Breakfast at Sally's Page 2

  Just about every age and nationality was represented at Sally’s on this day: whites, blacks, Filipinos, Hispanics, and the Indian nations were well represented. All of their faces were etched with the evidence of life’s battles. Alcohol and drug abuse had taken their toll.

  A man was asleep with his head on the table, his food half eaten. Another man rocked back and forth in his chair, mumbling about the angels coming to take George Bush away. The man before me in line shook when he walked. A woman in the corner was crying, and the Salvation Army’s Major was on one knee, trying to console her.

  Many had been soldiers, carpenters, cooks, bankers, shipyard welders, salesmen, plumbers, and artists, I supposed. Now, they were the lost. The rejects.

  And I was one of them.

  How did I get here? I knew I didn’t belong here. Who did?

  I felt I was shipwrecked, marooned on the rocks off the coast of some foreign land, driven there by a storm. Had the first mate gotten drunk and fallen asleep at the wheel? Had the captain misread his charts? Was this a ship of fools? Was there a way to hoist the sails and take us all to an island of plenty? Or was it every man for himself? Who were my shipmates? Why and how did they get here? Were they castaways like me?

  I had always expected a Carnival cruise through life, with an occasional wind-tossed day. But now, I felt like a figure in a Hieronymus Bosch painting, lost in a distorted landscape, a world without credit cards, vacations, or even homes.

  I had lost all hope. And I saw no hope in these quarters.

  Of all the people in the room, I must be the saddest, I thought, because I have fallen the farthest.

  As the line moved forward, I could overhear three teenagers talking about their Christmas night.

  “Did you go to your mom and dad’s?” one sandy-haired boy asked his tablemate.

  “Fuck, no!” he said. “You know I never go there! I went to Psycho Betty’s Bar and played some pool and then I went to sleep under the Warren Avenue Bridge.” He nervously pumped his right leg up and down like he was dancing to some up-tempo beat no one else could hear. “What did you do?” he asked the other boy.

  “I went over to Mark’s. He gave me a nickel bag for Christmas. I smoked it up and he let me crash there. We watched some TV. He got drunk. You know how he gets mean when he’s drunk. I pretended to fall asleep, so he left me alone.”

  The teenagers were young and strong of body, but they were joyless.

  I thought back to when I was their age. On the day after Christmas, I would be dressed in the new jeans, shirt, and tennis shoes my mom and dad had given me. I would be excited about going to the movies with my girlfriend, Bonnie, and necking in the back row of the Gloria Theatre in Urbana, Ohio, near where I grew up. I would wear my Old Spice cologne and slick my hair back.

  The teens at Sally’s had holes in their shirts. Their jeans were old and dirty, and their shoes were worn and ripped. They had no movie or milkshake money. I counted the children in the room. There were four boys and seven girls. Three of them had to be under two years old. Their mothers were doing what all mothers do: coaxing them to “Sit up straight, Mary,” “Don’t spill your milk, Johnny,” and “Eat your carrots, Billy; they’re good for you.”

  I wanted to cry.

  “Rice?” Chef Pat barked, bringing me back to the reason I had come to Sally’s. Food. I had reached the front of the line.

  “Yes, please,” I replied, holding out my tray. Pat slapped a big spoonful of gummy rice onto my plate.

  “Chicken?” she asked.

  I had to smile. “Sure,” I said. “It’s delicious.”

  “And you’re a liar!” Pat said, smirking.

  Jake and C were discussing the art of dumpster diving when I returned to the table.

  “I found these last night in a dumpster off 8th and Veneta,” Jake said, pulling some rings out of the pocket of his jeans. “I don’t think they’re real, but I’m going to check them out.” He looked puzzled. “I thought I had four,” he said, digging deeper in his pocket. “Oh, yeah, here it is. I’ll bet some broad got in a fight with her husband on Christmas Eve and threw them in the trash.”

  “There’s a good one up near the Safeway on 11th,” C said. “I’ve found some good books there.”

  I took another bite of chicken and began to tune out C’s and Jake’s conversation and the din in the room. My mind dragged me back to the darkness of the evening before.

  It was a rainy Christmas night. Homes were adorned with colored lights, while songs of the season played on the radio. Willow, my dog, was lying in the passenger seat of the Olds Silhouette van with one eye open. We’d been driving around for about three hours with no place to go.

  I remembered the warmth and the love that had filled my home on Christmas night just two years earlier, as I cuddled on the couch with my three grandchildren after a full day of excitement, presents, and a full meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

  Now I was driving south, past Gig Harbor on Highway 16 toward Tacoma, tired in body and soul. The hopes and dreams had come and gone. There was nothing left. Depression had robbed me of the defenses that had carried me through many tough times over nearly sixty years. There was no pride, no ego—just pain.

  I had begged God many times since last July to take me gently in the night. But He wouldn’t do it. So I didn’t believe in God anymore.

  I remembered what Ernest Hemingway wrote in A Farewell to Arms: “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these, you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”

  Willow sensed my despair and climbed into my lap as I drove. Tears fell from my cheeks, and she climbed up to lick them off. “It’s okay, girl,” I said as I pushed her from my lap. “It’s okay.”

  I called her Willow the Wonder Dog, because she was so wonderful. A ten-pound Bichon Frise, she had been my faithful companion for five years and never ceased to amaze me. Willow gave me unconditional love, unlike my former significant other of sixteen years, or my children, or my friends. When I was down, she sensed my despair and snuggled in my lap, or tried to cheer me up by grabbing her ball to play fetch. She asked only for a little food, a trip to the park each day, and a tummy rub.

  We had been mostly living in our van since being evicted from our home by the sheriff in July. We slept in state parks if we had money for the camping fees. If we didn’t, we tried to find any safe haven: a church parking lot, a Denny’s restaurant, or the Muckleshoot Indian casino, all of which were open twenty-four hours. We would find a safe spot and make a nest among the clothes in the back of the van; then Willow would do her circling ritual a couple of times before snuggling up against me, and we would go to sleep.

  It was particularly difficult for me, now fifty-nine years old, because, you see, I had not been merely comfortable—I had been a rich man. Just two years before I had been living in a 5,600-square-foot beachfront home in Indianola, with three cars, three boats, a camper, and all the toys any man would want. I was rich not only in material goods, but also in family and friends.

  Some called me the man who had everything.

  Then The Source, my publishing business, went under, and I lost it all. The rise of the Internet had been my downfall. But even then, like the true believer that I was, I expected an It’s a Wonderful Life ending to my hardship. Like Jimmy Stewart on Christmas Eve, all the people who said they loved me would rally to save me from despair. Clarence, the angel, would come to earn his wings by rescuing me.

  But there was no Clarence in sight this night. No snow. I didn’t run into any big oak tree just outside Pottersville. I was headed for the Tacoma Narrows Bridge to end the pain, the agony, the shame, and the disgrace of this lonely, worthless life. The Mr. Potters of the world had won.

  I had tried to find Willow a home that morning. I took her to an old friend
’s house in nearby Poulsbo. I didn’t have any money for a gift or a card, so I made a card from a paper bag to give to them. We had been friends for fifteen years, but that was before my financial fall and the accompanying depression and disgrace.

  I could hear Christmas music inside when I rang their doorbell. I waited, and rang again. “Who is it?” Bob’s wife called out.

  “Merry Christmas. It’s Richard,” I replied.

  A curtain was pulled aside and then put back in place.

  “Oh. No, I can’t let you in. Go away,” she said.

  “I have a Christmas card for you, and I was hoping to talk to you about Willow,” I pleaded.

  “Bob says to go away!” she yelled.

  So, Willow and I left. We went to the park for a walk and then began driving around with the last of the gas in the car. The gas gauge was nearing empty when we reached the bridge at about midnight. I pulled into the observation area just south of the pedestrian path and took a piece of paper from my old briefcase in the back seat.

  With hands shaking, I wrote the note I had been dreading writing all day:

  WHOEVER FINDS THIS VAN, PLEASE TAKE CARE OF MY DOG, WILLOW.

  SHE IS ‘THE WONDER DOG.’

  PLEASE LOVE HER.

  I filled her cup with water and placed it in the cup holder and filled her bowl with food, hoping it would be enough until someone found her. I cracked the windows just a little, put the note on the dash, and left the keys in the ignition. I took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and pushed. “You guard the car, Willow,” I said, stepping out. It was something I’d said to her a thousand times before on our journeys.

  I closed the van door and started walking toward the bridge. I told myself not to look back.

  But Willow knew something was wrong. She barked and cried like she never had before. I turned to see her frantically scratching with her paws at the window, trying to get out. I hardened myself for what had to be done. She’s just a dog, I thought; that’s what my ex used to say.

  I stepped out onto the slippery grate of the bridge and started that last walk. I shook as the cars roared past, but somehow I felt relief knowing the end was in sight. The driving gusts of wind and rain pushed against me, but as I found a place to jump, I realized that ending my life was going to be easier than I thought. A quiet numbness came over me. I could not feel the rain or the wind or hear the cars any longer.

  As I put my hands on the rail, I thought I heard Willow’s piercing bark. Not possible, I said to myself. I couldn’t hear her clear out here. The silence returned. And I leaned out over the handrail. Swinging my left leg up and over, I straddled it, balanced, and peered at the darkness far below.

  I felt warm, yet my hands and clothes were wet. I brought my other leg over.

  Now, I said to myself. Jump now... now... now...

  Another gust of wind and rain hit my face, pressing me back against the rail, and this time I was sure I heard the barking; my best and only friend was calling.

  The sound of a truck roaring past startled me. I climbed back over onto the metal walkway. I felt cold and wet. I had to go back and see if Willow was all right.

  I had to go back.

  I turned and ran toward the van. The wind was pushing me forward now and I slipped and fell, tearing my jacket and shirt all the way to the skin.

  Willow was still barking and clawing at the window when the van came into sight. I opened the door and grabbed her little body and clutched her close. She was panting. Her heart was pounding. Mine was, too.

  “You okay?” A voice startled me back to reality. It was C. He was standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder. “You left us for a while,” he said.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Well, I’m off,” C said, picking up his duffel bag. “It was nice to meet you, Richard. I’ll see you later, Jake.” Then C held up two fingers and said, “Peace. Be safe.”

  I took another bite of mystery meat and watched C select three loaves of bread from the rack as he headed out the door. I took another sip of coffee and wondered what I was going to do next. I had no place to go. The van was running on fumes. Sally’s was closing in fifteen minutes. I couldn’t sleep here.

  After leaving the bridge last night, Willow and I had slept in the parking lot of the Department of Social and Health Services. In the morning, a kind social worker had suggested I go to Sally’s. She’d searched through her purse to give me her last $1.80, which went straight into my gas tank. I had driven here because I had nowhere else to go. I had no bank account (the bank had closed it due to mounting overdraft fees); no retirement fund; no 401K; no home. I did have less than two dollars’ worth of gas in my car; my clothes; and a ball for Willow.

  I took a last sip of coffee and headed for the door. I was blinded by the bright sunlight as I pushed the old gray door open. The sun had returned! It had been either raining or overcast for twenty-seven straight days.

  I had saved a piece of mystery meat for Willow for her lunch. I had cut it up into small bites with great effort, and I gave it to her as soon as we were in the van. She scarfed it down, and I turned the ignition key. We headed out, looking for a miracle, because that was all that was left.

  As we turned the corner into the alley by the dumpsters behind Sally’s, C was standing in the middle of the road feeding the birds. There were about twenty crows and a dozen pigeons feasting on the day-old bread. The crows were cawing as if in thanks. There was plenty for all. C gave away the last of the bread and then walked up to the van. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  “No place in particular,” I said.

  “I’ll spot you a little gas money if you give me a lift across town,” C offered.

  “Hop in,” I said. I had nothing better to do. I glanced in the rearview mirror as he slid into the van. The sandy-haired young man from Sally’s was hanging over the dumpster.

  “A tweeter throwing up,” C said, shaking his head.

  “What’s a tweeter?” I asked.

  “Heroin user,” C replied. “A tweeter knows what he is going to do every day: get up and throw up and go find some more heroin. Welcome to Sally’s!”

  Willow hopped into C’s lap. It surprised me. Willow seldom jumped into the lap of a stranger. “What’s this?” C asked, chuckling at Willow.

  “This is Willow the Wonder Dog,” I said. “She’s my best and only friend.”

  C patted her gently on the head.

  “Where are we going?” I said, coasting forward down the alley.

  “I’ll show you,” C said, handing me five dollars for gas.

  Chapter 2

  A DAY WITH C, CAMPBELL, STEINBECK, AND TWAIN

  I guided the van down the alley and then turned onto Park Street and headed for the nearest gas station. The gauge was on “E” and the gas warning light was glowing.

  “We’re really low on gas. I hope we can make it,” I said.

  “We will,” C said.

  Willow hopped back into my lap and assumed her favorite position for a sunny day—head out the window as far as possible, with her ears flying in the breeze.

  C reached over and pushed the buttons on the radio. “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  “This is the BBC World News from London on NPR,” the announcer said. “U.S. President George Bush warned Saddam Hussein again today that time was running out on his opportunity to adhere to the UN resolution requiring Iraq to destroy all weapons of mass destruction. In London, British Prime Minister Tony Blair echoed Mr. Bush’s warning in a special communiqué to the Iraqi leadership.”

  “It looks like we are going to war,” C observed, turning down the volume of the radio. Then, reaching into his duffel bag, he pulled out a book. “Do you read often?” he asked.

  “I haven’t for quite a while,” I said.

  “What do you like to read? Novels? Fiction? History?” he asked.

  “God, it’s been so long since I read a book,
” I replied. “I think the last was Eye of the Needle, by Ken Follett, when I was thirty or so.”

  “Have you ever read any of Joseph Campbell’s work?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  C then opened the book he had pulled from his bag and held it up a few inches from his face. He pushed the book forward and looked at me again. “This is from The Power of Myth,” he said. “Bill Moyers—you know who Bill Moyers is?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, Moyers asks questions of Campbell, and Campbell answers them,” said C. “I’m picking up where Campbell has just told Moyers that the depth of the Depression was a great time in his life.” He cleared his throat and pulled the book close to his face again, and began to read aloud as I drove.

  C tossed off words like “transcendence” and “consciousness” and “bliss” and “rapture.” I just drove. Pretty soon he raised his voice about an octave and began to rock back and forth as he read. Then he began to pound his fist on the dash of the van as he concluded with a comment about following your bliss and being refreshed by the life that is within you.

  I coasted into the 7-Eleven for gas, just as C snapped the book shut. “I’ve got to use the restroom,” he said.

  I put five dollars’ worth in the gas tank and waited for C to return. He climbed in with a paper bag and two paper cups. He then pulled out a big bottle of cheap red wine and poured himself a cup, spilling some on his pants. “Would you like some wine?” he asked.

  “It’s a little early for me. Thank you, though.”

  I pulled onto 11th Street and asked, “Which way?”

  C pointed north and took a sip of wine as I started driving again. “What do you think of Campbell?” he asked.