It was 1968. The Summer of Love. San Francisco was crowded, dirty, and all things were measured in the extremes. I was packing up my dreams and striking out on my own when fate in the form of a flat tire stopped me.
It was stupid and wasteful to take a cab to the bus station as I was headed out of town with only $87 to their name. It was an expense that could have been avoided if I had not had that last shot with that last friend in that last bar on that last night in town. But not wanting to miss the 9:17 for Portland, I had to hurry. Portland held no special interest to me, and why I could not have picked any other bus that day was simply based on the fact that I had been told all of my life that east of Berkeley was the Midwest and south of San Jose was the Confederacy. Portland seemed the logical choice.
At Mission and 10th the driver swerved to miss the guy pissing in the street. That is when he hit the curb and bent the wheel. The curses did not fully escape the cabbie's lips for half a block. The air did not fully escape the tire for two blocks. My hope did not fully escape my chest until I saw, as grandpa would have put it, the dog running out the yard [read: Greyhound bus driving out of the terminal and down the street].
Hungover, unhappy, hungry, and undeterred I went to the bus station determined to wait it out for the next bus to Portland. And, to get a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I met him at the coffee shop, or, should I say, I saw him at the coffee shop. We would not meet until three days and 15 cups of coffee later. But that first day, that first glance, that first flash of his smile had me hooked. It was the Summer of Love, and love is what I felt for the man working the counter at the Greyhound Cafe. His name was Scabby Johnson.
It was stupid and wasteful to take a cab to the bus station as I was headed out of town with only $87 to their name. It was an expense that could have been avoided if I had not had that last shot with that last friend in that last bar on that last night in town. But not wanting to miss the 9:17 for Portland, I had to hurry. Portland held no special interest to me, and why I could not have picked any other bus that day was simply based on the fact that I had been told all of my life that east of Berkeley was the Midwest and south of San Jose was the Confederacy. Portland seemed the logical choice.
At Mission and 10th the driver swerved to miss the guy pissing in the street. That is when he hit the curb and bent the wheel. The curses did not fully escape the cabbie's lips for half a block. The air did not fully escape the tire for two blocks. My hope did not fully escape my chest until I saw, as grandpa would have put it, the dog running out the yard [read: Greyhound bus driving out of the terminal and down the street].
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| photo by: free use rights off the internet |
Hungover, unhappy, hungry, and undeterred I went to the bus station determined to wait it out for the next bus to Portland. And, to get a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I met him at the coffee shop, or, should I say, I saw him at the coffee shop. We would not meet until three days and 15 cups of coffee later. But that first day, that first glance, that first flash of his smile had me hooked. It was the Summer of Love, and love is what I felt for the man working the counter at the Greyhound Cafe. His name was Scabby Johnson.
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