Val lay in her bed that night, alternatively crying, tossing pillows, talking to herself, and saying out loud that she must forget Gina and get on with her own life. Thank goodness they had not gone all the way and made love.
Her confusion increased when she realized that Sam had not jumped up on her bed. Val called for the dog. When the retriever didn’t come, Valerie climbed out of bed and went downstairs to search for her. She found Sam in Gina’s room curled up on the floor by the bed, which Sam had quite neatly turned down with her nose and paws as if waiting for Gina to come home.
Val knelt down and put her arms around the dog, tears flowing freely as she cried into the big red shoulder. “Oh, Sam, she’s gone, and we have to get used to it. No more Gina.”
After a few moments, Val dried her eyes and signaled for the dog to follow her. Sam cast a longing glance at the empty bed and then trotted, tail hanging low, upstairs with Valerie.
The next morning, which fortunately dawned crisp and clear, Gina hiked uphill and downhill through North Beach, trying to get her bearings. She stuffed her digital camera into her purse so she could take pictures as she walked. There were various businesses along one cable car route, and she noticed a couple of restaurants, a bookstore, a newsstand—where she bought the morning paper—a small delicatessen, a beauty salon, and an Oriental tea room. Needing a break, she stopped at the deli for hot tea and a chance to read the paper. Searching through the want ads she discovered, to her great surprise, that there was a job opening listed at the bookstore she had just passed.
Would her good luck hold? Gina wondered about that as she hurried back to the bookstore, inquired about the job, and filled out an employment application on the spot. The stocky, middle-aged manager, Iris Sanchez, assessed her through heavy spectacles and decided to give her an immediate interview. As they talked, Mrs. Sanchez seemed interested that Gina lived nearby, could walk to work, and that she had recent retail experience. “It makes it easier for me to check since you have worked in California,” she noted. “That is good. I also see that you have much education—English literature, that is good for working in a bookstore, I think.” Mrs. Sanchez looked at the list of degrees Gina had earned and raised an eyebrow, but she did not choose to ask the inevitable question, “If you have all this education, why are you not teaching?”
The manager thanked Gina for coming in and said that she would get back to her in a few days. Her enthusiasm over Gina’s application was obvious, and Gina was encouraged that perhaps she had a chance to get the job. Gina left the store and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, trying to calm her breathing. This was too perfect. She just hoped that in some unknown way she had not blown it. And that her money would hold out until Mrs. Sanchez made a decision.
Emotionally wound up after her unexpected, on-the-spot interview, Gina sprinted down the street to the next cable-car stop and battled her way onto a car headed for Fisherman’s Wharf. The ride was invigorating despite the cable car’s constant jerking—which caused her to hang onto the support strap for dear life—and the persistent clanging at each street corner and stop. Almost immediately she could distinguish the regular riders who silently clung onto the trolley’s rails and straps from the tourists who smiled, pointed to significant buildings, and exclaimed excitedly at every shift of the car’s gears as they went up and down hills and around corners.
When Gina arrived at the end of the line near the wharf, she took off walking with long strides. She was hungry to absorb everything. Even though she had to admit that most of the shops seemed filled with souvenirs to attract tourists, she loved the fish stalls and the waterfront smells, the big fishing boats at the docks, and the many seafood restaurants. She treated herself to a loaf of San Francisco sour dough bread, a giant shrimp cocktail, and a large Diet Coke at a stand along Jefferson Street. The operator of the stand humored her by taking her picture holding the bread in one hand and the shrimp cocktail in the other. She saw signs for boat rides around the harbor and excursions to Alcatraz Island and told herself that one day she would take the trip to the former prison. She snapped so many photographs that within a couple of hours she had already consumed all the shots on her camera’s video card.
Late in the afternoon, as the breeze off the bay began to turn chilly, she waited in a long line of people—mostly gawking tourists, some American, many from foreign countries—to ride the cable car back to her neighborhood. Her only non-food purchases had been some postcards to send to her friends in Eureka and her parents in Illinois.
The next two days were nerve-wracking. Gina devoured all the local want ads from the papers and on the Internet. She filled out a few online applications and boarded both buses and cable cars to get to locations where there were posted openings or possibilities that she wanted to explore.
She had only one outfit that was suitable for job hunting, and she had to be careful to stay clean as she fought her way through crowds of people getting on and off public transportation. Both evenings she came back to Mrs. Han’s house exhausted and a little concerned that maybe her luck had run out. Except for the bookstore, no one had responded very positively to her or she got there after the job already had been filled. She tried not to get too discouraged, reminding herself that she was new to San Francisco and that job hunting was exhausting and frustrating under the best of circumstances. Fighting noise, dust and wind, not knowing where she was going, and always encountering strangers were almost overwhelming. She had to be patient. Somehow, she told herself, her money would last and she would find a job.
Late on the third day of her explorations, just as she hopped off the cable car in North Beach, her cell phone buzzed. Nearly freaking out at the unexpected cellular summons, she pulled the phone out of her pocket to answer. It was Mrs. Sanchez.
“I’ve checked your references,” the manager said, “and all your employers gave you high marks. If you’d still like to have the job, you can start training tomorrow morning at 9:30.”
“Oh, yes,” Gina said, sighing gratefully. “I’ll be there, right on time. Thank you!”
She practically ran to the delicatessen where she had stopped earlier and went to the counter to get a sandwich and some fruit salad for dinner, along with a cinnamon-raisin bagel and a banana for breakfast and a big bottle of water. The next morning she’d use the teapot and hotplate that Valerie had allowed her to keep permanently when she left Eureka. Just like old times. Well, almost. For the moment she was living just as she had then, but when she got some money, she would stock the little refrigerator and begin to use the microwave. She felt certain that life was going to become easier.
Once back in her room, Gina put away her things. She was so relieved that the pressure was off. She sat down at her computer and downloaded the digital photos she had taken the first day. She looked at them and laughed with pleasure at all the sites she had seen and photographed—especially the picture of her with a big grin, holding the loaf of bread and the shrimp cocktail.
Now that she had a job, she could open a local bank account and update her credit accounts. As soon as she got the codes from Mrs. Han, her e-mail address would work. She had e-mail addresses for Josie, Lanie, Judee and Rick. Only Valerie did not have e-mail. Gina wrote a message to everyone about her trip down the coast and her arrival in San Francisco, giving her mailing address, and saved the message in a draft file. When she could send it, she would attach the photo of herself at the wharf and a postscript to Josie, asking her to print out a copy and give it to Valerie. She knew Josie would do that for her. For the moment, that was all she could do. Then she sat down to write her postcards. The first was to Valerie. It was bittersweet to be writing to her, but Gina wanted her to know she was okay. She felt sure that Valerie, despite her coolness when Gina left, would think of her and would wonder. Then she sent a card to Rick and another to her parents.
Just as she was finishing her cards, there was a knock at her door.
When Gina opened the door she encountered Mrs. Ha
n, who had a sweet smile on her face. The old woman had perfect teeth, but it wasn’t until a few weeks later that Gina realized she kept them in a glass at night. “I just checking on you,” Mrs. Han said. “You have good first days here?”
“Oh, yes,” Gina said enthusiastically. “I walked the neighborhood and went on the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf. I loved it! And, most important, I’ve been looking for a job and I’ve found one at that bookstore about six blocks down the street.”
Mrs. Han nodded. “Very good. Is nice bookstore. I go there sometimes.”
Gina smiled. “The next time I’ll see you there then.”
“Is anything you need? You comfortable here?” the stooped, older lady asked.
“I’m fine, great,” Gina said. Then she suddenly thought, “Oh, is there a bank near here?”
Mrs. Han nodded affirmatively. “Yes. U.S.Bank. Good bank. Three blocks up and three blocks over. Open 9 to 5. Not sure about Saturday.”
“Thank you. I’ll go there as soon as I can,” Gina said.
Mrs. Han turned away. “You need anything, you ask,” she said.
“The code to use the Internet with your WiFi,” Gina mentioned, trying not to sound pushy.
“Ah, yes, I forget. I brought it for you.” Mrs. Han pulled a card out of her pocket with the account name and password in neat handwriting.
“Oh, thank you.” Gina grabbed the card as if her life depended on it.
Mrs. Han smiled, gave a little bow, and repeated “You need anything else, you ask,” as she departed, one hand on the wall as she carefully picked her way down the stairs in the dim light.
By the next time the poker club met, Valerie had recovered most of her equilibrium and Sam had stopped unmaking the bed in what had been Gina’s room. The dog had been restless for several days, constantly searching the house, but had gradually settled down.
When Lanie, Josie, and Judee gathered in the dining room to play, they all had a pretty clear idea that Valerie had been wounded by Gina’s departure and that maybe talking about it was not a good idea. But the gang was subdued anyway. They went through the motions of getting their drinks and treats and shuffling the cards, while looking a bit furtively at one another.
Finally, Valerie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Look,” she said. “Gina’s gone. I’m sad about it, you’re all sad about it, but life has to go on. Can’t we just play cards? We used to have fun before she was here, so can’t we somehow have fun again?”
Lanie rose to the occasion, on behalf of her good friend. “Yes,” she said loudly, “let the fun begin.”
Judee let out a Bronx cheer, and they all put down their bets.
The job at Pelican New and Used Books proved to be a good fit for Gina. After two weeks of training, during which she worked part-time, she was offered full-time employment. This meant some benefits, eventually, and it was the first full-time job Gina had had since just after graduate school. The customers she met in the bookstore were very diverse—of all ages, ethnicities, and educational backgrounds. Gina enjoyed helping each person find the books wanted or needed, and at times her English literature background came in handy when she was able to help a reader select a special writer or a work of classic literature. During busy hours, her duties could seem intense, especially at the register, but at the end of the day she felt a real sense of satisfaction. She liked making use of information she had acquired during her college years, and she especially felt gratified in guiding customers to treasured books.
Gina also found the patrons interesting, learning something new from each person she helped. Several of her customers were gay or lesbian and most of them gave her more than a passing glance. Some looked questioningly at her. Others seemed to assume that she was one of them. The store had an “alternative lifestyle” section of books, and Gina found herself guiding any number of people to that corner. One woman even tried to make a date with her. Gina put her off. She had too much going on right now to start some kind of relationship—and, truth be told, in some vague way that played at the edge of her consciousness—she didn’t feel free to have one.
Mrs. Sanchez was a good manager and trainer. Gina eventually learned that she was of Greek descent but married to a very gentle and dapper gray-haired Spaniard, Felipe Sanchez, whom Gina met one day when he stopped by the store to take his wife out to lunch. Watching the couple leave the shop together, Gina was enthralled by them and how they symbolized the marvelous cultural mixture she encountered every day in San Francisco.
She was assigned to work in the bookstore on weekends, but she had two days off during the week. This schedule was perfect for her. Gina wanted to get to know the City, and she discovered that it was easier to see things when there were fewer tourists. She also wanted to explore the educational community to see if she could find some kind of teaching job. That process definitely had to be accomplished during the week.
Gina located the nearest branch of the public library and spent an afternoon pouring over catalogues for all the local colleges and universities. She checked the offerings in English literature and read the credentials of the professors in each department. She took notes on the campus addresses, the human resources officials in each school, and their appropriate contact numbers.
That same evening in her room, she went over her notes and considered where she would start. Stanford and UC Berkeley seemed a long shot, with her lack of teaching experience and undistinguished resume. Then there were the San Francisco campus of the state university system and the city college. She also made note of Mills College, a relatively small women’s college across the Bay in East Oakland. Maybe there she could get her feet wet, trying to sell herself to an administrator. A smaller institution would be less daunting, and maybe, as a woman, she would even get a positive reception.
The next day Gina swallowed her lifelong anxiety about making phone calls and dialed the office of human resources at Mills. She introduced herself to the receptionist as Dr. Fortenham—which Valerie had shown her was important in some situations—and asked for an appointment to see the director. The receptionist asked her to hold for a moment.
When the woman, who sounded young, maybe a student assistant, came back on the line, she said, “Normally Dr. Weiss is booked for weeks in advance, but she happens to have a cancellation at 3 p.m. this afternoon. If you can make it then, it is yours. Otherwise it will be next month before we can work you in.”
“I’ll be there,” Gina replied quickly, taking down instructions from the receptionist about where to park on campus and how to find the appropriate building.
After lunch Gina dressed in her best clothes, a navy three-piece pant outfit, and drove her Beetle across the Bay Bridge onto the I-580 headed east, and then up MacArthur Boulevard to the Mills College campus. She immediately loved the look of the school, with its many eucalyptus trees, open green fields, and Spanish-style stucco buildings. She enjoyed seeing all of the young women—of definitely diverse backgrounds—walking in any direction she looked. What a fun place to be a student, she thought to herself.
At the human resources office, housed in a white Victorian mansion, Gina was shown quickly into the office of Dr. Rochelle Weiss. Weiss was an attractive woman in her early 50s, Gina would guess, with short, curly red hair and clad in a beige pantsuit.
“How may I help you,” Dr. Weiss asked, after they shook hands and had seated themselves.
Gina explained her situation: being new to San Francisco, having a Ph.D. but not having taught, wanting to break into college teaching, and not knowing where to even start looking. She made it clear that she was just asking for advice and information, not applying for a job.
Dr. Weiss studied her thoughtfully. “I see your challenge,” she said pleasantly. “Getting that first job can be most difficult.” She swiveled in her chair and looked for a long moment out the window at the college’s campanile tower.
“I wish we had something to offer you here. It sounds like you could make a good contri
bution to our campus,” she said politely. “But as you can probably imagine, a liberal arts college is a sought-after place for English literature instructors. Most of our professors have been here for a long time and will be here until they retire. I can’t think of any of them who have given an indication of leaving in the near future. The dean of the faculty would be the final word on that, but this is a small campus and we know each other pretty well.
“If we had a large evening program, I could try to get you some part-time work to help you get launched, as it were. Even a class or two would provide you with some teaching experience and help you move on to a full-time job.
“But, as a small, essentially residential college, Mills is not large enough to offer an extensive evening program,” she explained. “Since you are living in the City, I would suggest that you try a college in the center of San Francisco, one with many day and evening students and one that offers a number of introductory English literature classes. That might be the best place to get your foot in that proverbial door.”
Before Gina could say anything, Dr. Weiss pulled up a file from her drawer. “I can give you the name of a colleague of mine at Cal State. You may say that I recommended that you contact her.” She wrote down a name and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Gina.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Gina said, breathlessly, as she stood and shook hands again with Dr. Weiss. “I so appreciate your time and your helpfulness.”
Although disappointed that the odds were against her ever teaching at a prestigious women’s college like Mills, Gina appreciated how kindly she was treated there and how Dr. Weiss had given her a lead at San Francisco State University. Wistfully, she drove out of the main gate of Mills and back to the I-580 freeway.
Valerie had always kept her house clean and relatively free of knickknacks. Her own paintings adorned the walls, but she displayed few framed photographs. There had been many photos at the condo in San Francisco—pictures of her and Doreen at the wharf, on the cable car, in Golden Gate Park, and with their friends.
North Coast: A Contemporary Love Story Page 19