When I finally opened it I read: Lady of the Lake, call me. Austen. And a phone number.
I haven’t called him. I won’t call him. I found out when we were looking at a map of San Francisco that Lake Street—where that drunken Tommy said they were living—is a few blocks from here. Almost every day I catch myself thinking about his honey voice and black hair and his smile. But I won’t call him. That’s what silly teenage girls and dumb groupies do. Not me. And what if he didn’t remember who I was? That would be beyond embarrassing. So I won’t call him—but I don’t seem to be forgetting him either.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my daydream. It is the man from the phone company. Our telephone has finally arrived.
An hour later Ali, dressed in her blue interview suit, bursts in the front door. “I got the job! I got the job. Thank heavens they need someone at the Examiner. I’m sure that phone call from my old boss helped. The receptionist said they get dozens of applications every week, but most of them don’t have any experience.” She slumps down onto the sofa. “I start next week.”
I guess red-haired Audrey was right about how difficult it is to get a job in San Francisco these days. Now I wonder what she had meant by having something for me after I had a place to live and a telephone.
I find out the next morning when I call her. “Julia Weslan,” she says as if searching through her memory. “Oh yes, you’re the dark-haired one from Seattle. You worked for TV Weekly—right?”
“Yes, that’s me. I have a phone number now and a permanent address.” I emphasize ‘permanent’ and give her the number and address.
“Well, dear, I already filled the job opening I mentioned to you, but I will keep your registration on file, in case something comes up. Thanks for calling in with your phone number.”
As I hang up the phone I wonder: Now what am I going to do? Maybe Ali has all the luck.
Ali reads the disappointment on my face. “No interview?”
I shake my head. “She already found someone for the job.”
“Forget that woman and her dyed red hair. You should do what I did. Call up the newspapers and magazines directly. Skip all that employment agency stuff. You have great experience on a national magazine, for goodness sales. There’s bound to be a job out there waiting for you.”
“Not exactly national. I worked on the local editions,” I add, knowing full well that Ali knows this already. She is just trying to make me feel better.
She frowns at me for a second and then her face lights up.
“New idea. Don’t call. Take copies of your resume and just walk in the door and apply for a layout job. Julia, you look great—really pretty and well-dressed, not like some of those flaky hippie girls. You might as well start at the Chronicle. Or the Examiner. I can ask my boss there for you once I start work. And there is a weekly shopping paper called the Progress.”
Ali’s suggestions lift my spirits.
“And how about Rolling Stone? Its offices are here, but it has national distribution. It’s not just a local magazine. That could be really neat.”
“Rock ‘n’ roll? I don’t know…” My voice fades. The image of Mr. Austen Honey-Voice pops into my mind and I dismiss it immediately. I can’t allow myself to think about him. I have to focus on landing a job—a real job. I don’t want to get stuck working as a temp answering phones or filing paperwork in the basement of some dreary insurance company.
“They do serious articles, too. And what do you care—you’d be working on the graphics side. You wouldn’t have to interview crazy musicians or anything like that Tommy Obnoxious.”
I’m smiling now. Life looks better. Ali’s pep talk has worked.
Chapter Three
No and No and No. The Chronicle, the Examiner and the shoppers’ weekly turn me down cold. No openings. None anticipated.
I decide to walk all the way up to Rolling Stone’s offices. On the way I pass a record store and on impulse go in. I learn from their newest album that Mr. Honey-Voice-and-Black-Hair’s last name is Raneley. Austen Raneley. He writes all the lyrics for their songs and some of the music, too. He wrote both for “Night Ride”. Tommy is listed as the vocalist on it. Then I catch myself: What are you doing, Julia? You’re acting like a ridiculous teenage groupie. Get out of here. You have to get a job—a real, adult job. Stop wasting your time.
By two o’clock I walk into Rolling Stone’s door. It does not look much different from the TV Weekly offices in Seattle. Except for the people.
The receptionist has long wild auburn hair; she is wearing jeans, a lacey blouse and an armful of jangling bracelets. A couple of guys stand in a hallway off the reception area, talking. One in jeans, the other in khaki pants and a long-sleeve blue shirt with a beige folder under his arm. I see them glance at me. I feel slightly over-dressed in a short slim black skirt, a pink blouse with the collar turned up and low black heels.
I explain to the receptionist that I am looking for work doing layout and I have experience. She smiles a very sweet and understanding smile and says they are fully staffed right now. Sorry. But she will take my resume and they will keep it on file.
Then I hear one of the guys say: “She can do layout for me any night of the week. Little honey in pink and black.”
I spin around to face him, glaring: “Drop dead, you stupid jackass.”
I turn and storm out the door in a fury. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building I can feel the adrenaline surging through my blood. A day of “Nos” and now that stupid idiot—I can’t take any more of this. I am going to get an espresso at my new favorite coffeehouse. It’s not far away. That’s what I’ll do. Right now. It will make me feel better. I know it will.
I start walking fast toward North Beach and about a half a block later I realize that the guy who said ‘Little honey in pink and black’ is walking right beside me, the folder in his hand. I keep my eyes straight ahead.
“Hey, Julia. I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment. You’re really cute, you know.”
I stop, turn and glare at him. “How do you know my name?”
“I looked at your resume.” An infectious grin spreads across his face. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
I narrow my eyes at him. People dodge around us as we block the center of the sidewalk.
“I won’t bite. Really,” he says. I don’t move, still glaring at him.
“My name’s Mark Andreson. I do freelance work for Rolling Stone—well, I hope to do freelance for them.”
He’s still smiling at me. People are still walking around us.
I hesitate. He looks like a nice guy. He has flirty hazel eyes, brown hair and his clothes are relatively ordinary. Nothing obviously scary or weird about him.
“Okay,” I say and stop glaring. “But you better be nice or I will start yelling at you again and create a horrible scene in public.” Then my shoulders slump. “My day has been awful.”
“It’ll get better, Julia. Come on. Let’s go.”
Same waitress. Same little white cups of espresso. This must be everyone’s favorite coffeehouse.
“I was pitching some story ideas to one of the editors, but I don’t know whether they are going to buy them,” Mark explains. “An article in Rolling Stone would look great on my resume. It would sure make other editors more willing to listen to me.”
“I guess everyone has problems getting work these days,” I sigh. “At least here in San Francisco.”
I look up and suddenly see him. Mr. Austen Honey-Voice-and-Black-Hair Raneley is sitting at a table against the far wall by himself, looking at me. No honey smile on his face now. For a fraction of a second our eyes lock, then instantly I look back at Mark.
“Have you talked with anyone over at San Francisco Voices?” Mark asks.
“I’ve never heard of it.” I am trying to concentrate but it’s difficult. I won’t look over there again. I have to pretend I didn’t recognize him. Didn’t see him. That my eyes just slid across him. But
my pulse is beating faster and I feel flushed. I have to force myself to listen to Mark.
“It’s a relatively new weekly; it has only been around for a few months,” Mark continues with a serious look on his face. “They cover local news and events—happenings, art exhibitions, city politics, the folk and rock music scene here in the city. Not as much about rock musicians and music as Rolling Stone. They see themselves as a local alternative to the Chronicle and Examiner. I’ve done some stories and reviews for them already.”
“That sounds interesting.” I take another sip of the espresso. I don’t know if it is the espresso or the conversation with Mark or seeing Mr. Honey-Voice, but I am definitely feeling better.
“I can call someone I know there and find out who you should talk to. It’s better if you have the name of someone rather than calling in cold.”
I smile at Mark. A sweet smile. A happy smile. “That would be great. I’d really appreciate it.” Now I feel even better.
“But I don’t have your phone number so I don’t know how to get in touch with you.” His twinkling flirty eyes are back.
I narrow my eyes at him again. “Is this another pick-up line?” Then I smile.
When we leave, I see that Austen Raneley is gone. If I hadn’t been with Mark I would have walked into the coffeehouse alone and run right into him. I might have had to talk to him. I don’t think I could have handled that on a day like today. But it didn’t happen, I say to myself. Part of me wishes—no, I can’t let myself think about him. I can’t think about my reaction to seeing him again. He’s gone and Mark is going to help me get a job—I hope.
* * *
A week later I am sitting in the offices of San Francisco Voices, discussing the position of assistant to the Art Director. Dan, the A.D. is tall, dark-haired, in his late 30s and very handsome. He likes my background. He apologetically explains the pay is barely more than a pittance. I don’t care. I get the job!
On the way home I buy a bottle of not-too-expensive champagne, then call Mark and invite him over for dinner the next evening. He absolutely has to be part of this celebration.
Before he arrives I put the new Crosby, Stills and Nash album on the record player. I love it, especially “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”. It’s about Judy Collins. I don’t know what I would do if a man wrote a song about me. Faint. Kiss him. Follow him to the ends of the earth.
Mark shows up with a bottle of white wine, but I put him in charge of opening the champagne. When the cork comes out, the champagne spills like a fountain all over the kitchen counter.
“Looks like there is still enough for a toast to fame and fortune,” Mark mutters, embarrassed.
So we toast, drinking champagne from water glasses. No wine glasses yet in our kitchen.
Ali has made a lettuce and tomato salad and I fixed my tried and true spaghetti sauce with meatballs. I’m not much of a cook, but my spaghetti is okay. The French bread is from a local bakery, just down the street from us, run by our Italian landlord’s nephew.
Mark tells us more about San Francisco Voices. “So many of the new things that are happening around here, well, they are ignored by the two dailies. Take poetry readings, for example. If you take the Chronicle, you might know what socialites their dapper columnist has seen in the last 24 hours as he strolls around town. You sure wouldn’t know about the young poets and authors reading their works in small bookstores and galleries around the city.”
“Would you like some more wine?” I ask. The champagne is gone. We are into the bottle of white wine he brought.
He shakes his head in answer to the wine question and keeps on talking. He is really intense and committed to this new vision of journalism.
“Some Hollywood executive put up the money to start Voices. He comes up from L.A. every once in a while. He brought David Pearl out from to New York to edit it. You’ll meet him. David is a really bright guy. Very idealistic. He’s very committed to new ways of covering the local scene from the ground up instead of looking down on San Francisco from the high-rise offices of local power players.”
“This sounds really exciting. I can’t thank you enough for calling Dan for me.”
“Happy to do it.” He winks at me.
* * *
Monday morning at San Francisco Voices is a lot like Monday mornings at TV Weekly in Seattle. As I walk down the hallway, I see that two desks and a filing cabinet have been jammed in most of the small offices and they are stacked with piles of beige folders. It turns out that Dan and I have to share his large office—temporarily. I have a feeling from the way he said ‘temporarily’ that it could be a long time. Voices is apparently short on space as well as money.
A lot of the details of my work will be the same as before, but Dan has radically different ideas about how the paper should look. Not neat and orderly columns of listing and ads like TV Weekly. Not like a traditional newspaper with column after column of boring gray type. Not like a magazine either, although it is in a tabloid magazine format. This is exciting, but I know I am going to have to learn a lot—fast.
Thursday is closing day, the day we finish everything for that week’s edition and send it off to the printer. It is a madhouse—even more than I have been used to. Ads barely making it before the deadline. Editorial changes at the last minute. It is after 9 o’clock before the messenger picks up everything for delivery to the printing house.
Dan is slumped back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. “So, my darling Julia,” he asks, sitting up. “How do you like working here so far?”
“I love it. It’s even crazier than TV Weekly, and more fun,” I answer with a smile on my face.
“That’s the spirit,” he laughs. “Oh, to be 22 and enthusiastic again. Well, I will see you in the morning and we’ll start all over again.”
On Friday, I meet David Pearl, our editor. He is in his late 30s, has receding black hair, wears round wireframe glasses and seems very friendly, not at all aloof. Someone shows me some of his work on New York Voices. He is, obviously, a very brilliant man.
Chapter Four
That night when I arrive home Ali is dancing to music on the radio as she cuts up tomatoes and avocados to go into a shrimp salad.
“Well, you look happy. What’s this all about? Have you met someone?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Who is he? Where did you meet him?”
“I went up to Union Square at lunchtime. I love to go up there and watch that mime, Robbie something-or-the-other. He’s so funny, imitating people who walk by. Anyway, I took my sandwich and a take-out cup of coffee and spread a paper napkin beside me on the bench—“
“Ali, how did you meet him?”
“Wait. This is important. I spread my paper napkin on the bench beside me like a little tablecloth and put half my sandwich and cup of coffee on it. A few minutes later this guy in a very nice suit came up to me and asked if he could share my table. At first I didn’t know what he meant, then he pointed at the napkin and I laughed and said ‘Yes.’”
“What’s his name?”
“Drew. He’s a lawyer. He told me the name of the firm and when I went back to the office I asked one of the women if she had heard of it. She said it was a big one. Julia, he told me he also does pro-bono work for an antiwar group. Impressive—right?”
“Yes, but a lawyer? Not like Tom I hope.”
“Not at all. I don’t know what you ever saw in him.”
Tom. My law school boyfriend in Seattle. The only man I have had sex with. Twice. Apparently it was good for him, but a big zero for me. That was one of the reasons I broke up with him…plus the realization that he had his eyes set on marriage, a big home in the ‘burbs, and raising kids who would repeat the same thing 25 years later. Not for me—at least not now. Maybe someday.
“When are you going to see Drew again?”
“I don’t know, but he asked for my phone number and I gave it to him.”
Edwin Starr’s “War” comes on the radio. Perfect
timing. The perfect song for an antiwar lawyer.
* * *
The next morning Ali and I try to decide where to go for our weekend adventure. Everything is new and there is so much to see that we are visiting one or two neighborhoods every weekend. At least that is the plan.
We decide to walk around Haight Ashbury, the land of stoned hippies—or so we have been told. It turns out to be true. It’s not the ’67 Summer of Love scene anymore. Not much peace, love and understanding around. No pretty girls with flowers braided into long blonde hair. The few young women we see look slightly dirty and their clothes would be rejected by any self-respecting thrift store. It’s sad.
Half the people wandering around and sitting on doorsteps of the old run-down Victorian houses look like they are on drugs—except for tourists in their JC Penney clothes. A lot of the others look like they could be selling drugs. One young man with greasy-looking hair is playing a guitar; another one is panhandling for money. The guitar player can’t play even one-tenth as well as Austen, I think. I quickly push that thought out of my mind. I cannot let myself think about him.
Here and there are garishly painted storefronts on the ground floor of the drab buildings. We walk past a head shop selling bongs and other strange things. Drugs are one thing neither one of us want to try—especially after Ali’s high school friend Melissa died last year from that overdose. We’ll stick with wine and beer.
Then we go into a small clothing store crammed with skirts and blouses from India. The prices are great. Very cheap. Ali finds some embroidered gauzy-thin tunics that are so sheer you can see right through them. She decides to buy a blue one which will make her eyes look even bluer.
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