When my dad was alive, I used to run through damp fields, exploring a wide-open property in the backwoods of Poulsbo, Washington. Hills dove up and down all the way to what felt like the edge of the West Coast, overlooking rugged and murky waters. Most days on the shoreline it was overcast and the beach remained a muddy brown, often covered in black sand-dollars. One day, we went on a boat with a friend of my dad's and mooned the people waving out to us. We were too far for them to see. Their loss.
My dad's house had only one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. Underneath it was a cellar I converted into a teen's hangout: one television, a Super Nintendo and collectible board game figures I spent months painting with toothpicks and model paints. I also found out my dad had a pet giant slug who slimed across the walls every day, very slowly, being a real damn creep, if you ask me. The time spent in Seattle covered many summers in my youth, from the time I was losing my two front teeth until I met my new-born half-sister Diana. We are 9-years apart. She went with my dad and her mom to Florida when he transferred soon after she was born.
We had to leave San Francisco. There was a pull north back to Seattle, to try it as an adult, but I heard it was expensive as well. Portland seemed like the alternative, it was rainy, which would be ideal for my photography as from what I've seen from photographers there, it's also very lush and green. My photographic vision thrives on sunlight in natural places. It had its disadvantages though: poor job market, only four months or so of non-cold or rainy months, and a saturated market of artists. All of these conclusions were from friends. I've still never visited.
I also thought maybe I could head back home, as the easiest solution.
Time was running out at Andrew's but his girlfriend lent us her place for a few weeks while she was out-of-town. Second night in, her door shut and locked us out. All of our personal belongings sat on the other side of a door we weren't the renters of. We sat helpless for two hours on the steps outside her door, until we found a locksmith willing to assist. We had no way to prove we were living there, but after he opened the door we rushed in to show him our identification. The situation should have been a lot worse but we managed to avoid it.
Liz had just started a job at a mall store selling clothes, she was about one week in. Her new contract with City was for a year, but we figured if we stayed near she could fly back if necessary. While she was at work I wandered down the street to contemplate our travel further. I found a local beer and wine bar, ordered what I could for lunch being gluten-free, and watched the regular season San Francisco Giants game on television. I stole the bartender's attention a second.
"How hard was it for you to get your job here?" I asked.
He was another bearded man, tall, young, pale, and humble. I supposed myself in good company since most of the bar's patrons were cheering the Giants, but not because they were fans of the team, in fact, I hate the Giants; it was because for a city of esteemed artists and business people, they sure did love their baseball home team. I found some comfort in that.
"It wasn't too hard. I just knew someone," he said.
Isn't that always the case? It had been for me even before California. Every job I ever had I knew someone who got me in. The bartender I met at the Rickhouse actually referred me to his company's human resources agent and I scored an interview to a new Speakeasy club opening in weeks. The interview was off Market Street, but underground. It was dark, much like it's sister bar, but more spacious. Dark wood furnished the entire spread. Unfortunately I wasn't qualified because I had no experience with cold-strain bar-tending, just corporate chain style which had taught me only the basics. The evolution of cocktail making was overtaking most of SF then. Finding a decent paying job even in the waiting industry was starting to feel hopeless. And frankly, I had just escaped it in Denver to pursue photography so it took convincing to even push myself into it again.
Time ran out on us. Natalie returned from Coachella but we stayed a few extra nights in Berkeley at the infamous (at least to us) Berkeley Inn. Flickering lights, dirty white-walls, weird Indian spice smells equaled cheap motel goodness. It was one step up from sleeping on a sidewalk right out in front of it. We did this so Liz could catch a STS9 show where she scored backstage passes, hung out with the band, and met up with her friend Joann who was in town, specifically for the show. I picked her up at the Fox Theater in Oakland late in the evening, and the next morning we left the Bay.
We were Los Angeles bound. And so was my sister.