I arrived in Alameda shortly after lunch. Aaron was in the back room watching college football, wearing shorts, no shirt and drinking a Firestone EBA. He told me to pick any bedroom in the house and I went to find one. Jessie was scheduled to be at a mission meeting until 3 p.m., but she called and said they’d finished early. My heart jumped a level. It meant she’d be there in ten minutes. I hurriedly brushed my teeth, changed shirts, changed shirts again, sat and visited with Aaron (who put on a shirt when I told him she was on the way), tried sitting and watching the game but got up and went to the door. Walked around the house several times. Went back to the TV room, quickly got up again to check the front door.
There she was, reaching out her arm to knock.
Black dress, platform sandals, her dark sunglasses. I stepped to the porch and wrapped my arms around her. Aaron must have wondered if something had befallen us, as long as we stood there, but I made no excuses—it had been a month. I supposed we’d make our way to the back room eventually, but for now I was making up for lost time. All thirty-four days.
I introduced her to Aaron. She’d heard me speak of Andrew and Diana and Baby Daniel dozens of times but had never met them. At least she could meet his brother. He gave me a key to the house, told me to come and go as I pleased, and Jessie and I went for a walk around downtown Alameda, a quaint neighborhood filled with shops and boutiques. At every traffic light, we squeezed each other tightly. It would likely take us until dawn to walk two city blocks at this rate, but if that’s the way it was going to be, so be it. We stopped at a dress shop. She told me which ones she liked and the ones she thought tacky, while I envisioned her wearing the ones she picked out. We hadn’t planned on eating yet, but taking in the scent from a local ice cream parlor, we decided to share its giant sundae.
On occasion, Jessie would call herself an old soul. I wasn’t sure what that meant or if I’d agree with her if I did, but she had a unique ability, unlike most women I knew, to look at me deeply, turning seconds on end without growing embarrassed or giggling or turning away her eyes. I was usually the one who turned away first. We finished our three scoops and sat looking at each other. No place on earth I’d rather be. We checked the time. We needed to get going if we were going to meet Frank and Evelyn for the ghost tour. I think we were looking forward to that more than anything.
This time, she’d made a mixed-CD compilation for me. I loaded the disc into the player and we headed to the Pacific Heights area, stopping first at her friend Olivia’s on the way to pick up a spare key. Jessie was staying with her that night. It was cooling down by the time we reached Pacific Heights and we realized we didn’t have a place to change. She wanted to put on jeans and a long blouse before the ghost tour.
“Okay, I’ll watch for traffic,” I said.
I stepped out of the car, switched my shirt and shoes, while Jessie changed in the backseat. I made sure no one walking by could see what she was doing. She exited the car, smiling.
“I must say, I’m quite proud of myself. I changed down to my bra and underwear.”
“Of course, you didn’t notice the busload of tourists who passed by and saw you.”
“No, they didn’t!”
“I told them not to look, but it was too late.”
“Michael, tell me you’re kidding.”
“The video will be all over the internet by morning.”
It was a short walk to the Queen Anne hotel, the start of the tour. Inside the lobby, we didn’t see the tour guide (nor Evelyn and Frank, for that matter) and sat on a sofa to rest. We’d been in the sun most of the day and felt drained. There’s a Korean word for that feeling. It means, literally, “to eat the heat.” She tried teaching me how to pronounce the phrase, but each time I said it in a Southern twang and she laughed and made fun of my accent. A heavy-set, African-American man sitting next to us asked if it was our first time taking the tour. He’d been before. It seemed strange someone would take a ghost tour twice. Of course, we asked the obvious question.
“No, but I’m hoping to see one this time,” he said.
Evelyn and Frank arrived and I stood to greet them. Evelyn was very quiet, I noticed, and I couldn’t tell if Frank was a boyfriend or not. Others sprinkled into the lobby and soon the tour guide himself. One couldn’t mistake him. Black top hat with long, curly hair coming out the back; long trench coat and dusty, calf-high black boots; starched, black jeans. He welcomed us all, speaking with slow, deliberately drawn-out syllables and exaggerated facial features, mooning his face forward, panning it from side to side.
“Come forrrwward…ladies and gennntlemen. Welllcome to the San Francisco Ghost Tour. My name is Howard…and I’ll be your guide on the jourrrnney.”
Jessie and I smiled at each other. This guy definitely had his act down. This was going to be fun, if not also bizarre.
“Tonight, we will visit some the most notorious and haunted places in the city. You will hear thrilling stories based upon my own documented research. You’ll touch eerie haunted artifacts, frequently feel a frightful chill and perhaps even encounter a ghost or two for yourselves. Something unexplainable happens on almost every ghost hunt, if you keep an open mind and willing spirit. You will get exercise, fresh air, and have an outstanding good time. You will be entertained, enlightened and enchanted…and that’s a guarantee, ladies and gentlemen. Three hours of spirited fun for only $20. A perfect segue, it would seem. If everyone would kindly take out his or her wallet…and remember, cash only.”
Frank and I did the math in our heads. Twenty dollars a person, six nights a week. There were fifteen of us. “This guy’s making a killing.”
“Off killing, nonetheless.”
“I should have gone into the ghost business.”
After collecting everyone’s money, Howard led us upstairs to the fourth floor, where we gathered in the hallway next to an enormous, wooden pulpit and a handcrafted, antique lamp. The fourth floor, Howard said, was home to Mary Lake, the hotel’s resident spirit—though a friendly spirit, one of the few friendly ones we’d encounter on our journey.
“She was the favorite mistress of Senator James Fair, who came to San Francisco from Nevada after making his fortune in silver. One of the city’s original silver barons, Senator Fair had a great passion for architecture, which led him to build an elegant finishing school that opened in 1890 under the name of ‘The Mary Lake School for Girls.’ Miss Mary is said to have delighted in her job as Head Mistress. She taught 100 wealthy girls the finer points of etiquette and decorum, including Senator Fair’s two daughters, Virginia (aka: Birdie) and Tessie. Tessie and Birdie would later commission the construction of the original Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill as a tribute to their father.
“A few years prior to the great 1906 earthquake, the building was sold and the school closed for good. Miss Mary’s heart was surely broken with the news, for she is said to have disappeared without a trace. But not completely. Someone, or something, has been taking extra good care of the guests at the Queen Anne Hotel. Especially on the fourth floor, in Room 417, which once belonged to Miss Mary Lake.”
A mother and daughter came up the bending stairway. They looked at Howard, then the rest of us, with puzzled faces and continued down the hall to their room.
“It seems the most common reports of paranormal activity are cold spots and a misty form of a woman. One guest, staying in Room 417, recalls going to sleep with his covers thrown haphazardly on top of him. In the middle of the night, he felt a strange breeze come over him, but he didn’t waken. (At this point, Howard’s eyebrows arched and his voice slowed down.) The next morning, his blanket was folded in at the corners, tucked in on all sides. Of course, anyone who’s ever tried knows it’s an impossibility—a person can’t tuck himself in on all sides.”
“How do we know if she’s here?” someone asked.
“You’ll feel a cool breeze. That’s always the introduction. Were you to photograph the occasion,” he said, passing around a vinyl-bound scrapbook,
“you would see an unnatural blur…or spot on the photograph.
“We’ll meet in the downstairs lobby in five minutes. That should give you more than enough time to use the restroom or get coffee and tea. We’ll be gone for approximately two hours. While we’re outside, remember to stay behind me and close together. Some of our ghosts are none too happy of the manner in which they were escorted into the next life.”
Evelyn and Frank went downstairs with the others, and Jessie and I ran off by ourselves. There was a back staircase we wanted to explore.
“Mary?” I called. “Are you there, Mary?”
“You’re such a dork,” she laughed.
I led her up the dark staircase—it ended with a shut door. I reached for the doorknob.
“Are you really going in there?”
“Of course.” I turned the knob but it was locked. I thought I felt a breeze. “Mary?”
Jessie retreated to the bottom of the stairs. I tried opening it again, thinking how fantastic it would be if the door was now unlocked.
It was still locked. “Did you feel the breeze?”
Jessie looked adorable from where I was standing, purple blouse with her Adidas sneakers. “Stand there,” I told her. I wanted a picture because a) she was so pretty and b) I was hoping Mary would show in it. Jessie put her hands over her mouth in a pretend look of fear and I took the picture. No Mary. Also, the picture was grainy and dark (The flash on my camera wasn’t very good). I’d take another one later. I took her hand and we ran downstairs to rejoin the group.
Howard was wearing a lighted leather vest with “GHOST HUNTER” stitched across the back. Truly a man in his element. He led us outside, a pied piper, as we followed closely behind, his citizens of Hamelin. For some reason, one of the women in the group started singing “Burning Down The House” by The Talking Heads. Now, I’m a child of the 80s. Of course I knew the words and sang along with her as we crossed an intersection. Howard gave us a sour look. I don’t think he liked us stealing attention. He stopped at a Victorian mansion and told us the story of the ghost that haunted it, Flora. In life, she was the daughter of a rich merchant, murdered by her first cousin on the third floor of the mansion.
“Right at that window there,” Howard said, pointing to a sealed window. “Her father, wanting to avoid family shame, covered up the murder, claiming she died in a horse accident. But, ladies and gentlemen, her ghost testifies to the contrary.” Howard’s lips formed a moon and the words slid out. He took a key from his pocket. “Hold out your hand,” he told a young lady in the group. She did and he placed the key in her palm. “I found this at The Museum for the Supernatural. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been searching everywhere for it. This is the key to Flora’s bedroom, the room in which she was murdered. And if she happens to be present, ghosting for the night, she is usually willing to make an appearance for us…”
The group formed a tight circle around the girl holding the key, as Howard put his hand under hers. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, I am not touching the key in any way, shape or form. Keep watching.”
Jessie smiled, joking that he’d probably found the key online. She’d seen one herself for $5 on a novelty website. It didn’t matter to me one way or the other, hoax or no hoax, ghost or no ghost. My girl was real; I knew that. As long as I could put my arms around her and hear her voice, I didn’t care if we saw Flora walking California Avenue or if the key was real or a fake.
The key did move. Slowly, it turned over in the girl’s hand. Soon, it was standing on end and fell to the other side. Someone else asked to hold it and Howard placed the key in her hand. I didn’t know if he was using a magnet or if the key was battery-charged. I’ve never been good at figuring out a magician’s tricks. I’m sure it was a hoax. But as said before, I didn’t care one way or the other. I was completely content, as happy as could be. I was right where I was supposed to be—with my girl. It didn’t matter the place or the occasion (though I was growing fond of San Francisco).
After the tour, I called my friend Young and told him we’d meet him at a nearby wine bar. Young moved from L.A. to the Bay Area the day before. He’d followed a job selling home loans for a bank and was starting Monday. Our friend Colin had made the trip with him and would drive back to L.A. on Sunday. We were meeting them, as well as Olivia and a few of Jessie’s friends, for a drink.
This was the first time I’d met her friends, as well as the first time she’d met one of my closest friends. For a period of a year or so, Young and I hung out together several nights a week. Young can talk to anyone, a born conversationalist. Colin, likewise, is one of the most enthusiastic people I know, a mid-20s, fresh-faced kid from Pennsylvania. (“Corn-fed and homegrown,” as Olivia put it.) He and Young made an instant connection with Jessie’s friends and Jessie and I were able to sit back and listen. No pressure to make sure everyone was getting along or bonding. The evening passed quickly and, before we knew it, it was 1:30 and we needed to get going. With still a few unheard songs on the CD mix, we drove across the bridge to Oakland, listening to the music. One of those peaceful moments of the night, the settled landscape, softening city lights and lull of the road. The last song on the CD began playing—“Abide With Me.” I held her hand softly. She’d remembered.
She was always good at remembering the small things.
The next morning, we decided to attend Reality S.F. church, close to Olivia’s apartment. Like Reality L.A., there was a growing buzz about it. It met at the Café du Nord coffee house and was packing it out every week. Jessie picked me up and we drove into the city. Traffic was standstill over the bridge. The Folsom Street Fair.
I’d heard about it. Jessie and Olivia had given me a heads-up, but one usually imagines too little, not too much. Hundreds...no, it’s safe to say, thousands of near naked, if not naked, men walking the streets of the Castro District. Some wearing only leather chaps, some wearing whips and chains, leather thongs, pierced about everywhere one can think to be pierced, holding hands, some being led on leashes by their partners. It was still early, not yet 11:00. I couldn’t imagine what the scene would look like by mid-afternoon. We parked in a nearby lot and walked to the church.
I believe, with everything in me, that we are here to love our cities and those living in them. C.S. Lewis said, “You’ve never met a mere mortal,” someone who wasn’t designed for eternity. I think that’s what it means to be created in the image of God. When I came to the West Coast, what excited me was the truth that we live among thousands of men and woman who need to know the love and grace of God. I didn’t know what to expect from the church service, but was impressed they’d set up camp in the Castro District.
The room was darkly lit when we entered. One guy played guitar up front while a female singer accompanied him; but it was by no means the performance-oriented songfest common in churches today. It was somber, with perhaps a trace of melancholy. I think one needs to know his city, its style and culture, before determining how a church is going to worship. This was a church in the heart of San Francisco’s edgiest, most shocking neighborhood, one unattuned to contemporary worship songs.
If the music was subdued, I’m not sure it could be anything but. It fit the city. In Seattle, I attended a church with a loud, indie rock worship band. It was reflective of its culture. In L.A., worship is more polished. Chris is a former concert pianist. I realized the goal is not to bend culture to fit our preferences, but to make music that’s relevant to the culture without betraying the core values of the Gospel—Christ and His death and atonement, His covering of sin and offer of grace. Seattle wouldn’t work in Los Angeles and Los Angeles wouldn’t work in the Castro District.
The pastor took the stage and began by praying. “God, it’s bittersweet to see what’s going on in the streets outside. It makes me sad. But if I, or any of us, think we are better than the men and women out there, may we be ashamed and may this church fail. May we love this city and seek peace for those living in it, those who nee
d to know you, who need the Spirit of God to move upon them.”
I teared up. That was it—the key to it all, what he had just said. This isn’t a battleground; it’s a mission field. It’s not about picking fights or making America into a Christian nation again. It’s about seeing ourselves as citizens of Babylon or ancient Egypt, being a light to that darkness, loving those whom the Lord puts into our lives. This was an important church, I realized, as Jessie and I went forward to take communion. I was grateful to have seen this, one of the most earnest, sincere worship services I’d attended, one that happened to take place in a neighborhood many Christians wouldn’t dare visit.
The street fair was in full swing when we left the church. Men in masks, wearing animal tails and thongs, more men on leashes, circus performers, guys wearing navy hats and not much else, leather panties and stirrups. We dropped Olivia off at the center of the fair, where she was meeting a friend, and headed for Oakland.
There was a park we wanted to visit. Tilden Park. It was our last day together and we wanted to sit and relax, but all she knew was the park’s name. While she drove over the bridge, I tried finding the address on her GPS. I wasn’t sure how to work it correctly and couldn’t find the location. Meanwhile, traffic was moving quickly and she needed to make an exit decision soon. I could tell she was getting frustrated but I couldn’t find the park listed on the GPS. I tried searching the address on my phone’s browser but nothing came up, at least anything close to the name I was looking for. She had to make a decision immediately or would be stuck on the bridge for several miles. She took the exit. She needed gas, anyway.
At the station, she went to the restroom while I pumped the gas and changed into my Pumas. There was a definite tension, I knew. When she returned, she plugged the park’s name into the GPS and found it almost immediately. I navigated while she drove into a non-descript neighborhood, climbing several steep hills. We came to a fork in the road with an unnamed street. She wanted to take it. I said we should keep going straight. She listened to me. I was wrong. Not my finest hour, for sure.
Arresting Grace Page 10
