Authors: Annie Carroll
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 are
a, 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 understan
ding 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 fa
st 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 shoulder
s 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 be
tter 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 twinkl
ing 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!
O
n 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.
“Lo
oks 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.
Thu
rsday 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.
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 lunch
time. 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.
“I can wear this with jeans
—maybe with nothing underneath.”
“Do that and I
’ll have chaperon you with Drew.” We both laugh.
On a rack of long, colorfully printed cotton skirts, I find one that is basically black. It has two long cords hanging down from the waist tha
t have tiny, silvery bells that tinkle very softly when I walk. I buy it. Ali buys one in green printed with little flowers, but no little bells. As a last minute impulse, I buy one of the see-through tunics in a golden yellow saffron color.
When
we walk out of the shop Ali says: “Let’s go someplace else for lunch. I’ve seen enough of the famous Haight Ashbury and the hippie world. It’s really a sleazy drug world. I think we’d catch some horrible disease if we ate anywhere around here.”
* * *
Mark drops by my office one day the following week to see if I want to go out to lunch. He has just come from a meeting with David about a new assignment.
As we walk to a café
around the corner from our office I realize that Mark is only going to be a friend. He is cute with his twinkling eyes and infectious smile. But there is no chemistry, no sizzling electricity between us—at least as far as I am concerned. Nothing like what I felt on that boat in Seattle and have not been able to forget since.
W
e carry our trays to the table and I ask him if he has heard anything from the editor at
Rolling Stone
.
“Not yet,” he replies. “Pearl is keeping me so
busy I probably couldn’t take on any other assignments.”
“
Mark, you are such a liar. If
Rolling Stone
calls, you’ll answer,” I laugh.
“Maybe.
At least the work on
Voices
keeps the bills paid. What does your roommate do, anyway?” He asks, abruptly changing the subject.
“She works for the
Examiner
in their Want Ad department. She did the same thing at the
P.I
. in Seattle. She says it’s very boring, writing up ads for people who call the newspaper wanting to list apartments for rent or cars for sale. She took a lot of art classes at Junior College, but sort of fell into the want ad job. The P.I. had an opening and a friend of her mother knew Ali was job hunting, so she recommended Ali. I know she’d like to do something else using her art background, but at least she has a job so she can pay her bills.”
“It’s a good entry level job. She’ll probably find something more interesting before long.
I’ll try to keep an ear to the ground and let her know if I hear about something.”
On our way back to the office, he asks if I want to go to City Light
s Bookstore this Saturday. Lawrence Ferlinghetti will be reading from his latest work.
“Why don’t you bring Ali
along, too,” Mark says.
“We’d love to go,” I answer, hoping Ali doesn’t already have a date
with Drew. Maybe Mark is interested in Ali which would be fine with me.
* * *
City Lights is the most famous bookstore in San Francisco. I had even heard about it up in Seattle because it stocks many books that cannot be found anywhere else on the West Coast. The owner, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, also publishes books by Beat poets and authors, like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.
Ali and I wait in front for
Mark as a steady stream of people pass by us and enter City Lights. It is early evening and the street lights, fuzzy in the fog, are beginning to turn on. Then we see him walking fast up Columbus Avenue.
“Sorry, I’m late. I had a meeting. And I’ve got some news.” He looks into the
brightly lighted bookstore through the wall of windows facing the sidewalk. “Whoa. We better get in there while there is any space left.”
“It’s definitely standing room only,” Ali says as we go inside. “But that’s okay.”
“You go on ahead,” Mark says. “I see a guy I have to talk to. I’ll find you.”
“This is like that game of sardines we used to play as kids,” I
say as I squeeze through the crowd toward the far wall. Ali nods her head and says: “Let’s just stop here.”
I look around at all the people sitting and standing in front of us, waiting to hear Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
On top of everything else, he is a brilliant poet.
Then I hear a soft voice from right behind me. “Did you lose the matchbook,
Julia?”
I freeze.
I recognize that honey voice instantly. It’s Austen Raneley. I do not turn around. Looking straight ahead, I shake my head ‘no’.
“Is that No-You-Didn’t-Lose-It? Or No-You-Are-Not-Going-to-Turn-Around-And-Talk-to-Me?” I can hear the grin in his voice.
I take a deep breath and turn half-way around and look up at him. Same black hair. Same brilliant blue eyes. Same honey voice. And same humming reaction in my body. My pulse is faster. I feel flushed and can’t stop from smiling.
“What are you doing here? It’s not exactly the kind of place I’d expect to see you?”
I hope I’ve managed to sound absolutely calm, despite how I feel. If it weren’t for all the people packed around us I think I would have already fainted onto the floor or raced out the door.
“I write lyrics. I like words. So what better place to come to on a Saturday night? Hear Ferlinghett
i. Find out what happened to the Lady in the Mist.”
“I’m living here now.
I got a new job. That’s pretty much it,” I answer mildly. Slow down, beating heart. Keep cool. Keep cool.
He is still smiling that warm honey smile and it suddenly dawn
s upon me that he must know my reaction to him. He probably sees it a dozen times a month from a dozen different women. For him this conversation is only a few minutes of amusement before the reading starts. It’s like a bucket of cold reality poured on my head. I turn back to Ali who glances up at Austen, then looks at me with a slight frown.
“I see
Mark coming,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if he could find us again in this crowd.”
“You still didn’t answer me, Julia. Did you lose the matchbook?” I freeze again. The tone of his voice is much colder. More insistent.
I turn back to him. No smile from me now. “No. I read it.”
“I have another one for you.”
“No thank you,” I force a small smile. This is becoming very uncomfortable. “I don’t need another one.”
Then I look
into his eyes and it is as if everything around us has stopped, the whole world vanishes. It is only me looking at him, him looking at me. It seems to go on for minutes, but I think it must only be for a second or two. I take the matchbook and pen from his hands, write my phone number inside and hand them back to him. I feel what seems like an electrical charge when my fingers graze his for an instant.
Immediately I turn back to Ali
and Mark who has managed to squeeze his way through the crowd to join us. My pulse is still pounding. My body vibrating, but I have to ignore it. Then I get a sinking feeling. Oh, my god, what have I done? My inner voice answers: ‘What you wanted to do all along. See him again. Talk to him again.’
“What’s your news?” I ask
Mark who glances at Austen for a second, then looks back at me. I am trying to get myself back to the land of normal. “Did
Rolling
Stone
give you an assignment?”
“You got it.”
Mark grins.
“So it’s
goodbye
Voices
and hello
Rolling Stone
?”
“Not quite yet,” he answers.
“You’ll still see me around
Voices
.”
The Ferling
hetti reading is superb—I think. Only one in ten things he says registers in my brain. The entire time I am aware that Austen is standing right behind me, probably hearing every word of our conversation. At least he can’t see how distracted I am. He doesn’t say anything more to me and when the reading and discussion is over Mark, Ali and I leave City Lights. I don’t look back.