Of Mule and Man

by Mike Farrell

VENUE: JOHN STEINBECK MUSEUM (SALINAS, CA)

  EVENT SPONSOR

  John Steinbeck Rotary Club

  The phone wakes me in the morning. It’s Nan Sincero from Centerforce, saying the Hobby Shop at San Quentin is open. There’s no telling when it might close, she says, but if I want to get in, now is the time.

  Scheduled to speak in Salinas tonight, I throw everything together, check out of the hotel and head up across the Golden Gate Bridge hoping we’ll luck out this time.

  Pulling up, I see a man standing in the doorway of the Hobby Shop, a good sign, so I quickly steer Mule down to the visitor parking area and am frustrated to find it full. Driving back up, I turn toward the gate, hoping to get a chance to ask the guard what to do. He’s on a walkie-talkie and has two people standing in front of him, so we stop in the road. He quickly yells, “Get out of the road, you’re blocking the gate!”

  This is a very small space, so as I jockey Mule around I try to figure out what our options are. The road from the highway up here to the East Gate is less than a mile long, quite narrow and lined with old wooden houses—this comprising the small community of San Quentin. Most of it is restricted parking. I’d always assumed that the people living here work at or are somehow associated with the prison and therefore not sympathetic to us, but a few years ago a woman opened her door and offered tea and support on a bitter cold night when we were demonstrating against an execution. A nurse who lives in a small apartment behind a large house a ways down the street, she has extended the same warmth and hospitality to our group ever since—I have a picture of a couple of us huddled together with Joan Baez and Jesse Jackson in her small kitchen, probably on the horrible night they killed Stanley Tookie Williams.

  But her place is halfway back to the highway, and even if she’s home it’s probably unlikely there’s enough room to park down there. And if I try, that’ll probably be when they decide to close the Hobby Shop. Here, though, the area is clearly marked in angry red stripes that indicate there’s no parking allowed except for a few spots, probably for employee cars, and they’re full.

  “To hell with it,” I say to Mule, pulling him into the red No Parking space in front of the Hobby Shop, “the worst thing that can happen is he yells at me again.”

  “You hope,” Mule whispers encouragingly as I climb out.

  Now off the walkie-talkie, the guard is passing the two men through the gate as I approach. “Sorry about blocking the road,” I offer, “but the visitor parking area is full and I just wanted to see if there is anywhere else to park so I can get a couple of things at the Hobby Shop.”

  He looks at me for a moment, then says, “Full, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looks a bit longer, and I’m preparing to hear, Tough shit, when he says, “Tell you what. Pull it over there next to the Mustang. Not in the blue area, on the other side.”

  “Thanks. Thanks very much.” And I do.

  Inside the small shop the walls are decorated with artwork, most of it pencil sketches, some quite good. Native Americans and black women predominate, though there are some very nicely detailed nature scenes. Old-fashioned display cases are filled with rings, earrings, bracelets and more artwork, a lot of it cartoon-style drawings. I can only find one box of the size I was given by Centerforce, and it’s decorated with a carved bird and flower that’s a bit too ornate for anyone I can think of. There are a number of smaller boxes, though, that display the same careful artistry and attention to detail as the one I was given. There are also a number of nicely made cable car replicas, some of them mounted, one or two set up as lamps, others as music boxes—and yes, they play “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

  The young man in charge is a nice-looking African American in a loose-fitting red prison jumpsuit, the name O’Connor printed on the left side. He’s very friendly, has a nice smile and seems eager to help. It turns out he’s very excited because he’s being released on Saturday. He’s got a job waiting for him outside and he’s “going to stay straight.”

  Mr. O’Connor is very meticulous about the paperwork as I buy a few things—if you’re about to rush out there, they take no credit cards or checks, only cash—and he explains that about ninety percent of the price paid goes to the artist (which is more than what I’d heard—I hope he has it right).

  Wishing him the best, I walk out with my box of gifts and go over to thank the guard. He turns to me and says, “Sorry I yelled at you.”

  “Not a problem,” I reply, surprised.

  “My dad was in Korea and he loved your show. Thank you.”

  As we make our way down that narrow street toward the Richmond Bridge and the road south to Salinas, I shake my head, saying, “Man, you just never know …”

  “Man? You talking to me?”

  “Sorry. It’s just an expression.”

  “For some.”

  “Uh-huh. Well … Huh. Lots of things to think about.”

  Words have weight, so it’s worth being careful about their use. And, in thinking about the guard, one just never knows—about people, either.

  Salinas is a couple of hours down Highway 101 and thus closer to home, which is good, but I’m a little unclear as to what’s expected of me when I get there. Mark Kimber, another friend from the Death Penalty Focus board, has been asking for months if I’d be willing to come speak to his Rotary Club, and this, since I’d be going right through there, seemed the logical time. (Who knew I’d be exhausted and brain-dead from this five-week, 8,000-plus mile marathon?)

  Mark is a good guy (he bristles if I say sweet), a small-business owner in a heavily agriculture-dependent area and a Rotarian. He continues to insist he’s more conservative than most of us on the board, while being one of our most reliable and dependable volunteers at any and every event. Small speaking engagement, large fundraiser or in between, Mark and Phyllis, his terrific wife, are there taking tickets, passing out literature, pouring drinks, moving furniture, or whatever else is needed. And they’re always there for the clean-up detail. Generous to a fault and committed to eliminating state killing, he acts as the secretary at our board meetings and regularly spices things up with his wry and irreverent sense of humor. And, go figure, he’s a vegetarian and an expert skydiver.

  Parking Mule, I walk into his travel agency and am quickly taken out to lunch at a local health food place he’s found. I again try to pin him down on what these folks expect to hear from me, and he remains vague, saying that since they haven’t arranged to have a supply of books to sell I can talk about anything I want. They are a pretty conservative bunch, he says, but they’ll be open to whatever I want to say. He has, he thinks, amply covered the subject of the death penalty with them through other guests he’s brought in, but it’s been awhile, so …

  Mark has booked a hotel room for me, but when he says the meeting starts at 6 and will probably be over by 8:30, I ask him to cancel it so I can try driving home tonight. That worries him; it’s another 350 miles. But if I wear out, I assure him, I can get a room down the road somewhere. It just seems crazy to be this close to home and not get there.

  He has business to take care of and we have a couple of hours before the meeting, so I walk up to the John Steinbeck Museum where the meeting will be held (the meeting is with the John Steinbeck Rotary Club) and nose around a bit, looking for ideas.

  Back at the office, Mark leaves to go pick up a high school girl who needs a ride to the meeting (what did I tell you?) and we arrange to meet back at the museum at 6 p.m.

  After a bit of socializing and some introductions, the meeting is called to order by the president of the club—Mark Kimber (something he neglected to mention). There is an invocation and everyone salutes the flag—as my own small protest I choose not to say “under God”—and the business part of the meeting goes forward. This includes formal introductions of visiting Rotarians and other guests, including two high school students. One, a girl from Norway, has been here in Salinas for a year, living with local families, and is
about to go home. Another, the girl Mark had to go pick up, is a graduating senior who had been abroad during her junior year—in Norway, I think—and will graduate as the class salutatorian. Mark notes, after checking with the girl to be sure she won’t be embarrassed by having it mentioned, that she is the first in her family to graduate from high school. Now, he adds, she has been accepted, with full scholarship, to UC Berkeley. The girls’ presence, it’s clear, means their year-abroad trips were fully paid for by this club.

  Other announcements are made, including one about the club’s purchase and distribution of a thousand dictionaries to local third-graders, a program begun after a study showed that introduction to a dictionary at a young age is one of the best ways to combat illiteracy.

  Other announcements happen and some awards are presented, all of it salted with witty comments from President Mark, and the aura of goodwill and the genuine pleasure in good works that permeates the evening is very impressive.

  I had decided to wait and learn what these folks are about and try to be appropriately responsive to what I see, so when Mark introduces me I get to thank them not only for their tradition of service, but for the generosity and thoughtfulness that have made it so meaningful—to these kids, for example—on a personal level.

  Noting that the name John Steinbeck plays such an important part here, not only in the place they meet but in the name of their organization, I cite The Grapes of Wrath and Tom Joad’s discovery that maybe “a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one—the one big soul that belongs to ever’body …” and that what this meant to him was the determination to “be ever’where—wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad—an’ I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our people eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build, why, I’ll be there.”

  Then I remind them that at a darker time, here in this very town that they love, Steinbeck’s books were burned. These great works of art, these celebrations of the human spirit, ignited so much revulsion in fearful people that they were destroyed. So it’s part of our job to see the bigger picture as well as the little one, to take pride in the fact that kids get dictionaries, but to remember the kids who don’t get them too, and the families whose kids still don’t graduate from school.

  One of my favorite Steinbeck passages comes from his book Sweet Thursday, where he says the big question is, “What has my life meant so far, and what can it mean in the time left to me? … What have I contributed in the Great Ledger?”

  Holding up a folder, I smile. “Mark said I could speak to anything I wanted this evening. I have here a twenty-six-page speech on human rights and a twenty-three page speech on the death penalty. But I think it’s more appropriate this evening to simply thank you for the service you’re doing, these things that are clearly a meaningful contribution to the Great Ledger, and just underscore Mr. Steinbeck’s observation about ‘the one big soul that belongs to everybody.’ With all the good we do, there remains more to be done. With all that’s been done for these, it’s important to remember the ones who are left behind and make sure they’re not forgotten.”

  There was more, and then a Q&A. And we ended up having a lot of fun.

  Mark was good to his word and the meeting ends at just about 8:30. After some pictures are taken and some parting words are exchanged, I fire up Mule and we head south. I call Shelley from the highway at around 9 and say I’m hoping to get home tonight, but it might be as late as 3 a.m., so not to be alarmed if I come crashing in at that hour.

  She’s worried about my being too tired, so I assure her if I start to lose it I’ll pull into a motel and call her.

  But Mule must have smelled the corral, because she takes off and flies low. We pull into the house at 1:30 in the morning and she isn’t even breathing hard.

  God, does it feel good to be home!

  CONCLUSION

  Thursday, June 12–Saturday, June 14, 2008

  LOS ANGELES, CA

  END OF TOUR

  Thursday was a blur. Happy to be home, I was in a stupor for most of the day, vibrating as if I was still on the road, utterly useless. Shelley was beautiful as ever—maybe more so—and excited and thrilled that I was home in one piece. My sweet daughter Erin and our lovely friend Patricia, who had teamed up to take such good care of Shelley that she was up and around with only the assistance of a cane, now kept an eye on me to be sure I didn’t walk into a wall. You know how you can get yourself psyched up for a tough job and only when it’s over do you allow the stress of it all to crash in on you? Well, that was me. I did manage to go outside a couple of times to say hello to Mule and unload a few things, but that was pretty much it. I studiously avoided looking at the avalanche of mail awaiting my attention, spoke mostly in grunts, stared into space and tried to ignore the whirling in my brain.

  In the evening, Shelley and I sat down to watch the Lakers run up a twenty-four-point lead over the Celtics in a dazzling demonstration of ability guaranteeing that they’d even up the series—only to sit there slack-jawed as they managed to LOSE again.

  By Friday it was almost possible to think. Still vibrating, I was finally able to unload Mule and take her out to have a friend look at her crown to make sure she didn’t have any lasting effects from the Louisiana railroad track incident. Not a scratch. Am I surprised to learn she has a hard head?

  Checking with Hertz to see if I can return her to a more convenient location than going all the way back to LAX airport, I’m told I cannot without paying a bunch of extra money. Okay, LAX is a pain in the ass, but it isn’t that bad. But I’m also told that if I don’t get her there by 2 p.m.—not possible since it’s already 1:40—I’ll have to pay for an extra day. Fine. I’m not in a big hurry to say goodbye to her anyway.

  Saturday morning, my lovely daughter Erin agrees to meet me at LAX and bring me home after returning Mule. As I get ready to leave, Shelley says she’d like to sit in her once before she’s gone. As she settles in the passenger seat, I go through the now-familiar routine to start the engine so she can experience the silence of the electric motor. Shelley is charmed by Mule and wants a ride, so we go back and forth in the driveway for a bit, Mule beeping as we do. Then she wants to try it in the backseat. I’m happy that she’s so appreciative, and Mule is virtually purring with delight as we go back and forth again, Shelley now Miss Daisy.

  My sweet wife is knocked out, says so, and it’s clearly a mutual admiration society.

  But, time to go. Shelley waves goodbye and Mule honks as we head for the road once again.

  The 405 is a mess as usual, and Mule is too busy to talk. It’s just as well, I guess; no need to make her jittery. But I do want her to know how grateful I am for the way she has taken care of me. How do you say thank you to a critter who carried you 8,882 miles, through twenty-nine states, through deserts and mountains, heat and cold, sunshine and downpour, dancing around tornadoes and floods, all in just under five weeks’ time? And did it without—well, almost without—complaint.

  This has been a truly extraordinary—certainly life-enhancing if not life-changing—process; engaging with hundreds, maybe thousands of people in states called red and blue, offering thoughts and experiences, challenging viewpoints, and asking consideration of ideas that may be foreign to their lives. To do this and encounter such warmth and generosity, such an open and grateful embrace—even from those who may feel differently—is to have reaffirmed my belief that there is a core of decency and fairness alive in this land, a recognition that the values we all cherish do point in the same direction even if we sometimes become confused or misguided. There is a fundamental truth in the knowledge that all human beings do want the same things: love, attention and respect; and this understanding is what created the spirit of America.

  “And you, Mul
e, have made this adventure possible. You’ve been my guide and protector, my Rocinante.”

  Snort.

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

  Silence.

  “Well, old pal, here we are. Recognize this place?”

  A quiver.

  “Yup. They’ll give you a wash and polish, curry and comb, lube and oil. Maybe some new shoes.”

  Another quiver.

  As we pull up, Erin is waiting. She gets in and we move into the line that says RETURN. Men direct us into the proper spot and then it’s all business as we get out; a guy checks the papers, jots down the mileage, hands the papers back, directs us to Customer Service and walks away.

  A last look, a touch. “Love you, Mule.”

  Silence.

  As we walk away toward Customer Service, I hear just a whisper, “Bye, Mike.”

  RESOURCE GUIDE

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  ACLU of Maryland

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  ACLU of Michigan

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  ACLU of Pennsylvania

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  Pittsburgh, PA 15213

  tel: 412-681-7736

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  American Friends Service Committee (Middle Atlantic Region)

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  mar@afsc.org

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  Brooklyn for Peace

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