California

Nights like this I miss California like hell. No one is from Berkeley, no one belongs: a city, a state, it felt, of exiles. Late at night when I couldn't sleep I'd drive to the Mediterranean Café. This is before they were bought out, back when they still had the worst bathroom in town, back when they stayed open late into the night. You couldn't help talking to someone at the Med. A homeless kid, a homeless man, a left over radical, some starry-eyed kid who'd come from God knows where looking for a part of California that died back in the early 70's. Always a story. The cops were trying to clean up the street, push everyone out of the park. They'd pushed someone around, tried to declare them 5150 and scraped them across the ground. Everyone was looking for something at the Med. Looking to sell, looking for a smoke, a dime, just to talk.

Later still, with nowhere to go, I'd drive further into Berkeley to the French Hotel. I knew the boy who worked the night shift and he'd let me in when I couldn't sleep. We'd lay in a hotel room, never touching, watching free cable until I decided to go home.

Or we'd go to the Marina and walk all the way out onto the Pier. There was a pie shop next to the movie theatre. And we'd play out that scene from True Romance, when they go get pie after seeing a movie: "Would you like to get a piece of pie, see after I see a movie I like to get a piece of pie. So, what about you? What do you do? Where are you from? What's your favorite color? Turn-ons? Turn-offs? Got a fella?"

In California, I could feel alone, and go anywhere, and still feel alone, just less lonely. In a city that size, you can walk down the street crying, screaming, no matter, and no one sees you. Nothing is strange. Here, I just feel alone.