T
he limousine's privacy panel was up and I had no idea what the couple in back were doing as I drove them to San Francisco last night. Whatever it was, they were quiet about it as the big, powerful Lincoln whispered along the concrete ribbon of Interstate 80 through the valley towns of Dixon, Vacaville, and Fairfield, then up the gradual slope of the Coast Range.
The couple in back were treating themselves to a limousine for their night in San Francisco. Their destination was the Teatro Zanzinni on the waterfront section known as The Embarcadero, where wharves and warehouses have been converted into restaurants and shops. The Teatro Zanzinni is a dinner theater featuring light opera and Cirque Du Soleil-like performances, and where a waiter may burst into an aria from “Turnadot” as he appears bearing platters of Himalayan red rice paupiettes with tomato ginger coulis.
At four-thirty that afternoon I had eased the stretched Lincoln through the residential streets of Davis, a college town amid the tomato and rice fields of the Sacramento Valley. Kids stopped playing basketball at a curbside hoop to stare and wonder who was going where. Curious neighbors tending their yards looked up and wondered the same thing. I found the address I had been given for this evening’s guests, a beige, two story stucco home. I parked, leaving the engine running with the secondary alternator whirring as it powered the lights, the heater, the stereo and DVD player in back.
Time to make just one more check of the ice bins, the glassware, and set the classical station at low volume on the stereo. Then adjust the temperature and fan settings on the illuminated blue panel over the seats in the back. A quick examination of my personal appearance reflected in the tinted glass of the long side window, and I’m ready for my guests.
The car was reserved in the wife’s name as her treat for the evening. She answered the doorbell. “Thank you for coming,” she said in a warm, gracious manner, and I silently resolved to make my contribution to this couple’s evening especially memorable in the pleasantest way possible, instead of perfunctorily delivering them from A to B, like pizzas or freight. She had a bottle of imported champagne in her hand, which I offered to put on ice in the car.
We had already supplied a bottle of some quick ferment paint remover, which I cannot persuade the young owner of the limousine company not to stock.
“You can’t serve this horse piss,” I say. “People around here know their wines. At least throw in a bottle of Korbel Brut.“ But he sticks with the cheap stuff. A false economy. We’re in the business of providing prestige, however illusory. We should at least serve prestigious bubbly.
My guest signs the contract and credit card slip, then apologizes because her husband is still primping upstairs. “Men,” she sighs with mock resignation. “Never ready on time, always fussing with their makeup and hair.” Her husband emerges a few minutes later. “Thank you for coming,” he says, reinforcing my determination to give these people extra care. “Our reservations are at six,” he says.
Uh oh. We have 72 miles to cover in 90 minutes. We'll be on an older, narrow Interstate on a Friday evening. Only two lanes in each direction. An accident, or an elderly Asian doing 50 in a Toyota, can slow traffic to a crawl for miles. Then there is Bay Area traffic. Not a moment to lose.
Westbound traffic isn’t so bad. Most of the cars are heading east, toward Reno. We ascend the coast grade at American Canyon, then over the crest and down toward the lights of Vallejo on the north shore of San Francisco Bay. I glance at my watch. Forty minutes to the Embarcadero. No way we’ll be there on time. We'll be at least 15 minutes late, but I say nothing, steering the big Lincoln in a gradual weaving pattern between lanes of traffic for optimum speed without attracting the unwelcome attention of the California Highway Patrol, and without causing any champagne spillage in back.
We cross the bridge over the Carquinez Straits at 70, where the Sacramento River flows into San Francisco Bay. We pass the big C&H sugar plant at Crockett on the left, then through the east bay cities to Oakland and to the double decked Bay Bridge, garlanded with a necklace of white lights against the evening sky.
Ten minutes to go. The car is equipped with a state issued transponder. That means we can pass though the Bay Bridge toll gates without stopping and ascend the ramp to the upper level of the two tiered bridge, the view partially obscured by a high steel rail. Then down through the tunnel at Treasure Island, emerging from the tiled tube with a vista of San Francisco, rising in tall, giant blocks of glittering lights from the blackness of the Bay.
We’re five minutes overdue. Silence in back. They’re taking in the view. Look! Look! San Francisco! A city perpetually celebrating, knowing it’s on the brink of destruction from earthquake or ocean and not giving a damn. San Francisco, a city named for a sinner turned saint, and where most of the sinners and saints wear smiles of amused tolerance toward any and all who visit. Port cities welcome the world.
I take the first exit off the Bay Bridge, Fremont Street, a narrow, sharply curved channel of cement. Then an immediate left, followed by a quick right onto Howard Street, doubling back toward the Bay to The Embarcadero. My attention is on amber alert for tourists in rental cars given to sudden moves: “Turn here, Mustafa!” Crunch.
Unscathed, we make a left on The Embarcadero and slide past warehouse docks where clipper ships once moored. Nowadays most Bay Area bound cargo is handled at the huge container port on the Oakland side, so the warehouses have been renovated into shops, parking garages and restaurants, like the Teatro Zanzinni. I stop in a no stopping, no parking, no nothing zone and open the curbside rear door.
“We’re 15 minutes past your reservation time,” I tell my guests. They seem surprised. Mrs. Guest looks at her watch. “No, we’re early,” she says. “Our reservations are at six-thirty. Did I say six? I’m sorry. I meant six-thirty. Oh, and that was a very nice ride. Very enjoyable. Thank you.”
I inwardly sigh and hand her my card with my cell phone number printed in a very large font, one easily read by inebriated guests. I suggest that she call me just after the server brings the dinner check. “I’ll be parked about five minutes away, “ I say, wondering if that’s at all possible at this hour. The stretched Lincoln needs a lot of parking space, something as rare in San Francisco as tent revivals for evangelicals.
But I get lucky. I find an almost empty street in a warehouse section above The Embarcadero and park. I fish a book out of my valise, Joan Didion’s The Year Of Magical Thinking. The book is Ms. Didion’s account of dealing with the deaths of her husband, author John Gregory Dunne, and their daughter, Quintana Roo, within two months of each other. She writes: “Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.”
Thoughts of death, my own and those of my friends, have been humming quietly in the back of my mind for several years now, but one never expects death to be sudden. Or messy. Often, it’s both, and we know that, but we hope to simply drift away, as if going to sleep.
I also think we instinctively know when death becomes imminent. Our desire to savor life at its fullest diminishes. Some of us become cranky, Others gradually become patient as the ailments of age emerge. Still others start backfires of physical activity to ward off the shadows of depression and lethargy. But such strenuous exercise which may jar something loose internally and hasten an untimely demise.
I put the book aside and doze in the limousine until my cell phone rings. Mr. and Mrs. Guest are ready now. I check the back of the car for litter. The bottle of cheap wine is unopened. I told the boss not to serve that stuff. If there was a wino or a market basket recycler around, I’d give him the bottle. I’ve done that with bottles of liquor prom kids thought they’d hidden, not realizing that I know all the hiding places in the car, and that I was once an underage drinker myself.
But that was an eternity and the blink of an eye ago.
Comments? Critques? Threats Of Litigation?
This Valentine's Day piece is the best...I felt like i was there. --Angel
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You have captured the mood of the job and as usual give insight into a situation. Of course the main thing is you made it entertaining. -- Wht
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Lovely post, Mike -- Cyn
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Wonderful story Mike...thanks so much for sharing it. If it hasn't already been brought to your attention, I came across a typo you might like to correct.... I think you meant "through" [then though the east bay cities to Oakland] ….Thanks again Mike. -- Soy
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I can almost see the passing scenery, dimmed somewhat by the tinted windows, 'Materman...lovely stuff, as usual. -- Shan
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Loved this! Happy Valentine's Day! -- Juli
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A day late but not a dollar short. Great story. I could almost see the area I visited only once, but now would love to visit again. Thanks, as always. -- Linda
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Thanks. I know San Francisco. Walked that Embarcadero all the way to the Golden Gate and back- 5 or 6 miles. Great stuff! -- Gambatay
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I recall this one...liked it then: still great! Here's a reprise of one of mine, first published in 1991:
A Valentine's Day Love Story: A Perfect Couple
by Linda Fields
There are some species that mate for life. There are more, I suspect, like Homo sapiens, that mate for as long as it is unilaterally convenient. Thus, total commitment today, in a long-term relationship, is both a novelty and a situation deserving of special recognition.
One unique couple with whom I worked closely for many years had such a union. They stood side by side for over twenty-five years. Oddly enough, it was not love at first sight but an arranged marriage. Furthermore, the matchmaker who paired them did so only because they looked right together, nothing more.
Their marriage of convenience endured for a quarter of a century, not because things always went smoothly for them, but despite the everyday annoyances and minor disasters that befell them.
She never worked outside the home but labored hard at domestic chores with nary a day off for reward. When children arrived and added to her work load, she silently and patiently adjusted to the added burden, putting up with nuisances like frogs, snakes, and what have you, with an equanimity that all but defied the three little boys who tried (but failed) to push her past her capacity. She actually hummed as she slogged through seemingly constant agitation. And while much of her life was in a spin, she never allowed the turbulence to upset her balance.
Typical of many relationships in the 1960s, the couple easily slipped into, and assumed, clearly defined and delineated, albeit never equal, roles. As unfair as it seemed, when it came to the division of labor, he seemed to get the less strenuous tasks. But they were so ideally suited to each other that his work seemed to take up where hers left off, perfectly complementing her.
.
He worked with a passion--a heat that seemed to burn within, yet one would never suspect his inner fire from the cool facade he maintained through his rough and tumble life.
And so it went for many years, both dutifully committed to the roles they had contracted to play. Alas, even perfect mates must accept the sad fact that one of them will outlive the other. One steamy August night, while washing a load of towels, a menial though necessary chore, she made the ultimate concession to her advanced age and progressively weakening condition. I believe she died painlessly. Though he valiantly tried to continue without her, he succumbed the following morning.
Did he die of a broken heart? Did he simply lose his will to go on? I'll never know, but I like that rather romantic explanation of the nearly simultaneous demise of my perfectly matched, avocado green, jumbo capacity washer and dryer.
Now that appeals to my overly developed sentimentality coupled with a muscular appreciation for the comic in your surprise conclusion! -- MB
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This would make a good start for a book. A mystery-love story. Or beginning of a script for an episode of "Alcatraz?" Great observation of detail. Everyone who has been to San Francisco loves it, and those who haven't been there want to go.-- Eve
Whew! For a moment I thought you meant Alcatraz. -- MB
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I delighted in the limo ride and in Linda’s story -- Fay
