Mother Teresa’s first miracle of canonization is the countless drunks she saved from being scrapped off the freeway. Her second miracle is lifting the sloppiest amongst us from her couch with the smell of bacon from her Sunday morning kitchen. No matter how drunk the drunk, she sees we’re fed, that our fog is lifted with freshly ground coffee and that we’re promptly shown the door after the dishes are washed.
“Sunday is Teresa’s day boys; I love you, but don’t let the door hit you on the ass.” With our thanks unacknowledged, she slammed and locked the door behind us; Mr. Freeze and I looked at each other and shrugged before making our way to his bike, across the bay bridge and into San Francisco. Much like the campaign’s early days when I was traveling with Glenda, I advertised my campaign from the bike, only this time, I secured my sign to my back.
Back in the sixties, Mr. Freeze and I were not the best of friends, but knew each other well enough. He knew of my infatuation with Janis and was with us in my apartment the night we dropped acid. With this in mind, he drove us to Haight-Ashbury and parked in front of my old apartment building. We crossed the street, sat on a bench facing my old pad and continued yesterday’s reminiscence.
A long silence eventually fell over us. “She was a good lady,” Mr. Freeze said as he patted my knee. He stood and crossed the street. “You coming?”
I gazed at the second story window. My imagination took me through it and back four decades, sitting on the tattered couch, looking deeply into her eyes before she smiled and turned her gaze.
Shaking my head, I stood and shuffled across the street. The Harley’s pipes roared; Mr. Freeze chauffeured us to Russian Hill. He guided the bike down the switchbacks of Lombard St. before stopping at 2211 Polk Street. Drinking a day after one like yesterday is dangerous business; it brings me to the doorsteps of a bender. But, the risk is necessary today, because one cannot pass up enjoying a Tall Blonde at Cresta’s. Cresta’s was Jack Kerouac’s bar when he lived at nearby 29 Russell Alley.
Inside, I was glad to see the goldfish still swim in their bowls! We pulled up stools and I fell into conversation with a silver haired eighty-year old queen to the backdrop of the 49er-Seahawk game.
After finishing my tall blonde, I ordered up a 7-up for myself and a round for the bar, all five of us. The bartender, fascinated with my quest, hung a Robert ‘100’ on the back bar. A two-hour stump ensued.
I could tell Mr. Freeze was getting antsy, my friend was A-political and the novelty of my campaign was wearing thin. Nipping his impatience in the bud, I suggested moving on. After shaking hands with all, we vacated Cresta’s and headed out of town.
As we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, I glanced to my left, enjoying my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean on this campaign.
Knowing Mr. Freeze had the bug to ride, and knowing that my tolerance of riding was approaching its limit, I kept my eyes open for a freight. As we neared Fairfield, my opportunity arrived and I tapped his shoulder. “I gotta piss, man.”
We stopped at an Applebee’s knowing as I stepped away, Mr. Freeze would be gone when I emerged, free spirits as ourselves understand this dance, it isn’t anything personal. Maybe, we just suck at goodbyes. Inside, I heard him ride off and I turned around and returned to the parking lot. I cinched my pack and trudged to a C-store, bought supplies and headed for the tracks. Within an hour, I was on a freight headed for Davis. I jumped from the spur line and walked the north-south tracks until I heard a northbound rumble behind me.
As I settled into an open boxcar, I had the feeling that I was on my way home.
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