from under the steps where he kept them cool and moist, and we started out for Gillman’s Lake. Gillman’s Lake was about two miles from Mr. James’s house, and we made it over there way inside of an hour.
It was quiet and cool around the lake, and the lake was as smooth and shiny as a clean mirror. Looked like you could lie on top of it, or walk on it, and not go under and get wet. There wasn’t a bubble or a ripple on it, and a few leaves from the trees slept on top of it like cocoons on a twig. I felt like diving in with all my clothes on and swimming from one side to the other.
“Find yourself a can and bring me half of the worms, Max,” my old man said.
I found a can down at the water where somebody had left it, and put about half of the worms in it. I gave my old man the other half, then I got my line. Benny and Mr. James divided their bait, then Benny and I moved down the lake to find a good spot to fish. We moved about a hundred yards from where my old man and Mr. James were, to a dead tree that had fallen out on the lake. We walked out on the tree—that is, I walked out on the tree. Benny crawled out on it, like he was afraid he might fall and get his clothes wet. I was hoping my foot might slip so I could fall in.
Benny and I sat sideways on the tree, and I could see my old man and Mr. James sitting down on the bank farther up the lake. They were talking and looking out at the lake.
“There’s no fishes out here,” Benny said.
“Give them time,’’ I said.
Benny had a big stopper on his line because he didn’t know how to fish too good, and the stopper lay on top of the water, leaning a little to the back, like it was waiting for something to grab the hook and pull on the line so it could dip right under.
“We’re going to the baseball game next Sunday,” I told Benny.
Benny didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. James?”
“Ma’ll never let me go,” Benny said.
“Church, huh?”
“That’s every Sunday,” Benny said.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. James?”
Benny looked at his old man down the lake.
“Shucks,” Benny said.
Then something struck Benny’s line, and Benny jerked the line up in the air.
“You can’t catch anything like that,” I said.
“Something was on it,” Benny said.
“He was just playing around with the bait,” I said. “You didn’t give him enough time.”
Benny drew in the line and looked at the hook. He covered the hook well with the bait, then he dropped the line into the water again.
“You have to let them run with it awhile,” I told Benny. Benny nodded his head, and about a minute later, something struck his line again. The stopper dipped under the water a little, then it was still. It set still for a moment, then it began to move a little.
“Let him play with it for a while,” I whispered.
Benny held the pole with both hands.
“Must be a little one,” he said.
“Not too much noise,” I told Benny.
The stopper went all the way under, and whatever was on the hook started to move toward the tree.
“Better pull it up,” I said.
Benny jerked the line up out of the water, and a little turtle was hanging on the end of the line. Benny dropped the line back into the water.
“Pull him up,” I said. “He’ll tangle your line on the tree.”
“I don’t like to catch these things on my line,” Benny said.
“Pull it up,” I told Benny.
Benny pulled the turtle up out of the water again and tried to shake him off the line.
“He’s swallowed the hook,” I said. “You can’t shake him off.”
“You want to take him off for me?” Benny asked me.
“Benny, you’re not afraid of a little turtle, are you?”
“I just don’t like to mess with them,” Benny said.
I looked at the little turtle hanging on the end of Benny’s line.
“Here,” I said, handing Benny my line. “Hold mine. I’ll get him off.”
I took the line on the bank and took the turtle off and killed it. I brought the line back to Benny.
“Did I have a bite?” I said.
“A little one,” Benny said. “But he left.”
“Did you pull up the line?”
“No,” Benny said.
I drew in the line and saw that something had cleaned the hook. I baited the hook again, and threw it out toward the other side of the tree.
“I just don’t like to mess with turtles,” Benny said.
I didn’t answer Benny, and we didn’t talk anymore. We sat there about fifteen minutes, then Benny caught another turtle. I too
k that one off the line and killed it, then we moved from the tree. We found another spot farther down the lake, but we didn’t have any luck there either. Even the turtles weren’t biting there.
“They just aren’t biting today,’’ Benny said.
“I guess not,” I said.
We moved down about fifty yards and threw our lines out into the lake, then we sat down on the bank. We figured that nothing was going to bite, and we made ourselves comfortable. Soon we were lying down on our backs and looking up at the trees overhead.
“Hey there,” Mr. James said, standing over us. “You boys come out here to fish or sleep?”
We sat up and I pulled in my line. Nothing was on it, and the hook was clean.
“Where’s mine?” Benny said.
“Something must’ve taken it,” Mr. James said. “Why didn’t you stick the pole in the ground like Max did?”
“I stuck it,” Benny said.
“Well, no use crying over spilled milk,” Mr. James said. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Must’ve been another turtle,” Benny said.
“You all caught many?” I asked Mr. James.
“About a dozen, each,” Mr. James said. “Maybe more. Your pa caught a nice trout farther up the lake.”
I wound up my line and threw the rest of the worms out into the lake. Benny did the same thing with his cup of worms.
When we got down where my old man was, he was standing beside a tree with the pole in one hand and the fishes in the other. He had about twelve or fifteen perches on one string, and the trout on a stick. The trout looked like it was about two feet long.
My old man looked at me and Benny, then he started up the bank.
“Want me to carry the trout, Pa?” I asked my old man.
Mozart and Leadbelly Page 9
