August 1969, after my stint at the Riverside Press-Enterprise, I hook up with my cousin Ellen and her boyfriend Greg in Berkeley. We will drive to Oregon and stay at Greg’s mother’s ranch. Ellen introduces me to Phil Freshman and tells me he is going with us. I barely know Ellen and have never met Greg, and I stiffen at the intrusion of yet another human being to deal with (though I love that his name is Phil Freshman). I tell him about my reporting job in Riverside and he replies with a wry smile that his most recent job was shoveling chickens for Colonel Sanders. By the time we climb into the car I feel comfortable with Phil Freshman and am glad we’re sharing the back seat.
Past Mendocino, after Highway One merges with the 101, Phil Freshman notices a sign for Eureka and says we’ll have to get off the 101 because a few years ago he stumbled across a little town somewhere south of Eureka and always wanted to return. Phil tells how he befriended a couple of elderly women at an old-fashioned drug store/soda fountain. They bought him sodas and talked with him for hours. Phil promised them one day he would return and buy them sodas.
Phil can’t remember the name of the town or where it is. He suggests that we drive around and see what happens. We have no schedule to keep and I am pleased when Greg says why not and turns off the highway. After taking random turns and going in and out of small towns (“Nope, this isn’t it”), Phil says, “This just could be the place.” Greg drives slowly up the main street. I point out a drug store/soda fountain and Phil screams, “That’s it!”
We go in and sure enough there are two elderly ladies at the counter. One of them turns around and exclaims, “Phil! Come sit down!” Phil and the ladies sip and talk for an hour while the rest of us have lunch at a table, with me marveling how no one seems to think anything unusual just happened.
At the ranch in Oregon, Greg tells me that his stepfather was a resistance fighter in Italy during World War II and, among other things, set up booby traps for German soldiers on motorcycles: he would string a thin wire from tree to tree about neck-high, and then hide and watch a Nazi continue riding from the neck down, while the head bounced around the road. Greg’s stepfather is quiet and somber; I want to talk to him about killing Nazis, but can’t bring myself to ask. If I was still working on the newspaper it would be my job and I would have no problem.
The house is plush with books of all kinds. Greg’s mother invites us to pick up anything of interest and feel free to write in the margins if so moved. “I feel insulted when someone borrows one of my books and doesn’t contribute to it.”
After a family dinner heavy on the zucchini, I awake nauseous and barely make it out to the porch before losing the zucchini and everything else over the railing. I sneak back to bed, seemingly undetected, but the next morning at breakfast Greg announces—with a hint of admiration—“Alan was heaving away!” Everyone laughs, but rather than being mortified and retreating into myself, I find the laughter so much better than commiseration, and join in the celebration.
When we get back to Berkeley, I have one night before my flight to New York, where I will reunite with Alicia. I want to go into San Francisco, but everybody is busy, including Phil Freshman. I go anyway, trying to think of myself as Leonard Cohen alone and brooding through a strange city until captured by a woman for a brief encounter to be immortalized in song.
On the cable car heading up to Fisherman’s Wharf, three young women with English accents laugh and joke with the conductor. I am trying to figure how Leonard Cohen would play it when the prettiest one—with short, dark hair—tells me how romantic I look with my hair rustling in the wind. I slowly shake my head to give my hair more rustle, and she sits next to me. “I’m Linda.”
When we reach Fisherman’s Wharf, Linda invites me to join them. I ask her where in England they are from and they start giggling. Linda confesses that she is from Long Beach (a short ride from Lynbrook) and tells me they just graduated from Buffalo State University (a longer ride from Schenectady, where I’ve spent the last four years).
I try my best at an English accent, and we hop on and off cable cars for the next couple of hours. Periodically, someone announces a new country—“Spain!”—and we start a new accent. Following their lead, I am able to talk to strangers without a press card—street singers, cable car conductors, bartenders.
As midnight approaches, I start to think about what could happen between Linda and me. I have never been unfaithful to Alicia, but this is a version of me with a version of Linda. At 2 a.m. we wind up at their car and decide to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge. Linda and I sit in the back seat, the sides of our thighs against each other, her head nesting on my shoulder.
Back in San Francisco, Linda lifts her head. Now, Linda is Linda and I am me; going any further would leave me with a secret to carry back to Alicia. I would be unhappy until I told her and even more unhappy after I did. I ask if they can take me back to Berkeley. Linda quietly says “Okay” and puts her head back on my shoulder. Linda and I hold hands, and when we get to my cousin’s house, she says, “Come find me in Santa Barbara.” I kiss her briefly on the lips, and then kiss the others on the cheeks. Everything has gone right tonight, and we called it quits before anything could go wrong.
The house is dark. I feel exhilarated and want to tell someone all about my night. I am even tempted to call Alicia. I tiptoe through the living room, feeling for furniture.
“I’m up.” It’s Phil’s voice. As my eyes adjust, I see him stirring in his sleeping bag, now sitting up. “I’ve been waiting for you. It got so late I knew you must have had an incredible night and I bet you want to tell someone all about it.” I tell him everything, embellishing here and there. After I am done, Phil says, “I’m so glad I was here to listen.” A sweet drowsiness ripples through my body and, as I fall asleep, I am quite pleased with life.
Phil Freshman says goodbye the next morning. He is gone briefly then re-opens the door, cocks his head back in, and says, “I go everywhere, I do everything, and I never have any fun.” Later, as I fly over the Grand Canyon, I chuckle once again in admiration of Phil Freshman’s farewell.
To Be Continued, with a note on Memory (including comments by Phil Freshman)
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