I live in this very nice place. This is a clean and very exclusive neighborhood. This is the brand! Like Tiffany or even a Bentley! Don’t think they don’t want what I have. They can’t have it! She is no different. Oh no, I think this little creature should know her place. She’s lucky I even noticed her and gave her my attention. Now she wants to make this noise! I have to end it. I squeeze harder and know that soon she will take a last breath. She will know the end is near and relax and then it will be over. I let go after about 5 minutes. I thought it might take longer but it didn’t. I will stay and make sure she really is dead. I put her down. I kneel. I know it is over. I say a prayer to God because I don’t like killing. I think I will not forget this one even though it’s not that hard to kill something. I’m o.k.

Funny, I bet the neighbors never would think this happened right next door. The police might even come over if they heard the noises, the screams! I’m sorry for killing. Don’t they realize? Don’t they know I can’t help myself? I hope they just mind their business and don’t come down this road. I think I hear a Train from a long time in the past. This Trestle Glen. It screams just like she did.

I’m sure I’m not the first one to do something like this in this canyon. Hell, they filled in the creek to build these beautiful homes! They did a lot worse than what I just did. The police are on the other side of the door and they can’t even hear the screams in my basement! Are they deaf?!!! I need to be calm and go to the door and act like nothing is wrong. They probably think she is just a stray cat or a little creature caught in a trap out back in the greenway behind these beautiful homes. They don’t suspect what I’m doing because I am an upstanding member of society. They know the kind of people that live in this part of town. I have nothing to worry about.

I should calm down and just smile and offer them a coffee. I will. I will be nice and offer them a coffee. They’ll never hear her screams because they’ll be so impressed with my home and my nice disposition. They’ll surely be happier to deal with me tonight than those ones down in the bad part of town! They should feel lucky they were called to this nice place. I didn’t really do anything so wrong anyway. I don’t feel bad. What the hell could they do to me? I am in control. They aren’t even able to hear all the noise! She must shut up!!!

I am sure now that she really had to go. I could control her and make her stay in her place. She would come after me (or even them!!!!) and I couldn’t let that happen. …and it’s not as if I really wanted to do it. It just had to happen, that’s all. I hope you don’t judge me. I really don’t like to kill any living thing, not even this little creature. You know by now it wasn’t her screaming, it was me. Does that make me a weak man? I was repulsed. I was scared. Doesn’t that make me a good man? I was worried that she would somehow come back to life and bite into me as I slept, for gods sake. I hated killing…even this poor little spider.

RJW

Another of the company’s innovative and altruistic annual events is Midnight Shakespeare. Teams of inner-city youth and professional theater instructors create a wonderful alternative learning opportunity. Specifically targeting under-served neighborhoods, students work in an ensemble atmosphere to strengthen verbal and written communication skills while building an appreciation for technique, discipline and sacrifice - all necessary ingredients for achievement.

The Shakespeare Festival partners with community organizations like the East Bay Conservation Corps, the South Side Community Center of San Jose, and the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.

Students in the 10-week program discover and examine the world of Shakespeare, and perform an abridged Shakespeare play using their own life experiences to create fully developed characters. This approach stimulates imagination, engages intellect and builds confidence. Past performances have included: Macbeth, The Taming of the Shrew, A Comedy of Errors, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Twelfth Night, The Tempest, and Othello.

The folks over at the SF Shakespeare company were kind enough to send me some video footage from their production of “Twelfth Night” at the East Bay Conservation Corps in 2004. In the future I will be posting more excerpts from this show. Here is a link to an open source version of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night written in 1599.

Click Here to View the QuickTime Movie

If you need assistance posting a video or audio story relating to Oakland please feel free to contact me: seamus at theorganiccity dot com

Produced every year in San Francisco, Oakland, Pleasanton, Cupertino, and San Mateo from July through September, Free Shakespeare in the Park provides an opportunity for everyone to see high quality, professional theater free of charge.

Their debut production was “The Tempest” in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. In the summer of 2006, they put on another production of “The Tempest” at Duck Pond Meadow in Lakeside Park at Lake Merritt. The perormance received critical acclaim.

The folks over at the SF Shakespeare company were kind enough to send me some photos from this years production of “The Tempest”. They also sent some video footage from previous productions around Oakland that I will be posting to the site over the holidays.

As this is a storytelling site I thought it would be appropriate to link to the open source version of the play itself. Its funny to think that it was written in 1611.

For those of you that want a quicker snopsis of the plot I copied the following summary from the SFshakes.org website interspersing it with photos from the actual production.

The Tempest
A storm strikes a ship carrying Alonso, Ferdinand, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Stefano, and Trinculo, who are on their way to Italy after coming from the wedding of Alonso’s daughter. The royal party and the other mariners, with the exception of the unflappable Boatswain, begin to fear for their lives. Lightning cracks, and the mariners cry that the ship has been hit. Everyone prepares to sink.

The next scene begins much more quietly. Miranda and Prospero stand on the shore of their island, looking out to sea at the recent shipwreck. Miranda asks her father to do anything he can to help the poor souls in the ship. Prospero assures her that everything is all right and then informs her that it is time she learned more about herself and her past. He reveals to her that he orchestrated the shipwreck and tells her the lengthy story of her past, a story he has often started to tell her before but never finished. The story goes that Prospero was the Duke of Milan until his brother Antonio, conspiring with Alonso, the King of Naples, usurped his position. With the help of Gonzalo, Prospero was able to escape with his daughter and with the books that are the source of his magic and power. Prospero and his daughter arrived on the island where they remain now and have been for twelve years. Only now, Prospero says, has Fortune at last sent his enemies his way, and he has raised the tempest in order t make things right with them once and for all.

After telling this story, Prospero charms Miranda to sleep and then calls forth his familiar spirit Ariel, his chief magical agent. Prospero and Ariel’s discussion reveals that Ariel brought the tempest upon the ship and set fire to the mast. She then made sure that everyone got safely to the island, though they are now separated from each other into small groups. Ariel, who is a captive servant to Prospero, reminds his master that he has promised Ariel freedom a year early if she performs tasks such as these without complaint. Prospero chastises Ariel for protesting and reminds him of the horrible fate from which she was rescued. Before Prospero came to the island, a witch named Sycorax imprisoned Ariel in a tree until Prospero arrived and freed her. Prospero orders Ariel to take the shape of a sea nymph and make herself invisible to all but Prospero

Miranda awakens from her sleep, and she and Prospero go to visit Caliban, Prospero’s servant. Caliban curses Prospero, and Prospero and Miranda berate him for being ungrateful for what they have given and taught him. Prospero sends Caliban to fetch firewood. Ariel, invisible, enters playing music and leading in the awed Ferdinand. Miranda and Ferdinand are immediately smitten with each other. He is the only man Miranda has ever seen, besides Caliban and her father. Prospero is happy to see that his plan for his daughter’s future marriage is working, but decides that he must upset things temporarily in order to prevent their relationship from developing too quickly. He accuses Ferdinand of merely pretending to be the Prince of Naples and threatens him with imprisonment. When Ferdinand draws his sword, Prospero charms him and leads him off to prison, ignoring Miranda’s cries for mercy. He then sends Ariel on another mysterious mission.

On another part of the island, Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, and other miscellaneous lords give thanks for their safety but worry about the fate of Ferdinand. Alonso says that he wishes he never had married his daughter to the prince of Tunis because if he had not made this journey, his son would still be alive. Gonzalo tries to maintain high spirits by discussing the beauty of the island, but his remarks are undercut by the sarcastic sourness of Antonio and Sebastian. Ariel appears, invisible, and plays music that puts all but Sebastian and Antonio to sleep. These two then begin to discuss the possible advantages of killing their sleeping companions. Antonio persuades Sebastian that the latter will become ruler of Naples if they kill Alonso. Sebastian is convinced, and the two are about to stab the sleeping men when Ariel causes Gonzalo to wake with a shout. Everyone wakes up, and Antonio and Sebastian concoct a ridiculous story about having drawn their swords to protect the king from lions. Ariel goes back to Prospero while Alonso and his party continue to search for Ferdinand.

Caliban, meanwhile, is hauling wood for Prospero when he sees Trinculo and thinks he is a spirit sent by Prospero to torment him. He lies down and hides under his cloak. A storm is brewing, and Trinculo, curious about but undeterred by Caliban’s strange appearance and smell, crawls under the cloak with him. Stefano, drunk and singing, comes along and stumbles upon the bizarre spectacle of Caliban and Trinculo huddled under the cloak. Caliban, hearing the singing, cries out that he will work faster so long as the “spirits” leave him alone. Stefano decides that this monster requires liquor and attempts to get Caliban to drink. Trinculo recognizes his friend Stefano and calls out to him. Soon the three are sitting up together and drinking. Caliban quickly becomes an enthusiastic drinker, and begins to sing.

Prospero puts Ferdinand to work hauling wood. Ferdinand finds his labor pleasant because it is for Miranda’s sake. Miranda, thinking that her father is asleep, tells Ferdinand to take a break. The two flirt with one another. Miranda proposes marriage, and Ferdinand accepts. Prospero has been on stage most of the time, unseen, and he is pleased with this development.
Stefano, Trinculo, and Caliban are now drunk and raucous and are made all the more so by Ariel, who comes to them invisibly and provokes them to fight with one another by impersonating their voices and taunting them. Caliban grows more and more fervent in his boasts that he knows how to kill Prospero. He even tells Stefano that he can bring him to where Prospero is sleeping. He proposes that they kill Prospero, take his daughter, and set Stefano up as king of the island. Stefano thinks this a good plan, and the three prepare to set off to find Prospero. They are distracted, however, by the sound of music that Ariel plays on his flute and tabor-drum, and they decide to follow this music before executing their plot.

Alonso, Gonzalo, Sebastian, and Antonio grow weary from traveling and pause to rest. Antonio and Sebastian secretly plot to take advantage of Alonso and Gonzalo’s exhaustion, deciding to kill them in the evening. Prospero, probably on the balcony of the stage and invisible to the men, causes a banquet to be set out by strangely shaped spirits. As the men prepare to eat, Ariel appears like a harpy and causes the banquet to vanish. She then accuses the men of supplanting Prospero and says that it was for this sin that Alonso’s son, Ferdinand, has been taken. She vanishes, leaving Alonso feeling vexed and guilty.

Prospero now softens toward Ferdinand and welcomes him into his family as the soon-to-be-husband of Miranda. He sternly reminds Ferdinand, however, that Miranda’s “virgin-knot” is not to be broken until the wedding has been officially solemnized. Prospero then asks Ariel to call forth some spirits to perform a masque for Ferdinand and Miranda. The spirits assume the shapes of Ceres, Juno, and Iris and perform a short masque celebrating the rites of marriage and the bounty of the earth. A dance of reapers and nymphs follows but is interrupted when Prospero suddenly remembers that he still must stop the plot against his life.

He sends the spirits away and asks Ariel about Trinculo, Stefano, and Caliban. Ariel tells her master of the three men’s drunken plans. She also tells how the men were led with her music through prickly grass and briars and finally into a filthy pond near Prospero’s cell. Ariel and Prospero then set a trap by hanging beautiful clothing in Prospero’s cell. Stefano, Trinculo, and Caliban enter looking for Prospero and, finding the beautiful clothing, decide to steal it. They are immediately set upon by a pack of spirits in the shape of dogs and hounds, driven on by Prospero and Ariel.

Prospero uses Ariel to bring Alonso and the others before him. He then sends Ariel to bring the Boatswain and the mariners from where they sleep on the wrecked ship. Prospero confronts Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian with their treachery, but tells them that he forgives them. Alonso tells him of having lost Ferdinand in the tempest and Prospero says that he recently lost his own daughter. Clarifying his meaning, he draws aside a curtain to reveal Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess. Alonso and his companions are amazed by the miracle of Ferdinand’s survival, and Miranda is stunned by the sight of people unlike any she has seen before. Ferdinand tells his father about his marriage.

Ariel returns with the Boatswain and mariners. The Boatswain tells a story of having been awakened from a sleep that had apparently lasted since the tempest. At Prospero’s bidding, Ariel releases Caliban, Trinculo and Stefano, who then enter wearing their stolen clothing. Prospero and Alonso command them to return it and to clean up Prospero’s cell. Prospero invites Alonso and the others to stay for the night so that he can tell them the tale of his life in the past twelve years. After this, the group plans to return to Italy. Prospero, restored to his dukedom, will retire to Milan. Prospero gives Ariel one final task—to make sure the seas are calm for the return voyage-before setting her free. Finally, Prospero delivers an epilogue to the audience, asking them to forgive him for his wrongdoing and set him free by applauding.

When I arrived home from school I staggered up the stairs to my bedroom and dumped my rucksack onto the bed. I was pleased that the summer holidays had finally come and that I didn’t have any more exams to do. Then I changed out of my school uniform and into my favourite gothic outfit, which were a black strappy top, dark blue jeans, black boots and a black cardigan.

Just as I was about to open my make-up bag the phone started ringing. “Hi Mum” I said as I sat down at the bottom of the stairs. “Hi sweetheart, I’m going to be a bit late because I’m stuck in traffic, but Auntie Rose is coming over this evening, so she’ll keep you company” said Mum. “Thanks, I’ll see you later, bye” I said as I placed the phone back and then I went into the kitchen and made myself a nice warm mug of cocoa, but just as I was about to sit down I heard someone opening the front door. It was only Auntie Rose with her enormous brown suitcase. “Hi Auntie Rose, it’s nice to see you again. Can I help you with your suitcase?” I asked “No, I can manage it” she replied as she started climbing up the stairs.

While I was washing out my favourite mug Auntie Rose entered the kitchen and asked me: “You look pale, are you feeling alright?” “Yeah, I’m fine, its just make-up I’m wearing” I replied. After a few seconds my Mum arrived back from the local beauty salon. “Sorry I’m a bit late, the traffic was awful and I felt like I was going to be stuck there for ages” she said as she dumped her jacket onto the back of the chair. A few minutes later my Dad arrived back from his office and then we talked for ages about what we would like to do during the holidays and also caught up with the local gossip.

Saturday 22nd July

This morning I decided to go shopping in Birmingham, so I wrote a list of things that I wanted to buy with my pocket money, but when I had finished writing Auntie Rose started peering over my shoulder to see what I had written. “Are you okay?” I asked her when I noticed that she was staring at me “Yes, I’m fine” Auntie Rose firmly replied as she continued dusting. When I went to get ready I thought “Why is she acting so oddly?”

Afterwards Mum dropped me off at the entrance to the Bullring shopping centre. I went inside and just as I was about to go onto the escalator my mobile started vibrating in my pocket. It was a text message from Auntie Rose and it said: “I’m keeping an eye on you”. I was starting to feel a bit scared, but I didn’t want it to ruin my fun. One of the shops I went to was called the Oasis market, it was quite big and it had about 4-5 floors. It sold all sorts of clothes, gothic jewellery, accessories, make-up and it also had a little café. There I bought a short sleeved black t-shirt that had a picture of a dragon on the front and a Celtic cross pendant on a black leather cord.

When I arrived home I went to show Auntie Rose the t-shirt I bought “What do you think of it?” I asked. “Take that thing off and put something more appropriate on!” she scorned as she picked up a garden catalogue. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked, but Auntie Rose didn’t reply. At dinner time Mum and Dad made us a fantastic tuna pasta bake and salad. We all thought it was scrumptious, so we decided to have seconds. While we were eating I could feel Auntie Rose watching me like an eagle watching its prey.

Sunday 23rd July

Today was a quiet sort of day, so I went into the lounge to look for an interesting book to read. “Hello, niece” sneered Auntie Rose as she passed behind me. I could feel her cold breath on the back of my neck, which made me shiver and I was starting to dislike the way she spoke to me, so I decided to sit outside in the back garden and then I started drawing a picture of my favourite creatures e.g. fairies, unicorns, dolphins and angels for Mum and Dad. After a few seconds I heard the cat flap rattle, it was our cat Blackie who had been asleep on my bed all morning.

Suddenly I heard “What are you doing?!” I turned around and saw Auntie Rose walking towards me. “I’m drawing” I replied as I handed the piece of paper to her and at that very second she ripped it into a million pieces. “There are more important things to do than drawing silly childish pictures!” she yelled. I couldn’t believe what I heard and then I said “Of all the things I’ve done for you, why are you treating me like this?” As I walked back inside I could feel tears rolling down my cheek like rain trickling down a window.

Monday 24th July

After breakfast I redrew the picture and then as I gave it to Mum she said that I’m just like Dad. At 11:30am everyone was getting ready for a trip out to Stratford, so I fetched my rucksack and it contained my portable CD player, my puzzle book and my booklet about St. Jude (not the one who betrayed Jesus). I’m became very interested about the saints when I learned about them in one of my RE lessons at school.

Soon we stopped at a service station to buy some cold drinks and snacks. While we were waiting I was starting to feel bored, so I took out CD player out of my rucksack and started listening to my favourite band called Nightwish. After a few seconds Mum and Dad arrived back with the drinks and some crisps. “You can’t drink that stuff, it’ll rot your teeth” said Auntie Rose as Mum handed me a bottle of diet coke. I gave a sigh and then placed it into the rucksack, so I could save it till later.

Finally we arrived in Stratford and when Dad had packed the car we went to the Red Lion pub for lunch. “Today is going to be a fun day and nothing is going to wrong” I thought, but when our drinks had arrived Auntie Rose carried my drink towards the table then she suddenly tripped over the table leg and spilt it all over my t-shirt. I could feel my face going bright red. “Don’t worry dear, it’ll soon dry,” said Mum as she handed me some napkins.

After lunch we went for a walk by the canal and we weren’t the only ones who had the same idea. When we arrived, there were parents pushing their toddlers in pushchairs, a group of teenagers were playing football and some dogs were chasing a yellow tennis ball. Then we sat in the shade underneath a willow tree and watched the world go by.

Tuesday 25th July

Today I decided to give my room a good clear out. First I sorted my magazines into a pile and threw away the ones I didn’t want any more, next my exercise books, (which were a bit tatty) into another pile and so on. While I was doing that I put a Bon Jovi CD on and started singing along with it, but I didn’t noticed that Auntie Rose had entered my bedroom. “What are you doing?” I asked as she switched my CD player off. “Keep it down, I can’t hear myself think!” she yelled. Then I picked up my keys and walked towards the front door “I’m just popping out to the Newsagents!” I called “See you in a bit!” Dad replied.

I wish that Auntie Rose would give me some space without her having a go at me or making me do something that I don’t want to do. I’m trying to think of some ways to stop her bullying me. When I was a little kid she was more polite and understanding, but now I don’t know why she’s being nasty towards me. I wonder if Mum and Dad have noticed something odd about her.

I’ve tried putting up a “KEEP OUT” sign on my bedroom door, but it only worked for about 30 seconds and it ended up in the kitchen bin. When I came back to my room I found a note on my bed saying: “Nice Try”. I’ve tried ignoring Auntie Rose, but it’s not as easy as you may think, so I have decided to write a poem to show her that I don’t like being bullied just because I’m different.

After dinner Mum and Auntie Rose were having an argument in the lounge and it was about me. I heard Auntie Rose called me a lazy ungrateful little brat and that Mum should be stricter with me; I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. If I was lazy I wouldn’t have helped her paint her garden fence and tidy up her garden last half term. After that Auntie Rose started making offensive marks and lies about me then Mum pronounced “Crystal is older enough to make choices for herself!” After a few seconds I hurried upstairs to my bedroom, buried my face into the pillow and wept.

Wednesday 26th July

While Auntie Rose was out I started typing out my poem. It took me quite a while to get it just right and a couple of times I had to reword it too. After 20 minutes I finally finished it. This is what it said:

Why are you bullying me?
Why can’t you see?
Just because I’m different from you doesn’t mean that I don’t have feelings too.
So what if I stand out from the crowd, I’m not a freak; I’m a normal person who is humble in everything I do.

Next I carefully put inside an envelope and placed it onto Auntie Rose’s bed. “I hope this’ll work” I thought as I slowly closed the door behind me and walked downstairs for dinner. When I went to get ready for my shower there was a knock on my bedroom door. I opened it and there stood Auntie Rose holding the poem in her hand. “Crystal, I want to say that I’m very sorry about how I’ve been treating you these past few days and the horrible things I said about you” she said “I forgive you” I replied as I gave her a great big hug. “I promise that I’ll never judge you again” said Auntie Rose with a smile.

The End

Note: There’s a moral to this story: Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Joyce Whitelaw, a noted Oakland musical performer (who has an Organic City Featured Tour) and composer who has delighted local audiences in recent years with her topical, modern operas Il Giocatore and Casino (about golfing and gambling, respectively) and two works composed for the Chabot Space and Science Center, Saturn Symphony and Dragon Skies, will be performing songs about historical figures of Oakland, including an expanded version of her ode to George Pardee.

Joyce will be accompanied by soloists Mel Leroy and Lisa Pan.

Friday Evening, December 8, 2006
5:00-7:00pm Reception and Concert

This special event is hosted by the Friends of the Pardee Home Museum as a fundraiser for the house. Tickets are $60 each and can be reserved by calling the museum office at 510 444-2187.
Reservations must be made by December 1st.

For more info visit

The cast play people in a little Quebecois village, around 1810, just about the end of the romantic age of voyageurs. It’s a small town, and cold this time of year, but we’re dancing indoors to keep warm. Some of the men decide to hunt beaver for their pelts, hoping to get rich quick, and become . Weeks later, on New Year’s Eve, they’re tired, miserable, cold, and homesick, and not nearly as wealthy as they’d hoped. They want to go home for the New Year’s fete, happening *right now*, where their sweethearts must be off dancing with other men! One swears he would sell his soul to the devil if he could only get back for the party.

Well, the devil knows a good thing when he sees it, and summons the man for an interview. The bargain is struck, and the devil lends them his Chasse Gallerie — a flying canoe, which they use to get the hundreds of miles home in a single night.

But what of their souls? How will they outsmart the devil? Come see the show and find out!

But the gifts I get from the rides are far more wonderful than the cost of any negative encounters. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen there: a person at night juggling fiery torches in the darkness, looking like some weird Shiva with many arms made of flame; black-clad students practicing martial arts, whirling long staffs and their own limbs this way and that; a crazy old man chasing a goose which swam out into the lake and looked back at him.

Whenever I get to feeling down, depressed, or too sorry for myself, I’m sure to see the best thing of all — the dog with three legs.

I first saw the dog about three years ago, during a very dark time in my life. I’d lost my job through my own screw ups, had injured the nerves in my neck so that one of my arms kept trying to go numb, had wounded myself and others emotionally. I was really feeling like a victim and was quite sad.

Then, riding along, I saw the dog with its owner. There’s something pitiful about a three legged dog. I adore all animals and my heart goes out to dogs with three or four legs. Many of them play around the lake, even though little signs say NO DOGS and I’ve had passing cops yell at me with my own dog when we were walking there. But I’m glad the dogs are there. The three legged dog may have been a pitiful sight to me, but it wasn’t wasting any time feeling sorry for itself. Rather it was running as well as it could after a ball its owner threw up and down the turf beside the lake.

The vision of this dog is still with me today, and I’ve seen it again several times over the years. At that time, I felt like that dog — I’d lost my legs and they’d never grow back, no matter how sorry I felt for myself. But the dog was still out there having fun and enjoying its life and playing. And I resolved then and there to make the three legged dog my mascot. If I had a family coat of arms I’d put it on there, rampant like those heraldic lions. That dog is always a reminder to me to stop pitying myself, raise my eyes up to the shining beauty of the lake right in front of me, and to enjoy my life in whatever form it comes to me today.

And as I walked this morning in the moon dust on the trail, the evergreens evoking Colorado and Montana childhood in me, I heard a bubbling tenor cry across the water. And there, balanced on a bough extending over the water, was a slate blue kingfisher with a white collar ring and big crest. Halcyon, the Greeks named it, from which we get our halcyon days. The hemerai alkuonides were the days when the kingfishers built their nests, and the sea was calm. You could say, in Latin, “carmen halcyonis audiebam,” or “I heard the song of the halcyon. This morning, I did.

The night fog was a blanket laid over Adeline Street and the harbor district. Even with my collar up and hat pulled down, it collected on my eyebrows, lashes and clothes. Feeling my way down the middle of the slippery, unfamiliar pavement, gloved hands in my seaman’s coat pockets, I stayed well clear of the darkened store fronts and the trash-strewn gutters. My ears were open for anyone else about.

The street lights were not helpful, each one only a dim glow when I was close enough to see it. There were no shadows and the hundred yards between them were lost to the dark.

Closing the pierside, I could smell the harbor more strongly. All of the trash, garbage and sewage had collected there to remain until the tide turned and flushed it into the bay.

I still had a little time before the cops passed by on their closing hours enforcement patrols. I didn’t want to meet those worthless pricks again.

I had watched them operate during this last couple of days. They would cadge a couple of drinks, promote a blow job, or parlay it into a freebie poke from one of the drabs, the ones still there and desperate for an all-nighter. The women knew that a quickie might make the screws more pleasant on the next waterfront clean up sweep.

The stink of the dive came through the moist air as I closed on it. Stale beer, remnants of voided bellies and bladders, the wastes dropped into the spaces between the buildings, all melded with the rotting garbage in the gutter to become a nauseating stench.

Well, I did not expect to be here long.

The letters on the lighted sign, MAGDA’S - Honest Drinks, Good Food, were barely legible, faded over the years in the weather and the salt air.

The door opened easily after pushing down on the thumb-levered latch. Closing it, I looked over the dimly-lighted room. There were the typical greasy spoon odors of congealed grease and burned food.

The bar’s counter was to the right; a few tables were on my left. They were empty, chairs upended on the tops.

Someone’s grandmother was sitting at the bar’s counter, sizing me up as I came in. The mouth split her face and somehow the teeth stayed in place as she grimaced a smile. The dress was tight on her hips, loose on her chest. A leg slithered past the hem when she swiveled toward me, dark hose clipped to a garter.

The guy, who must have been the bartender, was leaning against the far end of the counter, smoking a blackened and misshapen stick. Surely, a Crookes, like the Master’s, rum soaked, and evil smelling.

He was shorter than me, older, heavier, a round, tooth-brush-mustached face, short hair. His sleeves were bloused, held tight on his forearms with the garters above his elbows.

He watched me for a couple of steps before he smiled, showing a mouth full of gold-capped teeth.

“Evenin’ sailor, kitchen’s closed. What’ll you have?”

“Seven and seven?”

“Smart ass.” He laughed, the Volstead Act prohibited the sale of liquor, even if it was not against the law to buy it. Regardless, he pulled a bottle from below the counter. Tipping a couple of fingers into a glass, he passed it to me when I settled onto the stool midway down the counter. It smelled like turpentine. Dark enough, maybe a little creosote for color with a touch of cayenne for flavor, real bootleg rot gut. It must have been a challenge, or he had a clientele with main drums for stomachs.

I spun a quarter off my thumb, arcing it across the counter and into his shirt pocket. He nodded his approval at my little trick. With a smile, he fished it out and dropped it into a drawer. He started to hand a dime back. I shook my head and he winked, sweeping it back into the drawer.

“You’re not from around here are you, sailor?”

I heard the woman walking slowly toward us and the scrape of the stool as she found the seat next to me.

“Yeah, Maritimes,” I answered.

He nodded, grinning. “Blue-noser, eh?”

“Uh, huh.”

The woman put her hand on my arm, trying for my attention. I looked at her, and she ran that ghastly smile again.

My appraisal was quick and unflattering.

Her hair was thinning, and dyed a faded, blotchy henna. Maybe not a grandmother, more of an age that my mother could have been. She might have been pretty … once. At about five feet, she would have been petite. I always wondered how they came to this.

I looked back at my glass. She took her hand away.

“You’re not from around here, either, are you? You sound like a Kraut.”

“Close.” He smiled. “Netherlands, I sailed for Lloyds. Nitrates,” he added.

“Long time ‘way from home.”

“True enough.” He polished the counter with a towel, and waited.

“Long way from home, now, too.”

He leaned back, arms straight and looked directly at me.

“I jumped ship in Mexico when the war broke out in ‘14. Knew we couldn’t make it home. Made my way here after the Armistice.”

“Tough times!”

“Too true, too often, sailor.”.

We were quiet for a minute, studying each other.

“Signed on?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Ticket?”

“First Engineer.” His face changed, apparently impressed..

“Ordinary,” he said.

“Steam?”

He laughed, then turned his head. He touched his left ear and the single gold ear ring, curious to see if I knew.

“Brandenburger?”

“Yeah.” Then he grinned.

“Have one, barkeep. You earned it. Not many left who can claim that.” I set a half-dollar quietly on the counter for him.

“Thank you, sir. Don’t mind if I do. Here,” and pulled another bottle up with a pair of glasses. He poured out the two of them from the Red Label before recorking it. He took my original and pushed it over to the woman.

“Say, ‘Thank you,” to the man, Lettie.”

She took the glass and gulped half of it down before looking at us, in tears, and croaked out her thanks.

I started to take a sip of the scotch when the Westminster chimes from the clock on the mirrored wall behind the bar, caught, and held my attention. Two bells of the midwatch. Nothing here, time to go.

As if on cue, at the last note struck, an old timer came gimping through a door next to the bar. It struck me as a mimic of a Swarzwalde clock.

Not a word came from him as he put the bucket down close to us. Lifting the mop to wring it out by hand, he began swamping out the room.

This close, I saw his full-length peg-leg.

It was crudely formed from rough-sawn planks and held together with screws. He needed a man’s leather belt and suspenders to hold it in place. Well, that explained the thump when he walked. A bit of a tire’s tread was nailed to the end of it.

Working, he came close by us as I watched. Stooping to lift the bucket, the end of the wooden peg slipped on the wet floor. He fell, sprawling, flat on his face, and overturning the bucket. He was scuttling about trying to regain his footing in the spreading pool of dirty water.

Leaning over, his hands on the outside edge of the counter, the barkeep disgustedly growled, “Jeezus, you clumsy old fart. Clean that mess up. I want to get out of here sometime this morning.”

He grinned at me, shaking his head while holding up his glass to me in a salute.

I let go of mine and stepped off my stool to take the old man’s arms. I helped him stand. He was wet and slippery as I lifted him, and I had to step carefully. We were face-to-whiskery face for an instant before I released him and straightened.

“Thank ya’, sir, sorry.” He pulled a towel out and began wiping off my coat, cowering as he glanced at the barkeep.

“Enough, old timer. Belay. It’s right enough, let be.” I gently pushed him away.

Standing there, I saw his miraculous medal that had come out from under his shirt.

“Really nice,” I said as I fingered it, and went on instant alert.

He snatched it away. I stood back with my hands open and backed away, watching the barkeep and the woman. I shrugged and sat back on my stool.

The barkeep hadn’t taken a sip yet. He was watching me with a different expression now.

I tipped my visored hat back, and looked at him. Seeing my face fully in the light for the first time, he rushed to reach under the counter. Before he could, I had his arm, and yanked him over the counter with a grip on his trouser’s belt. He was screaming in pain from the dislocated shoulder as I slid him off the top and into the ancient swinging the mop at me. They went down in a heap.

The woman came off her stool with a banshee’s screech, a narrow-bladed skinner’s knife in hand. She slashed at me, easily warded off by a forearm blow that knocked her off balance.

I swept her off her feet and kicked her in the jaw as she fell, breaking it and her neck. Turning, the two men were still on the floor when I kicked the barkeep’s head hard enough to feel the skull give under the steel toe of my boot.

The old-timer tried to run.

I had him by the neck, holding him down on the floor, my knee in his stomach. Gibbering as I leaned over him, he was too terrified to say anything after he saw me. Then he was screaming until I put my hand over his mouth, pressing his lips against the toothless gums.

“Be quiet!” Quaking under my grasp, he tried to stay still.

“You’re dead,” he squealed, when I took my hand away.

“Does this feel dead?” I asked. I pinched his nose hard enough to make it bleed. He choked on the blood. It bubbled from his nostrils when he coughed. He swallowed a couple of times, and stared at me.

“What’s this?” I asked, tearing the heavy chain from around his neck and over his head. He yelped as the links caught and tore bits of hair from his tonsure.

“Tweren’t me.” He began blubbering. Slapping him hard a couple of times stopped the distracting noise.

“You’ve got it.” I held it in my fist, shaking it in his face. “What happened?”

“It was him,” jerking his head toward the barkeep’s body. “And, her.”

Gathering his shirt in a fist, I raised his face to mine.

“Tell me.”

**********

Stripped bare, I turned off the tap of my stateroom’s sink and toweled myself dry. I had carefully rinsed off his medal first, before laying it on a towel. Now, I patted it dry. Finished, I pulled mine around from my back, placed there while washing off the remnants of the tussle.

Lifting Lars’, I read the engraved Confirmation dates on each, 25 September 1907. Save for the names, they were otherwise identical, as we were.

My half-hour-younger, little brother had been murdered for everything he had on his person. After nearly two years, this was all that was left from when he went missing.

“Jumped ship,” they said, and closed the case.

Less careful than I, he had come to a violent end. They had slaughtered him like a hog. Finished with their bloody deed, they had dropped his gutted and weighted body into the Alameda Channel through a trap door in the bar’s storeroom.

Now, the three of them were food for the crabs, laid amidst the others they had preyed upon over the years. Ripped open from chin to crotch, their guts cut to ribbons, I had ballasted them with the canned goods from the larder and dropped them through the same portal.

Knowing that hope was gone, there came anguish. Dry-eyed and burning, unable to weep, I leaned against the bulkhead and prayed for my brother.

“Saint Nicholas, patron of mariners and those souls in Purgatory, hear me, please.”

Notes:

Closed it - Nautical term for approaching something, as in closing the distance

Master - Title of the captain of a merchant vessel

Seven and Seven - Mixed drink, Seagram’s Seven and 7-Up

Main Drums - Steam boiler drum that contains water and generates the steam for the engines.

Maritimes - The Maritime Provinces of Eastern Canada on the Atlantic coast

Blue Nose - A native of Nova Scotia

Signed on - Signature on contract to sail on a ship for the specific voyage

Ticket - Merchant Seaman’s License to perform specific duties aboard ship

First Engineer - First Assistant to the Chief Engineer of the ship

Ordinary [Seaman] - Deck hand of lowest rank and responsibility

Steam - In this instance, steam or sail-driven vessel

Left ear ring - Worn by men who rounded Cape Horn under sail - Mark of bravery and competence.

Brandenburger - Iron-hulled sailing ships in the grain and wool trade, Australia to Europe, in late 19th, early 20th centuries. Later, hauling guano from Pacific islands to Europe for fertilizer, the “nitrates trade”.

Two Bells of the Mid-Watch - Old style of timekeeping aboard ships under sail. They marked four hour watches beginning at midnight with eight bells, the end of the First Watch, and the beginning of the Mid Watch, at 12:00 pm or 0000.

12:30 am or 0030, was one bell, 1:00 am or 0100, was two bells, a progression continuing until the end of the watch at 4:00 am or 0400 and eight bells, the end of the Mid-Watch and the beginning of the next four hour watch.

Sailing ship’s lacked ship’s clocks, other than the navigator’s chronometer. Time was kept by a pair of half-hour glasses at the helm. When the navigator identified the local zenith, the glasses were turned and eight bells of the Forenoon Watch was rung. The glasses were turned every half hour after that, for each watch and the appropriate number of bells were rung.

Scwarzwalde - German “Black Forest” - noted for the animated clocks with figures of animals popping out of the clock and marking the hours.

This morning Vic and I took part in the March of Dimes’ WalkAmerica. We left bright and early, right on time (7:40) according to my plan and caught the 51 bus easily up the street from our house. Though wrangling the stroller between busses was mildly annoying, we also made our transfer to the 12 bus without mishap and wound up down at Lake Merritt a half hour before the walk was supposed to start.

The lead time wound up being fortuitous because when we hopped off the bus at the address indicated on the web site, I could see nothing resembling a large walk-a-thon in the immediate vicinity. I started wandering toward the lake and the lakeside park on the off-chance that I could see something indicative in that direction and sure enough, while I didn’t see anything, I could hear the announcer on the loudspeaker up ahead beyond the slope of a hill and some trees.

We walked down into the park and up the hill and sure enough around the bend, a lawn opened up and the tents were pitched there, along with an archway of balloons to mark the starting line for the walk. I pushed Vic’s stroller under the archway and looked around at all the tents. Music was booming from the speakers under the main tent where a stage was set up and the announcer would step up to make announcements. Most of the tents appeared to be specifically set up for members of various corporate teams. I felt a bit puzzled by the fact that all these corporate tents were the ones right up front, because I had no idea where to go to check-in and turn some of my donations in.

Finally I spotted the main check-in tent and stepped up to give my name and turn in my envelope. Unfortunately, the folks at the tent weren’t very organized, they didn’t have the lists of folks who’d signed up online. So I had to fill out a paper form and estimate the total donations I’d received. The guys also didn’t seem to understand that most of my donations were given online so weren’t in tangible format, but rather electronic credit card payments. I only had two checks on me, one from a co-worker and one I wrote myself to consolidate a number of cash donations that were given to me by other co-workers.

Regardless of this confusion, we got all checked in and then wandered over to secure some free Krispy Kreme donuts. I’d hoped that we’d meet some other parents to hang out with in the crowd. While I did have some random conversations, none of them panned out into being a “friendly hang out while walking” kind of thing. Before we walked, they had an aerobics instructor run a warm-up and stretch session for a few minutes. Vic and I danced to the music instead of warming up. It’s kind of hard to do stretches when you’re holding a 22lb 11 month old after all.

Around 9:15am it was finally time to line up and start walking. I put Vic back in the stroller and got ready to go. They gave us the go, and off we went. The course was the entirety of Lake Merritt, we were to walk around it going one way, get to the final checkpoint, then turn around and go back. I set off in high spirits, Vic was kicking his feet happily in the stroller, the weather was beautiful instead of the predicted rain and there were baby goslings populating the banks of the lake.

The lake sports several interesting architectural structures around its edges. On one end is a nice Roman-Greek style colonnade with vines growing on some of the posts. The sun was very bright and the sky was clear, so it was a relief to get under the colonnade for a while and walk in cooler shade. We kept pace with two women and their little boy who is a year older than Vic throughout the first part of the walk. This meant a steady, fairly rapid pace, but with slow-downs due to the volume of people in the walk. We made it to the last checkpoint 5k/3.1 miles around the lake in just over an hour.

Many groups abandoned the walk at the midpoint, walking past the checkpoint to rejoin the crowd by the free food in the park. I stood at the checkpoint for a while, debating whether or not to go back around or not. I drank about four cups of water while Vic slumbered peacefully in the stroller before making up my mind to go ahead and complete the entire walk. I spun the stroller around and headed back the way we’d come. This time, I opted not to cross the beach at the bottom point of the lake because getting down there involved pushing the stroller through a fair amount of sand and the path down was pretty broken up. I’d almost lost control of the stroller coming around the first time and had no desire to repeat the experience.

Unfortunately I wasn’t paying attention as we approached that area of the lake and found out that we were now stuck down at the bottom and if we wanted to walk around on the sidewalk instead, I’d either need to turn around and walk back to the driveway that circles the boat dock in order to get back onto the sidewalk, or I’d need to push Vic, who was still dreaming away, up a steep grassy verge to get onto the same sidewalk. I opted for the grassy verge and gave myself quite a workout. The only soreness I’m feeling now post-walk is from the backs of my thighs and aching in my knees and it’s from going all out to push the stroller up a 45 degree incline.

Once on the sidewalk again, I retied my shoelaces which had come loose and then took off. We were able to maintain a much brisker pace on this second loop due to the fact that so many people had dropped out. There was more room for me to navigate with the stroller and I could pass slower-going folk more easily. So I really pushed myself and gave myself a good workout and made it back around the lake in about half an hour. My total time for the entire 10k/6.2miles was an hour and 45 minutes including my extending water stop at the final checkpoint. Not too shabby for an overweight mama pushing a 22lb kid in a 10lb stroller!

Reproduced in part from Thursday’s Child an online journal.

Eyes still closed, I sense the woman nearest me pass by, noiseless except for a soft cooshing of feet padding on grass. And then a pause in her grassy footsteps. I hear the squeaky sound of green followed by a sharp rooty snap and in my mind I envision her stooped, pulling her quarry from the earth in a quick jerk, then straightening up to store it safely in the cloth bag strapped around her chest. Grassy footsteps fade as she and her sisters continue hunting for urban greens.

“Hope they give those a good washing before eating,” I think. Silent walking sentinels gone, I open my eyes. I love this place, this watery tree-studded refuge anchored in the heart of my city.

A goose with suspicious eyes waddles past, followed by his nervous mate. It’s springtime, the time when geese hiss and snap and even chase no matter the enemy’s size. I freeze up motionless like a stone and keep my eyes on the male, fighting a slight panic inside, memories of horse-country days when I was the victim of two vicious, unwarranted bird attacks (one by a psychotic peacock, the other a bloodthirsty rooster, both flapped and flew at me, aiming their angry beaks at my face). Despite hostile goose glares a peacefulness warms me, a feeling of security, and I smile to myself. I remember when I’d first moved to this city, the feelings of uncertainty, remembering someone telling me “Never walk the lake alone, even during the day!” Thank god I did not listen to that person, thank god I take my own sweet time to figure out what the truth is, for me.

Now I devour this city, my eyes soaking up everything, everyone. It’s time to walk so I get up and get going, remembering to play the game I created to feed the people-watcher in me. Every time I’m here, I note the diversity I see in the first ten minutes. I set out along the lake-hugging path and in my first twenty steps I pass a Chinese octogenarian loaded down with a sack of leeks and narrowly dodge an African American Mister Mom chasing his squealing toddler. Strolling hand-in-hand towards me is a pair of interracial lesbian lovers with matching fluorescent hair-dos, to my left I catch sight of a white woman sitting cross-legged on a park bench devouring a 50-pack of bologna, slice by slice. Here comes a laughing Latina family biking along together, there goes a greased-up body builder from Gold’s, and did those jaded teens just look me straight in the eye?

I’m embarrassed now, that it took me too long to fall in love with this place. I remember when I first began taking it all in as I walked around the lake, it started with the intriguing regulars. But none so intriguing as The Man. Odd, now that I think about it, how I’d given every lakeside local a fitting or funny nickname – a habit of mine – all but The Man.

There was Futbol, a short, stocky, solid-muscle soccer player, a serious and determined athlete who always lapped me at least twice on his runs. And Straw Hat Man, who surely stole his turn-of-the-century brimmed hat from a production of “The Music Man,” and who always broke into a huge grin and a Broadway tune each time I passed by. I wasn’t sure if Heidi of the ‘Hood was a man or a woman, but I was certain that Heidi was a prostitute who was always parked on the same bench, always pleasantly asked for money as I passed, and always wore a black wig with bangs and thick braids. Euro-Perv was the only lake local who freaked me out – once I figured out what he was up to. A short, wiry man in his 60s, he always wore knee-high black socks with sandals, and a slinky tank top with shorts, no matter the temperature. Euro-Perv always sat on the same bench, always clutching the same ratty gift-bag in his lap. I thought him eccentric until the day I passed his bench, then decided to turn around. There he was, licking his lips and snapping a picture of my butt with the camera he’d been hiding in his greasy old gift bag.

One by one, my regulars disappeared from the lake. I wondered what they were up to, what had happened to them. But the one I missed the most, wondered about the most, was The Man.

He was homeless, a rugged, towering figure at least six and a half feet tall, covered in dirt. His long brown trench coat whipped back and forth as he walked, his wild sandy-brown hair stood on end and his long, bearded face resembled Nick Nolte’s mug-shot with a little Jesus mixed in.

I knew where to look for The Man, he always stood in the same spot, the curvy lake allowed me to see him well before we passed each other. During this time I walked the lake three times a week, so The Man learned to look for me too. And when he saw me, he’d always start walking towards me, fast. At first I was alarmed and wondered if my over-active imagination was at play. But as time went on I realized that, for whatever reason, I was his get-a-move-on catalyst. At first I was uncomfortable when we’d pass each other, putting as much space in between us as possible. But as weeks and months passed The Man Who Needed to Walk So Quickly Past Me never looked me in the eye, never said a word, never made a sudden move. Until one day when it all changed.

As usual, I’d seen him standing far ahead and he’d seen me and started off, walking towards me at a brisk clip. I felt some type of thrill each time I passed him now, a feeling I can’t explain except maybe I was hoping that someday, something would happen. I continued towards him, unaware that the thrill I’d hoped for for so many months was just seconds away. He was coming, his trench coat whipping about, his hair as electrified as Einstein’s. It was our normal, strange dance until the very moment he was alongside me. As if in slow motion, he turned his face towards me and spoke a single, remarkable sentence. In a sweet voice, a voice that sounded like an eight-year old choir boy’s, he said “And she walks with angels,” his strange words like five melodic bees, spilling from that mouth of his so high above my head, flying down to settle on mine, sending goosebumpy vibes zipping through my entire body. Stunned and wondering if it really happened, I kept on walking. I never saw The Man again.

My three mile walk almost done, I thought about how much I’d feared The Man in the beginning. Things one needs are not always obvious, and rarely, if they are meaningful, do they come wrapped in gorgeous, sparkling packages. Not too long ago I’d seriously considered leaving this city – confused by personal and professional heartaches, I’d thought and heard from friends “maybe a fresh start … maybe somewhere closer to family.” Unsure, I went on auto-pilot and completely cleansed my mind of the worries that were causing my hair to fall out, not thinking of moving, not thinking of staying, often not thinking about my future at all. Months past until Clarity finally made herself present. She was a welcome sight and I knew she was right.

I know now that this melting-pot city will love me, feed and nurture me, teach and challenge me, thrill and intrigue me, forever if I wanted it to. My walk complete, I head up to the sidewalk towards my car, passing a Big Wheel-riding toddler and his careful grandma.

There’s traffic so I wait before pulling out. I roll down my windows to let the bay breeze in and glance out the passenger-side window to admire springtime. Instead I see a chubby ebony arm, its tiny finger pointing at me. My Honda is low, his Big Wheel high, my window is all the way down and he’s sidled his tiny vehicle so close he’s almost in my car, eyes laughing, a huge smile bursting out the sides of his pacifier.

“Dooo!” he says.
“I like your bike,” I respond.

He’s cuter than cute, I’m beguiled and he’s definitely decided he’s done with peddling and is ready for the car ride home, with me. Grandma is now also poking her head in my car, we all smile and laugh, and then drive, walk and peddle away.

Moments of peace are brief, as each day the world outside clamors louder than the day before it. People in distant places fight wars. People nearby cling to a rim of reason. We all live on the edge.

The King said to “begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” But with no mentor, no cause, no faith, no hope– we spiral in our coils.

My husband takes my hand, and we walk sleepily to bed. The cats amble after us. The harmonies we can find along the way will keep us from spinning off.

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William Wong was born and grew up in Oakland’s Chinatown. He went on to a distinguished journalism career (The Wall Street Journal, Oakland Tribune, The News Hour with Jim Lehrer). He is the author of Yellow Journalist: Dispatches from Asian America (Temple University Press, 2001) and Images of America: Oakland’s Chinatown (Arcadia Publishing Co., 2004).

Visit his web sites, http://www.yellowjournalist.com and http://www.oaklandchinatownhistory.org.

Click Here to View the QuickTime Movie

William Wong was born and grew up in Oakland’s Chinatown. He went on to a distinguished journalism career (The Wall Street Journal, Oakland Tribune, The News Hour with Jim Lehrer). He is the author of Yellow Journalist: Dispatches from Asian America (Temple University Press, 2001) and Images of America: Oakland’s Chinatown (Arcadia Publishing Co., 2004).

Visit his web sites, http://www.yellowjournalist.com and http://www.oaklandchinatownhistory.org.

Click Here to View the QuickTime Movie

William Wong was born and grew up in Oakland’s Chinatown. He went on to a distinguished journalism career (The Wall Street Journal, Oakland Tribune, The News Hour with Jim Lehrer). He is the author of Yellow Journalist: Dispatches from Asian America (Temple University Press, 2001) and Images of America: Oakland’s Chinatown (Arcadia Publishing Co., 2004).

Visit his web sites, http://www.yellowjournalist.com and http://www.oaklandchinatownhistory.org

Click Here to View the QuickTime Movie

William Wong was born and grew up in Oakland’s Chinatown. He went on to a distinguished journalism career (The Wall Street Journal, Oakland Tribune, The News Hour with Jim Lehrer). He is the author of Yellow Journalist: Dispatches from Asian America (Temple University Press, 2001) and Images of America: Oakland’s Chinatown (Arcadia Publishing Co., 2004).

Visit his web sites, http://www.yellowjournalist.com and <