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"Time goes from present to past." - Dogen Zenji |
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06 March 99.
1:30 am, a dark parking lot off of the 580, between San Francisco and Fairfield.
A flashlight rapping on the driver's side window jars me out of a troubled sleep. I'm curled up in the back seat of my parked Integra, lifting my head, disoriented. I crack the window a couple inches, groggily. The CHP officer greets me, then asks me how I'm doing, where I was headed before I parked here. I'm replying to each question on auto-pilot, answers barely coherent. My brain is trying to kick-start itself into being awake.
He asks me where I live, how long I've been living there. I live in The City, officer. I've been there ... how long have I been there? I can't pull the answer out of my brain ... uh, several months I think.
I feel like I'm drunk, but he knows I'm not.
He asks to see my licence, notices it's marked New Mexico instead of California. He tells me I should've gotten my licence switched over after 30 days in California. My eyes widen, my head clears slightly from the sobering observation -- the look on my face gives away both that I am realizing this for the first time, and that I probably am in trouble.
He goes back to his patrol car to run me through the nationwide database. I'm rubbing my face, trying to wake up. I notice that the patrolcar's headlights and Q-beam are really bright. A slight, vague feeling of dread is creeping in.
He returns, tells me how long I plan to stay here. I say as soon as I can get my head clear I'll be on my way, I still feel too groggy. He says don't worry about it, I'll leave you alone, you can crash here if you want. "Thank you, sir." And get that licence taken care of, he says over his shoulder as he walks away. "Will do, thank you sir."
He leaves me where he found me: alone, in the dark, in the back seat.
I give myself a few minutes to fade back in to some kind of alert state reminiscent of reality. I remember why I was here, why I retreated into self-induced sleep as as way to escape the trapped feelings inside. I had wanted to cry, to release ... but I couldn't get it out ... all that had revealed itself was a little moistness in my eyes. Release was not going to happen. Sleep it off instead. A numb sleep to wash away the pain inside, as a temporary reprieve.
My head is now clear; my eyes are moist again. I climb back into the driver's seat, crank the ignition, strap myself in, and get back on the 580 toward home.
2:15 am, San Francisco, Safeway on Market & Sanchez.
I'm wandering the aisle, tired, disconnected. Wanting to rejoin my sleep-state already in progress. The weight of my basket of groceries tugging at my arm like a child wanting to go home.
I stop at the snacks, vaguely enticed by some Hawaiian kettle chips. I stare at them blithely.
I notice the in-store speakers begin playing a familiar voice from long ago -- Julian Lennon's "Too Late For Goodbye". I always liked this song. The chord progressions in the chorus felt just like Level 42's "Something About You". What a serene little tune. Brings back fond feelings. I crack a half-smile.
A female voice nearby is singing along with the music. She's remarkably on-pitch. I smile at hearing this innocent display of talent, look up from my chips, and the source of the voice looks over at me & smiles, as does her male friend.
I speak, in spite of my tiredness, in spite of my disconnectedness -- a verbal nod-of-my-head to her musical assertion. "It's been ages since I heard this song," I say with a gentle smile.
The conversation starts, about 80's pop and new wave, how it had such an innocent quality to it. How it was good to grow up with this kind of music.
We start to reminisce. I'm struggling to pull up song titles from my sluggish brain ... I mention Men Without Hats' "Safety Dance", "Fascination" by Human League. Her eyes brighten up. She mentions "True" by Spandau Ballet. Another awesome song.
I point out my sleepiness apologetically. She tells me she's also sleepy: she and her friends were at a party earlier in the night; she got pretty blitzed and conked out, only to be awoken later by her friends and dragged directly here. What a strange parallel, I think to myself -- I dragged myself here after being awoken involuntarily by the CHP officer. Both in dazed mental states, both receptive to the in-store playback, now both connecting with each other.
We shake hands, introduce ourselves. Her name is Kim. Her eyes have an effervescent glow, an optimism that I remember exuding myself not that long ago. Our chat moves into current pop music -- I'm impressed how she is not ashamed to admit she enjoys the current bubblegum stuff on the airwaves as I do. We rant to each other about how stuff like 'N Sync, Spice Girls, etc. is great because it's simply fun to listen to, no more, no less.
She tells me how young kids today need that same kind of innocence in music, just as we had. That this bubblegum pop is a good thing. I tell her so many of my friends are cynical about current music, even though they too grew up with 80's pop. I couldn't figure out where their cynicism came from.
"Bah, being cynical takes so much energy from you. It's easier to be happy." Those last words hang in my mind, like I want them to be subliminal suggestion. "It's easier to be happy."
Her friend appears, telling her they're getting ready to go, but for her to take her time. He smiles at me. She seems happy talking about this subject with me. I tell her it's nice to bump into a fellow optimistic child-of-the-80's instead of a cynical one.
I tell her I better get going myself, it was nice talking with you, maybe I'll see you here again.
A little moment of benevolence, of camraderie, to leave me a with a jaded, thoughtful smile. Something cool always seems to happen whenever I visit this Safeway on Market, and only at these late hours. It's the most curious thing.
As I check out, I see her and her friends walking out. She looks back across the store, her eyes scanning for me. I know the scan will be fruitless. It's better this way. Just sharing that brief, warm moment is enough.The Julian Lennon song plays softly in my head as I walk out to my car, as do her words. "It's easier to be happy." Your optimism is the wisdom I can take with me, Kim.