The Gilded Age, a Time Travel

by Lisa Mason

  “Ergo, bricks,” Daniel says. “Actually, sir, I think I am drunk enough to understand Mr. Miller. Bricks made of stardust, bricks made of wormwood, bricks to be juggled by a beautiful lady. Ergo, bricks!”

  “Bravo! Another boilermaker for the young gentleman,” roars Joaquin Miller. “And may I introduce George Sterling, who might one day amount to a great Californian writer if only he could give up carousing among the redwoods long enough to write something. Carousing, I might add, with fair maidens clad in togas! Do you comprehend what a toga is? A drapery in the Greek style, under which the maidens in question wear nothing but their… .”

  “Gifts from God,” interjects George Sterling. His gaunt face remains expressionless, but his eyes twinkle at Daniel. “I myself have been known to wear a toga, sir.”

  “To togas,” says Daniel, toasting Mr. Sterling with his boilermaker.

  “Try an alligator pear, sir,” says the third member of their party. He offers Daniel a plate of thin slices of a pale green fruit sprinkled with salt and pepper. He’s a handsome blond fellow dressed like a dandy in the height of European fashion—a fitted burgundy topcoat, a canary yellow waistcoat, and spats. Spats! “The greasers call them avocados. You must try a dish called guacamole at Luna’s in North Beach.” He leans forward confidentially. “You’ve just come from the Continent, I take it?”

  “Indeed, I have, sir,” Daniel says, trying the green fruit, which has a strange oily taste and is not sweet at all. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Verily, Frank has been across the pond and back again himself, is that not so, Frank?” says Joaquin Miller.

  “Name’s Frank Norris,” says the blond fellow and shakes Daniel’s hand. “Truthfully, I haven’t been to Paris since college. Haven’t the time. The novels must come first.”

  “By God, sir, you write novels?”

  “Oh, certainly. The first book is called Blix. A romance, with tequila. Got another in mind, going to call it McTeague. A tragic one, that. Nasty fellow beats his pretty wife to death.”

  Everyone guffaws, and Daniel is enchanted. Marvelous Californ’! Old cowboys and failed prospectors and Holy Rollers; these he expected. But poets and novelists? Dreamers like himself? Oh, hand of destiny! That merciless hand does not oppress him now. Yes, a great fate awaits him, live or die. He raises his glass. “To the First and Last Chance Saloon!”

  “To our dear, dear watering hole.” Joaquin Miller wipes a tear from his eye.

  “To the Fourth of July!”

  “To Johnny Heinold!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  The beerslinger grins and lights another stogie.

  Now a rough-looking kid charges in. Startlingly handsome, he’s got a broad sunburnt face and hands to match. He finds a spare barrel and rolls it over to the table, nodding to the assembled company and fetching himself a beer.

  Daniel nods to the newcomer and proclaims to his new friends, “I am Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris, and I’m looking for lodging in San Francisco. Could anyone recommend a place?”

  “Try the Palace Hotel,” says the rough kid sarcastically. His quick eyes flick over Daniel’s suit. Filthy fisherman’s togs, that’s what the kid is wearing. His thick curly brown hair spills over his ears to his collar. “That’s the dive for you, mister.”

  Daniel has heard of the Palace Hotel, the first luxury resort on the West Coast. They say the Palace boasts eight hundred rooms and rivals the finest hotels in New York or Paris.

  “Can’t afford that,” Daniel says mildly, sensing the kid’s antagonism. He offers the kid a ciggie, which the kid seizes and lights. No, he cannot afford such luxury. Not anymore.

  “Yeah, I see,” says the kid. “Only a rich capitalist can afford a fancy joint like the Palace. I guess you’re no rich capitalist. Still, I guess you’re no tramp, either, mister.”

  “Leave him alone, Jackie,” says Frank Norris. “He’s all right.”

  “Yeah?” says the kid, eyeing Daniel’s bowler. “When the revolution comes, the property-owning class will be stamped out. Stamped out, I say, by the working classes. The working classes are the vanguard of the future. Without ‘em, the rich capitalists couldn’t survive. And with ‘em, the rich capitalists won’t survive. Get me, mister? Because the working classes will have a revolution. Oh, yessir, it won’t be long. Won’t be long at all before the revolution comes. Even as we speak, the United States of America is embroiled in a class struggle between those with property and those who labor in the service of those with property. A class struggle, and there’s no denying it. What do you say to that, mister?”

  For once in his life, Daniel doesn’t know what to say. He has certainly heard such rabble-rousing in plenty of Paris cafés.

  “I say drink your beer, Jack,” says Joaquin Miller. “Studying books all day has fevered your poor young brain.”

  “Even as we speak, mister,” the kid says, continuing to fix Daniel with a baleful stare as he gulps his beer.

  “Only time will tell,” says George Sterling. “This fiery young fellow is Jack London, Mr. Watkins. Jackie’s studying at the University of California over yonder in that cow pasture we call Berkeley. He may amount to some kind of writer one day, don’t you think, Frank?”

  “If he doesn’t get thrown in the calaboose first,” Frank Norris says.

  “I fear no jail,” Jack London says contemptuously. “I’ve seen the inside of plenty of jails.”

  “What sort of lodgings are you looking for, Mr. Watkins?” Joaquin Miller says. “You a churchgoin’ man?”

  “Hardly,” Daniel says, thankful to be off the subject of revolution.

  “Ah. You’re wanting a quiet sort of place to rest your weary head?”

  “Mr. Miller, I have journeyed many miles from Saint Louis, which is as deadly quiet a place as you can imagine.”

  “Ah ha. You like the theater, then? The opera, perhaps? The Tivoli is the place for you.”

  “The opera is all right,” Daniel says. “I can take it or leave it.”

  “Leave the opera to the dogs,” Jack London advises.

  “What’s your preference, then, Mr. Watkins?”

  Daniel considers the question. “Sir, I have spent many months imbibing the Green Fairy at La Nouvelle-Athenes while whores danced the cancan and poets as fine as yourselves labored to express their desire to achieve ecstasy or die. I suppose you could say I’m lonely.”

  The company guffaws. Jack London snorts, but Joaquin Miller slaps Daniel on the back.

  “Then you must try Number Two Sixty-three Dupont Street, Mr. Watkins. Tell the lady there, a fine proprietress name of Miss Jessie Malone, that Joaquin Miller sent you. You’ll be in the thick of things, Mr. Watkins. The very thick of things, I assure you.”

  “Sir, sir!” The stringy porter pokes his head in the door of the First and Last Chance Saloon. “The ferry to San Francisco, sir. She’s about to depart. Hurry!”

  “Thanks!” Daniel says to his new friends, much refreshed by the boilermakers. “By the way,” he points to the sign above Johnny Heinold’s head. “Last Chance for what?”

  “Last chance for a taste if you’re going to Alameda,” Frank Norris says, pointing south. “They’re dry as a bone over there.”

  “And the First Chance?”

  “Why, if you’re going to San Francisco, this is your first chance to get pickled, dipsy, pie-eyed, dead blue, and, dare I say it, loaded, Mr. Watkins,” shouts Joaquin Miller. “Verily, and lackaday, tell her Joaquin sent you, sir!”

  Marvelous Californ’!

  *

  A magnificent double-deck steamboat, that’s the Chrysapolis. All black and white with a huge smokestack spewing charcoal-colored clouds. The willful bay would have flung a lesser boat about, but the Chrysapolis plows through wave and tide, speeding her passengers on their way. Some are pilgrims from the Overland train, some citizens of genteel Oakland or Contra Costa bound for business in the city on the other shore.

  Daniel wave
s to Miss Cameron and her dreadful little friend, but the ladies snub him. Perhaps he does reek too much. They are ladies, after all, not whores. Well, to hell with them. What does he need with a couple of Holy Rollers? What he needs are new accommodations from which he can commence his business operations. Father holds mortgages on several parcels upon which Daniel means to collect outstanding payments or commence foreclosure, rousting the rascals out and repossessing the property. Two parcels are empty lots out on the city’s periphery in a place called the Western Addition. Of the two others, one is a commercial building on Stockton Street in the heart, Father warned, of Chinatown. The other is a shack in the red-light district of Sausalito, a little port north of San Francisco across the bay. Daniel grimaces when he thinks about this business of collection and foreclosure. By God, is he cut out for it? Hobnobbing was one thing. Strong-arming recalcitrant debtors quite another. He would much rather play with his Zoetrope.

  As he ponders these dark controversies, he suddenly realizes someone is standing behind him. Alarm heats his blood. Damn Jack London with his talk of revolution. For a moment he fancies the golden-brown women have conspired against him, their fingers of thorn reaching for him, grasping, seeking revenge for all the wrongs done them by man.

  Daniel turns around. A lovely little bird stands right beside him in a sky-blue summer dress set with snippets of lace. She is petite, with an astonishingly tiny waist. An ivory-colored veil is drawn over her face from a dainty hat perched upon her fair curls. Her topskirts swirl in the sea breeze, very much like the wings of some tropical bird. Yes, a little blue canary! She presses her fingertips in ivory lace mitts to her throat and moans.

  “Please, miss, may I be of assistance?” Daniel says. Of course he is a man of nice sensibilities, quite sympathetic to the trials and tribulations of the weaker sex. Miss Cameron was barbaric in her shoddy treatment of him.

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” the veiled bird says in a quavering voice. “The ferry makes me ill. I’m sorry.”

  “No cause for apology, miss. There, there, now.” Daniel takes her elbow, places his hand on her tiny waist, and caresses the small of her back. He braces her as the Chrysapolis pulls into the Port of San Francisco.

  The steamboat slams into the dock with a mighty thump! The veiled bird staggers toward him, wraps her arms around his chest, and clings to him like a child.

  “Ooh,” she moans louder, leaning against him.

  He can feel her corset, the stays, her heaving breast. An image of her satiny skin beneath the layers of fabric and whalebone rises up in his mind’s eye, making his breath catch. Come now, sir, this will not do. Still, it’s been hellishly too long since he’s shared carnal knowledge with a lady. He tightens his grip. She’s so frail! Perhaps he can persuade her to dine with him?

  The crew of the Chrysapolis scampers about, tying up the steamboat fore and aft. A plank is lowered, and the passengers descend. Miss Cameron and her dreadful mousy friend trip regally down the plank, lifting their skirts only just high enough to find their footing, but not high enough to let anyone glimpse their ankles. Daniel snorts. He’s seen whores pose nude, splayed and shameless, in the studios of his artist friends in Paris and London. Truly, do these ladies believe men are not acquainted with every detail of their anatomy beneath the silks and cashmere? Yet Daniel finds himself peering at the elegant Miss Cameron, craning his neck for a glimpse of her ankle. What sort of shoes does she wear? What color are her stockings?

  “Ooh, sir,” moans his veiled bird louder still, clinging to his waist pathetically. “Will you help me down the plank, and then I’ll trouble you no more?”

  “Heaven’s, miss, it’s no trouble at all,” he says, gesturing at a strapping young porter to take his bags and trunk. “You must tell me your name. Would you care to dine with me?”

  She shakes her head in weak assent, clutching her throat wordlessly.

  “Do you live in San Francisco, then?” Daniel persists. “Have you an address where I may call upon you?”

  “May I take your card?” she whispers in reply.

  Well, of course. Why should she impart personal information to a stranger? He peers through her veil, getting only a glimpse of the curve of her lip, her wide-set eyes staring at him more boldly than he would have expected. He gives her the business card he’s used in Europe. “That’s my name, at least,” he says. “Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris. I haven’t settled upon a residence yet, but I shall be here a while to settle my father’s accounts. When may I see you again?’

  “Soon, I’m sure, sir,” the veiled bird says as they step off the plank onto the dock.

  Though she had clamped quite a grip on him, and he on her, she manages swiftly to extricate herself and slip away. In less than an instant, his veiled bird disappears into the crowd milling about the dock. Such a tiny waist!

  Never mind. San Francisco! San Francisco, at last! Daniel breathes the salt air, relishing the cold clean tang of it. Bang, bang, bang! He starts, then laughs at the smoke and the stink of gunpowder. Small boys leap about on the dock, lighting some sort of red tassels and flinging them on the planking. A Chinese man—a coolie, they’re called—clad in denim pajamas, straw sandals, and wide-brimmed conical straw cap chases after the boys, shouting and gesticulating. One boy tosses a silver coin onto the dock where the boards are pocked and uneven. The coolie dives frantically for his coin before it drops into the water below. Daniel smiles wryly. Cruel kid.

  He strolls through the Ferry Building, a portion of which is under construction, the wood skeleton laid bare. The strapping porter trots after him, hauling his bags and his trunk. Horse-drawn wagons and cable cars and gangs of men mingle chaotically on the cobblestone avenue. A green and red cable car with “SIGHTSEEING” emblazoned down its sides waits on a track. The cable car is much like the trams he’s seen in Europe, only bigger and wider and grander. More American. They say Mr. Hallidie, the brilliant Scotsman who invented and built the first cable car line on Clay Street with twenty thousand dollars of his own life savings, is a multimillionaire now. There’s a business for a young gentleman to consider. Daniel wonders if he should buy a street-railway franchise, lay in a new cable car line.

  Bang, bang, bang! A brass band strikes up a rousing tune. A gigantic parade promenades up the street.

  “What’s that?” He points to the chaotic avenue before him.

  “This here’s Market Street,” shouts the strapping porter, flushed with excitement. “It’s the Fourth of July parade, mister! Ain’t it grand?”

  It is, indeed. Regiment after regiment of former soldiers in uniform pass by, some on foot, some on horseback, some in carriages or open wagons. Gold and silver braid crisscrosses jackets of blue or maroon, deep green or violet. There are high-peaked caps, caps with brims like wings, and plumed helmets. Feathers flutter, tasseled ropes swing. The men bear their pistols and rifles proudly. Banners and flags snap in the brisk sea breeze.

  The United States Army and Navy march past, then the Coast Guard, the California Club, the Schuetzen Club, the Scottish Clan, the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. The Camera Club has set up their tripods in surreys and snap photographs of the cheering crowd. The Cycling Club rolls past, three men in tight bicycling togs wobbling precariously on old-fashioned high wheelers. The rest of the club—including ladies in bloomers—clip smartly along on modern bicycles sporting two low wheels of the same size rimmed in sterling silver, huge silver bells, and fish horns with which they produce a terrific racket.

  Vehicular traffic congests Market Street, navigating around and through the parade. A splendid brougham trots by, pulled by matched chestnuts with plumes in their bridles. A hansom with an elegant blue body, green and carmine striping, and plenty of scrollwork in gold and silver leaf nearly collides with an ice wagon bearing on both sides a fine reproduction of Emanuel Leutze’s painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. More coolies in wide-brimmed caps and denim pajamas dash across the avenue, the
ir baskets heaped with vegetables or fish and slung on yokes that they bear over their shoulders. Daniel spies the Palace Hotel looming eight stories high and taking up the whole block. Other elegant commercial buildings boast an intricate style more flamboyant, more exuberant, more baroque than any architecture he’s ever seen. The street lamps are crafted of beveled capiz shell and stained glass.

  Ladies in their summer dresses and gentlemen in top hats and checked vests snack from picnic baskets right on the street corners, uncork wine bottles. A crowd congregates around a tall fountain made of gray marble cherubs, dipping cups and glasses into a sparkling fluid spouting from the cherubs’ mouths.

  “What is it?” Daniel exclaims.

  “Help yourself.” A gentleman with a face blooming scarlet dips his hand. “Happy Fourth of July!”

  Daniel scoops up a palmful of cheap champagne from the fountain, astringent bubbles tickling his nose as the wine slides down his throat. The strapping porter grins and plunges his face right into the champagne cascading from a cherub’s mouth. That’s San Francisco in the Year of Our Lord, 1895, Daniel thinks. Champagne for all.

  A ferocious clanging cuts through the celebratory din. A spectacular red and black fire wagon with polished brass fittings, a gigantic brass cask of water, and intricate pumping equipment thunders by, pulled by wild-eyed blowing steeds whose prancing hooves show off their skill at negotiating city streets beyond the capability of the ordinary nag. Boys cheer and whoop and chase after the frantic fire wagon.

  “Happens every Fourth, mister,” says the porter with a malicious grin. “Some blighter lands a rocket on somebody’s roof, and the whole joint burns down. Ha, ha.”

  “Burns down!” What about Father’s commercial building on Stockton Street? Daniel suddenly wonders if Father’s tenants have any inkling he’s here. But how could they? Father felt that taking them by surprise was the best strategy and, after his last pleas for payment, he had wired no one. Still, Daniel feels uneasy. It’s the noise and confusion, he tells himself, the smell of gunpowder, the lingering aftertaste of puma piss. He takes out a handkerchief, wipes sticky champagne off his palm. “Let’s get going.”