writing

What is that makes something compelling enough to read? If it's a memoir, and it's about someone, the life they've lived thus far, is it the events of their life? The way they've considered those events? They way they write about them? Is it about contemplation? Exhibitionism?

What exactly is it that I've enjoyed reading about when reading about a person's life lived thus far? I think first and foremost, it has to be language and its use. If something is written well, I will read it through almost no matter what. I'm thinking about A Parisian from Kansas. Or Travels with Lizbeth. Or Being Geniuses Together. Or Gertrude and Alice. All of these are, in my opinion, interestingly written. Probably a little bit of meandering between thinking aloud on the page, contemplatively, and alternating with some description of a person, place or thing.

Writing about events, chronicling, seems dull to me, so listing one's accomplishments is not so much what I look for in a book. If however, the author, or the teller of the tale, perambulates, meditates, weaves in and out of the calendar of their life, hovering here and there to put something into context, I might linger, but it really depends on how they spill their beans. I imagine I like them poured slowly, one by one, maybe even categorized for color or size before moving onto the next, but not too perfunctorily. Just tantalizingly enough to cause one to wait until the next pops out, or dribbles, or saunters, and then the next and so on. But then again not too showy with the bean revelations or else it might feel too self-conscious.

I notice now, the titles above all have something in common: place as a character with which to interact. Travels. I suppose I like the idea of being somewhere else, to be out of one's element. That's what I like about being elsewhere. It forces you to think differently, to experience the world new again, as if you were your younger, more innocent self. It didn't take much to transform your world anew: a winter's storm; a string of lights; a blanket draped over two chairs and a flashlight to read by. I love that. I mean, I sometimes feel that way again, here, at home, on a simple walk after it rains, or early in the morning when everything is waking up, fresh from sleep. I love that feeling of seeing something for the first time, because, really, as they say, you can never step into the same river twice, right? Everything is changing, nothing stays the same. But I digress. These books are about being in places where the senses are constantly engaged, on high alert. Isn't that what a life, a lucky life, well lived can be all about?

If I were to write something, I would like to leave stories for N to read, so he would know my life better. What it was like growing up, things I couldn't tell him even though I've told him so much. Yet there's so much that I could never tell him. I could tell him the stories of my parents, as much as I know, and their parents, of which I know even less. That would be interesting to me, possibly to him. I can try but I just have these fragments that add up to not much. Sometimes it's interesting how life turns out. And sometimes it's not.

When I was still in college, a friend and I would argue about the end of the world. Back then, before the end of "the cold war", Americans worried about nuclear bombs, and about the former Soviet Union sending missiles over here to annihilate us. My friend and I would sit in our cramped old-fashioned kitchen around an atomic styled chrome table that I bought at a garage sale. We'd spend most of our tiny paychecks on cheap red wine, expensive cheese, and back then I'd found a good source for fresh brioche. Over these hard won delicacies, we fought. I was convinced the world would end with a bang but she disagreed. To her a whimper seemed much more likely. When I look back on this scene, I have to concede that she may have been right.

This town was different back then. Not all prettied up and manicured within an inch of its perfectly landscaped lawns. It was funky. In fact, I worked briefly at a place called The Blue Mango, a co-op restaurant that every self-respecting hippie within a thousand mile radius had heard of and made a pilgrimage to. In truth, the Mango was just one of countless such establishments across the country back then. Places run by committee, when even the smallest detail had to be agreed upon by a majority of members. Including what brand of ketchup to use or how to rotate bathroom duty. But we loved the Mango because it was ours. Never mind that our paychecks were often months late being cut or that we "waitoids" had to split our tips with the bussers and the kitchen staff. We weren't beholden to anyone except ourselves and our patrons.

The "floor" was made up of tables just like any other restaurant. I can't remember the carpeting but I remember stacking chairs after closing to vacuum late into the night. Sometimes, Walter Pope would show up and play the piano in the corner while we restocked condiments. Sometimes he'd even stay after we'd left, under the little dim spotlight, playing I have no idea what songs. Years later I saw him in the east bay and we exchanged pleasantries. He was as happy go lucky as he'd been a decade earlier. I wondered if he still played piano in the middle of the night.

Around the outside of the main restaurant was an open air patio that wrapped around the building. On busy summer weekends, for brunch, people would be lined up out the door even though there were plenty of tables inside and out. They even lined up to pay for their meals, at the small lectern where the cash register sat, near one of the swinging wooden doors that led from the inside to the patio. They stood in line, under the little mango, painted blue, that dangled over the register. I don't think anyone ever saw the little blue mango up there, collecting dust.

The menu design changed little in the all the years of the Mango's existence. Most of the offerings remained steady as well and consisted of vegetarian classics such as Huevos Rancheros, pancakes, waffles, etc. There were also dishes that bespoke the restaurant's philosophy, like the Worker's Breakfast. This was a bowl of beans, rice, shredded cheese and diced green onions topped with a dollop of sour cream. My favorite was the "nut yeast gravy" always available to pour liberally on whatever one wished, and went especially well with potatoes. This all sounds so cliched now, and it may have been back then, but it was so comforting to be there. Even when meetings went late into the night and sometimes into the next morning and even if those meetings were strained and the agendas preposterous, it was all done with empathy and respect. I mostly felt supported there and amongst friends even when my last paycheck finally came six months after I'd quit.

I knew it was time for me to stop waiting tables. I'd started my vocation in high school, five years earlier, in southern California, in a place called The Parasol, an umbrella shaped building in the Googie style that was open twenty four seven. As innocent as its exterior may sound, it was a strange place with even stranger clientele and I was happy to leave there not long after my training was complete.

When I got to SF, in the fall of 1982, I bussed tables for a while in a fairly expensive, well-respected, dimly lit white cotton table cloth establishment where a friend worked. Her uncle waited tables there so I suppose I had an in. Or my in had an in. In any case, it was probably a typical restaurant there at that time. It may have been ahead of its time in that it served the new California cuisine that was just starting to come into its own. My friend and I were two of maybe four bussers. We were required to wear black pants and white shirts with skinny ties. Comfortable shoes were a wise investment as we were on our feet before the restaurant opened getting the floor ready for opening, folding napkins, refilling condiments, etc. After closing we were responsible for cleaning up while the wait staff counted their tips over a leisurely bottle of wine followed by a rollicking party in the basement. This always included quantities of high quality weed and the occasional cutting of lines. After everyone was good and plastered, and weather permitting, or not, there were usually a party or two to attend, more than likely in a warehouse south of market. But that's another story.

Not too long after I'd started bussing, one of the chefs helped me get a gig as a waiter at her friend's new restaurant in North Beach. It was right on Columbus. I remember riding my little motorcycle up there in the mornings, in the fog. The air smelled like freshly roasted coffee and good bread. I might have stayed there for a while but the place didn't last long, possibly due to poor planning. At the time, I was 19 years old and was helping to get the grand opening ready. I would be waiting tables in the cafe, which is where guests would have an appetizer and drinks while they waited for tables to become available. I don't recall exactly how they prepared for the opening, but I don't recall having any instruction on formal table service. This proved disastrous as the owners had neglected to train us on basic formal table service. With my luck, on the fated night, because we were not prepared with adequate staff in the cafe, I found myself pouring for a very large table who seemed friendly yet also strangely condescending. This, I later found out, was the party of a well-known chef and national restaurant critic. The next day, in the paper, my faux pas were one of the highlights of his critique. Needless to say I didn't last long there. But while I was there I met some characters of interest.