by Paul Clayton
The road began inclining upward more sharply and the bus’s automatic transmission downshifted with a bang. The diesel engine roared as it pushed the massive bus higher and higher, 101 disappearing from view as the road turned westward. As the bus bounced and rattled over pot-holed asphalt, Rad stared out the window at junkyards, auto body shops, a trailer park and the occasional luxury condo, walled off from the other properties like medieval castles, their inscrutable black glass windows reflecting the distant blue of the bay. The road leveled and the bus shifted gears again, picking up speed. As they raced down an incline to a traffic light, Rad looked at his watch: 9:37. Right on time. He got up and pulled the cord.
The bus pulled over to the side of the road and Rad stepped off. He crossed the street and began walking up Guadalupe Parkway. There was no pavement, only a bike path. A minute or so into the walk his breathing began to labor; it was a pretty steep incline. Soon the bay again came into view behind him and he marveled at its beauty. He was struck by how much it reminded him of Southern Italy. Not that he’d ever been there, but he’d seen a movie filmed there and the San Francisco Bay Area had the same type of weather and views. Five minutes later he left Guadalupe and began walking down Decker Road, a wheel-rutted dirt road left over from the area’s logging days. A hundred feet or so later and he came to a Forest Service building with a shingle roof and siding. About a half dozen people stood around on the little front porch. The door to the building was open and someone stood just inside, obscure in the dimness. A man in the doorway, a ranger in a uniform, was talking to whoever was inside.
Rad Joined the others on the porch—two middle aged couples about his dad’s age and two girls of eighteen or nineteen from, Rad assumed, one of the local colleges, probably USF or UC Berkeley. One was taller than Rad, with wide hips, big breasts and short hair. She looked to him like the outdoorsy Greenpeace type. Her friend was Asian—petite, pretty and nicely shaped, with her hair in a black pageboy. Rad nodded a greeting at everyone. The ranger concluded his conversation and turned to acknowledge them all with a friendly nod.
“Well, it looks like you’re it,” the ranger said. “We usually get a few more.” He walked to the edge of the porch and looked up toward Guadalupe. “David is usually here early,” he said to them. “Oh, here he comes now.”
A twenty or so year old Volvo turned off Guadalupe Parkway and came bouncing down the logging road, throwing up a cloud of dust. The car pulled up to the ranger station, stopped, and the dust cloud momentarily engulfed them. The driver pulled the hand brake and got out. Middle aged, with a receding hairline, blue eyes, a full gray beard and what remained of his hair pulled into a long ponytail, he nodded to the ranger and made a half-hearted effort to tuck his shirt in under his rather large belly. He reached back into the car and took out a clipboard and a pile of forms from the passenger seat. He turned to Rad and the others, “Follow me.”
They walked down the road and the man stopped before a glassed-in posting board full of information on the history of the mountain reserve and its native flora and fauna. He put his papers and clipboard down and addressed them. “I’m David Hunsicker and I’m president of the Friends of San Bruno Mountain. You are all friends of San Bruno Mountain, I hope.”
Rad smiled and nodded along with the others.
“Good,” said David, “the mountain needs all the friends she can get right now with the damn lawyers and developers after her.
“You all want to introduce yourselves? Then we can get going on the little tour I give.”
Rad gave his name after the two couples smilingly introduced themselves. The two girls were from UCSF. The taller of the two gave her name as, ‘Cait,’ short for Caitlin, and the shorter, pretty one introduced herself as Jenny Chin.
David led everyone off onto a trail that followed the gentle rise of a grassy meadow. After a slow meandering walk of about ten minutes they came to a thick, darkened grove of eucalyptus trees. Halfway through the grove, off the trail about twenty feet, a little shack squatted. Rad smiled at the sight of it, thinking how charmed Tawny would be by it. It had evidently been built by hand out of salvaged deadwood laid stick over stick without benefit of hammer, nail or plumb.
Jenny Chin turned to Rad and smiled. “It looks like something out of the Hobbit, doesn’t it?”
He smiled, marveling at how pretty she was in the dappled light of the trees. “Yeah,” he said. Then he thought guiltily of Tawny and looked back at the Hobbit house.
David nodded toward the dwelling. “That’s where Lucinda and Larry live. They’re squatters but they don’t hurt anything so the rangers let them stay.” David’s brow furrowed. “They’re undocumented. They don’t seem to be home today. Maybe next time you come I’ll have them give you a tour of their place.”
Cait turned to Rad. “Undocumented? What’s that?”
“It means they’re illegal,” said Rad softly.
David heard him and said matter-of-factly. “There is no such thing as an illegal human.”
Rad tried to smile, feeling his face redden a little.
The male complement of one of the two older couples turned to him. “David is really passionate about the rights of the undocumented.”
David looked up and swept his hand to indicate all the trees. “These eucalyptus are, of course, not native to the mountain. This entire copse is scheduled to be logged out in three or four months.”
Rad was fascinated. He’d had no idea the eucalyptus trees were not native to the Bay Area. And he’d grown up here.
“So, what will happen to Lucinda and Larry?” Jenny asked.
“We’re gonna have to relocate their house,” said David. “I’ve been discussing with the rangers about where to put it.”
David continued walking, pointing here and there as he discussed the various native flora and fauna as he led them up toward the top of the ridge. He pointed to a beautiful carpet of gold-colored plants covering the next ridge over.
“That’s gorse, the worst of the invasive plants. It’s been like a never-ending battle to get rid of it, but one of these days we will.”
“How do you do that?” asked one of the older men, “Herbicides?”
David seemed to cringe at the word. “No!” he said emphatically. “It has to be removed by hand. We meet every Saturday morning at ten to work on it.”
Jenny pointed back toward the eucalyptus forest. “The eucalyptus trees were so charming,” she said sweetly. “I mean, that place was almost magical, with the light and the clean scent, and the little elves’ house... Can’t they just let the invasive plants mix with the native? Maybe they’ll form new strains.”
David smiled patiently and shook his head.
“You can’t have a balance?” asked one of the older men.
“No,” said David. “You might have what you think is a balance. But the hardier species will always crowd out the weaker and eventually dominate the environment.”
“That’s kind of sad,” said Jen.
“Not really,” said David, “that’s nature. Plant and animal.” He began walking again and they followed him, each quiet with their own thoughts.
As Rad walked along with the others, he was amazed by everything that David had told them. All his life he had looked at San Bruno Mountain and seen only tall grass, the occasional oak tree and the ubiquitous generic green bushes, which he hadn’t learned were sagebrush until this day. Now he looked at the mountain with wonder and a kind of reverence
They reached the pinnacle of the ridge and David pointed to the distant housing developments surrounding the base of the mountain like a sea around an island. “South San Francisco and this whole area became San Francisco’s dump,” said David. “Whatever they didn’t want… smoke-belching factories, stinking slaughterhouses, mines, a railroad switching yard, grave yards, garbage dumps, whatever, they relocated to South City and the neighboring communities. You know, Colma, with more than a dozen cemeteries, is a city of the dead, a necropolis. And so f
or that reason you have a lot of poor people living in the communities around this mountain, people that could never afford a place in San Francisco or Millbrae or Hillsborough. And that’s why the developers have gotten away with all the pieces they’ve taken from the mountain. And that’s why they think they’ll get away with it this time. Because the people aren’t organized.” David looked a little saddened by his own words. Then he brightened. “But, we’re not going to let them do that this time, are we?”
“No,” everyone said softly. Rad said nothing. He was in a state of mild shock by what David had said about the surrounding communities being for ‘poor people.’ Rad rarely thought of class, his own or other people’s. And this idea that he was poor or low-class, someone to be pitied or protected, shocked and bothered him.
Finally the tour was over and they headed back down the trail. At the ranger station, David told everyone the South San Francisco City Council was scheduled to vote on the fate of the mountain in three months time. “If we collect enough signatures of registered voters perhaps we can sway them in our favor,” David said hopefully. “The damn developers are throwing money around like there’s no tomorrow. But we’ll beat them, right?”
Rad and the others nodded their assent. “So when do we begin?” asked one of the other men.
“Today,” said David. He picked up a stack of petition forms and passed them around.
“There’ll be a City Council meeting in the fall,” said David. “That’s when we’ll deliver the signatures we collect. At that time there’ll be an opportunity for anyone who wants, to speak to the Council on why they shouldn’t allow the developers to destroy this mountain. I hope you’ll all speak up for her. Will you?”
The older couples and Cait and Jenny all nodded assent. Then Jenny was smiling and looking over at Rad.
“Sure,” he said.
David began writing down everyone’s phone numbers. After Rad had given David his number, he started walking up the logging road to Guadalupe Parkway. A few moments later Jenny Chin and Cait drove up behind him in a little Toyota Corolla. “Would you like a ride?” Jenny called out the window.
“It’s probably out of your way,” he said.
“Where are you going,” said Jenny.
“South San Francisco. Three, maybe four miles from here.
“Hop in,” said Jenny
“Cool,” said Rad, getting in the back.
They turned onto Guadalupe and started down the hill. Soon a powerful current of warm air scented with sage and wild flowers was pouring through the back window, buffeting Rad’s head. Jenny said something to him he couldn’t hear over the rushing air. He sat forward and she turned slightly to speak to him. He couldn’t help but marvel at how pretty she was up close.
“Where to?” she said.
“Just follow Bayshore. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Where do you hang out?” she said.
“The Kat’s Dawg. Ever hear of it?”
Jenny shook her head and glanced over at Cait who shook her head.
“It’s in the SOMA,” said Rad, using the hip acronym for the gentrified neighborhood of warehouses and defunct factories in San Francisco located South-of-Market Street.
Jenny nodded. “Where do you go to school?”
“I don’t,” he said. “I work.”
Jenny nodded slowly, her face taking on a sage look, as if this was some new and lofty life-choice that she had only just now heard about. “Cool. What kind of work?”
“I build custom boards.”
“Boards?” Jenny said loudly over the wind, “surfboards?”
Rad shook his head. “Skateboards.”
“Oh. Sounds interesting.”
Cait smiled, her parted lips showing big perfect teeth. She added nothing as she stared out the window at the blue bay stretching out before them.
Ten minutes later they pulled up in front of Rad’s house. As the car slowed to a stop, Rad said, “Thanks for the ride.”
He was walking toward the curb when Jenny called out something he didn’t quite hear. He went back to the car and leaned into the window.
“Will you be at the next Friends of the Mountain meeting?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, again marveling at how pretty she was. “I’ll be there.” He smiled and turned and walked back toward the house. As he started up the steps he became guiltily aware of the boner glowing warmly in his pants.
Chapter 12
Allen went in for his second appointment with his therapist on Saturday morning. He was surprised at how quickly he was warming up to Joel. Allen’s father had been quiet, almost aloof, and he had never had an intelligent and attentive male confidant like Joel. Joel spent most of the session trying to have Allen see things from Tina’s point of view and he encouraged Allen to help her more around the house. Then Joel put Allen in a relaxed state, as he called it. Allen had never been hypnotized before and when it was over he couldn’t recall being unconscious or anything strange, although he did feel more relaxed and positive. When the session ended, Joel told Allen he wouldn’t be able to see him next week because he had to have some tests done at the hospital.
When Allen returned home Tina was down in the garage doing the laundry. He wanted to speak to her about Reynaldo joining the soccer team. He had contacted the coach earlier in the week and he and Reynaldo were supposed to go to their first practice today. But if Tina wouldn’t let Reynaldo participate, it was better that the little guy not even know about it in the first place.
Allen made sure that Reynaldo and Christine were engrossed in the cartoon show before he stepped down into the garage. He pulled the door closed so the kids wouldn’t overhear. Tina was separating the whites from the coloreds and putting them in the machine’s basket as Allen approached. She looked at him suspiciously, then continued with her sorting.
“Tina, remember I told you about that Tiny Tot soccer league in Daly City?”
Tina didn’t say anything and continued to sort the clothes.
“Well, I got all the info from the coach,” Allen said matter-of-factly, “and he said that Reynaldo would fit right in.”
“Yeah? When is this supposed to start?”
“Today. The first practice is today.”
“Today?” Tina frowned as she measured blue liquid laundry detergent into a cup. “He’s too young.”
“No he’s not,” said Allen, trying to keep the warmth in his voice; it wouldn’t do to get her upset and have her dig in her heels. “He’s seven and a half. They start kids when they’re three or four. You should’ve seen them, Tina.” Allen’s eyes grew big as he warmed to the memory. “These little guys are hardly as big as the ball, but they can play! Reynaldo will be fine.”
Tina dropped the washing machine lid with a clang. “Fine, huh? What if he gets hurt or sick? Are you going to take time off from work to stay home with him?”
“Sure,” said Allen, wondering what kind of injury Reynaldo could possibly get from Tiny Tot Soccer. He looked quickly at his watch. “They start in about a half hour. You mind if I get him ready now?”
Tina picked up the clothesbasket and started past him. “Make sure you have him back in a couple of hours. He has his work to do.”
Allen and Reynaldo drove down Skyline Boulevard toward Daly City. Allen saw the white blur of fog in the distance. The Bay Area had many unique micro-climates. Further east, the Central Valley baked under the sun, sending up columns of heated air. This updraft drew air horizontally across the surface of the Alaskan current-cooled ocean, condensing it into cold, clammy fog banks, which then rolled eastward, channeled by the different canyons of the Bay Area, forming vaporous rivers of fog. Along the way they chilled some neighborhoods down to the low 60s in the summertime, while other neighborhoods only two or three blocks away baked in LA-like temperatures in the mid 80s to high 90s.
A mile before Allen and Reynaldo reached the soccer field they entered the fog and the temperature dropped a good ten degrees
or more. Allen recalled what Mark Twain had supposedly said about the fog, “the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,” or something like that. As the chill entered the car, Allen rolled up the window. A few minutes later he parked.
A dozen or so boys of various sizes congregated on the field. Two men kept an eye on them from the sidelines. The larger of the two wore a cap and had a whistle around his neck and a clipboard, all of which identified him as Chip Mikulsky, the coach that Allen had talked to on the phone.
Allen had Reynaldo put on his coat, which, he realized, would make it difficult for him to run and play. They walked over to Chip.
“I’m Allen Collins,” said Allen, extending his hand.
Chip nodded toward Reynaldo and winked as he shook Allen’s hand. “He doesn’t look anything like you.”
Allen was used to such statements. “He’s adopted. His mother is Indian.”
Chip glanced over at Reynaldo. “Ruby or feather?”
Allen smiled, but his face reddened at Chip’s rude probing. “His mother is from Central America.”
Chip nodded, again glancing at Reynaldo. “How old did you say he was?”
“Seven and a half.”
Chip raised his eyebrows. “Kind of small for seven and a half, but I may have a jersey that will fit him.” Chip walked off to the sidelines to a cardboard box sitting on the grass. He pulled out a red jersey with BULLDOGS proudly emblazoned on the front in gold lettering. He brought it over and handed it to Allen.
Allen wished the jersey’s material was thicker. He looked at the boiling white mass of cold fog rolling by overhead. Shrugging, he helped Reynaldo out of his coat and into the jersey. He noticed Reynaldo’s nose was already running. “Are you okay?” he asked him. “Are you warm enough?”
Reynaldo nodded, his eyes on the other boys. Allen rolled up Reynaldo’s sleeves, which were about six inches too long. Chip blew the whistle and the boys and fathers gathered around him. Chip looked at Allen and the other fathers. “We’re just gonna let the boys run the ball today, drive for the goal. That’s all.”