I often get queasy by the title of this column, by the finality that's suggested, that is. Susan Dyer Reynolds generously gave me this space to use for awhile. She coined the name of the column. I consider the privilege. Just think of all the spaces we occupy in life. I hope it's never really "The Final Word," anytime soon. I seem to be writing a lot of obits recently.
I don't want to have the last word, not for me, not for anyone else, either. Nope, no last words out of me. Just final words. I guess that would make me the perfect husband. But I have other troubling attributes. I storm out of the room sometimes when I can't find the final words in an argument. I can fly into inexplicable rages. To calm down, I might pace the grimy sidewalks of San Francisco for hours. I also ride the buses. I get into taxicabs, too, if there's enough scratch on me. For some reason, I have not driven a car for 25 years. Cab drivers are often the sage purveyors of the the city's terrain, oracles of the town. The inside of taxi on a chilly night seems to be a safe place. I like occupying the space. Can drivers revive my spirit through their funny stories. The relate fractured tales of hopefulness. I can smile again. Just imagine. They drive cars all day, and all night, tormenting the pavement with rotting rubber, in a relentless search for someone friendly. That's a dangerous premise.
Susan Reynolds, and those cabdrivers remind me what a great town San Francisco is. Where else can you step out of your house, another space I occupy, and find a new adventure? I walked out of my house on Clay Street today. No. I was not storming out, I wasn't inexplicably angry at all. Hardly. I'm heartened by the harsh wind against my face, the beauty of the breeze. I am almost -- dare I say it? -- content. I confess. Sometimes I get worried because I'm not worried.
There's a recklessness in the heart. The recklessness drove me to drive to San Francisco 39 years ago this month. I was 18 years old. Yes, I rolled into this town in my mother's 1964 Comet Caliente, expecting all good things, all things being possible. Lots of things did not turn out to be possible, but that does not preclude the days to come. You see, like today, I may saunter out of the house. That's when all things suddenly seem possible.
Over the decades, I've noticed that people have always come to San Francisco in search of something, possibilities, perhaps.
Just around the corner, here on Nob Hill, there's a demolished car, hood crushed, glass everywhere. Apparently, someone threw herself of himself out of the sixth story window.
I'd impart the details, but that's for another page, Yes, another space to occupy. The car has gone nowhere now. It just occupies a parking space.
Whatever happened, it appears that the possibilities for someone became too remote for them to embrace. How easy it is to drive down the wrong road.
Today I am thinking about the 1964 Comet Caliente -- my Mum loved that car -- pretty splashy automobile for an old dame. Silly me. In truth, she was just a good-looking kid. Funny how we boys will always think of our mother's as immovable relics. Ridiculous, isn't it? I'm thinking about that vehicle that brought me to San Francisco 39 years ago, and about my Mum. She gave me the Caliente. She brought me into the world, too.
I drove my hot car to San Francisco. Yes, all those years ago, looking for possibilities.
Well, what do you know? They're still here.
Bruce Bellingham is the Arts & Entertainment Editor of this newspaper. He's working on a new book. Working title: The Pitchfork People. Call him up, torture him. Have you heard? Torture is all the rage. Bruce's e-mail is bruce@northsidesf.com
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