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US:
Little Fantasy Land
Author:
Luke Brown - 1998
Posted:
1 September 2002
 On
Pier 39, at San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf, are seafood restaurants,
hot-dog stands, sweets shops, kids stores, and souvenir stands selling
shirts, trinkets, posters and postcards. Angry mothers grasp handbags,
worn-out fathers clutch knapsacks filled with souvenirs and sunscreen
bottles, and awe-struck kids dart between camera-toting seniors
and young backpackers glued to guidebooks.
A couple, married eleven
years, line up on the wharf for boat trips to Alcatraz, the former
island prison, and silently wish they could leave their whining
young kids there for the duration of their two-week holidays away
from their desk jobs at the tax office in Omaha, Nebraska.
Work is the last thing
their young boy and girl are thinking about as they stare, through
a mix of street performers and a Caribbean steel band, at a middle-aged,
weather-beaten man with sun-bleached golden hair tucked underneath
a blue woollen hat, standing on the pavement, holding a sign asking
for money.
This man is Jimmy, just
a guy trying to get enough money every day to eat, and once in a
while stay in a hotel to enjoy a clean bed and a fresh shower. Jimmy
hasn't always been living this life. He used to be married, had
a regular job, a place to stay, a room to fit a TV and VCR, and
whatever else made his wife happy. Then one day his wife got sick,
very sick, and suffered a brain aneurism. She passed away soon after.
Jimmy said that for a while he gave up on life, because that was
his wife. Eventually he drifted towards San Francisco, to panhandle
on the streets.
Living on the street
isn't easy, especially when those assigned to serve the public kick
those who are already down. If it is not the police clearing the
homeless to the imaginary space between the tourist areas and the
gutter, it is the state government cutting General Assistance programs
to its poorest citizens.
Not too far away from Jimmy stands his friend, Gabby. Gabby used
to work up in the forests of Oregon near Springfield, around fifteen
years ago. It was a job that he enjoyed and could do well. Working
in the outdoors was his life. The friends he made and the sense
of community built up are things he remembers most fondly. Sure
there was the occasional logger who was a troublemaker, but as Gabby
said, "if someone hits you with a beer bottle from behind,
you have to fight back." Unfortunately for Gabby, the government
at the time decided to cut back on public expenditure and out-source
to private logging companies. Which, according to Gabby, "ended
up costing even more." Soon after, with no more work left for
him, he headed down to the San Francisco Bay area.
Before he left, he visited
for the last time a set of hot springs in the Cougar Reservoir area,
the place where he was happiest; forty-five minutes drive east of
Springfield. He recalled it as a haven where young and old, fat
and skinny, tall and short, naked and clothed, used to relax in
the six pools amongst lush surroundings, camping out at night, underneath
a star-lit ceiling. The only forms of development in the area were
some wooden toilet facilities that he had been involved in constructing.
He carefully sketched
on a piece of paper a map of the surrounding towns, roads and rivers,
detailing the location of the trails leaving the road and leading
to the pools. If I had a problem finding it, I should just ask around.
He said that the waters would "comfort you and heal all your
scars"; he called this place his "little fantasy land."
Two and a half months
later I was in need of a rest. From San Francisco, I had caught
a bus down to San Diego and then driven around California's long
and lonely highways to its various deserts, lakes and natural parks.
On to Las Vegas, where life savings can be lost on the roll of a
dice, and tourist centre receptionists laugh if you inquire about
Gambling Anonymous meetings in town: there are, by the way. In this
city they say you can order a hooker quicker than you can a pizza,
and they have a museum to Liberace, but it is illegal to be gay
in public.
Arizona next, where the
divide between Native American reservations and the rest of the
state is as apparent as the Grand Canyon's estranged cliffs; the
battles between booze and tradition still being raged. On to Utah,
where the battle over alcohol has been effectively controlled, but
polygamy is officially condoned down in the south of the state.
Across to Northern California, where people happily pay $2.50 to
drive through a Redwood tree, but cross the street to avoid disconsolate
bums. Up to Oregon, where a young couple had hung themselves off
a rain-swept Portland bridge for all to see, because their heroin
addiction was making their lives unbearable. And, finally, on to
the university town of Eugene.
That town was mercifully
free of grumpy long-haul bus drivers, mimes who talked too much
and careless motorists, that I had previously encountered. Instead
there were new age mystics and believers, with their magic stones,
magic gurus, magic visions and magic mushrooms. Their peacefulness
didn't transcend on to me though, as I was, in the space of 24 hours,
berated over contributing to the destruction of the planet by driving
a car, drinking a beer by a company which destroys forests, and
smoking a cigarette outdoors. These rebukes delivered by young coffee
shop dwelling, cappuccino sipping, environmentalists; you can change
the world, man, it's on the menu in your mind.
I headed out in my hire
car the next day towards Cougar Reservoir. Ten minutes out of Eugene,
after clearing its houses and bus routes, I made a stop at Springfield,
a pleasant enough looking town, which most people wouldn't think
twice about passing through. Except that on 21 May, 1998, a 15 year
old school-kid called Kip Kinkel, walked into the Thurston High
School cafeteria, pulled his rifle out and started firing, killing
a couple of kids and injuring many more. I first heard about the
incident while driving around California a month and a half earlier,
and knew that I, much like the newspapers I read, would be drawn
to it like a motorist to a car wreck. Except that it involved a
school-kid and a rifle, and there's no insurance for permanently
lost innocence.
Soft drink machines,
football team pictures, the Thurston flag and emblem, and advertisements
for schoolbooks are scattered around the cafeteria. In a corner
near some stacked chairs is a board, with a picture of a globe on
it. On the globe are drawings of children standing, holding hands.
A red ribbon is placed below the globe. There is a sign as well,
which reads: "In honour of those who were killed or injured
during the Thurston tragedy. May 21, 1998. May it end here."
I headed east on the
I-126 out of Springfield and across the McKenzie Bridge. On my right
were fishermen on the Blue River and people drifting on kayaks downstream.
On my left, sat small houses and long driveways amongst the green
hills. God, it was perfect; so was Gabby's map. I saw a sign directing
me towards Cougar Reservoir. I turned right and cruised for a couple
of hundred yards until I was stopped by a couple of Park Rangers
and had to cough up some cash for the day. Rangers patrol the area,
checking on permits, and handing out fines. There is no overnight
camping permitted at the springs any more. You see, a few years
ago, things got out of control. A more rowdy group started to visit,
and common decency and respect were ditched. The area was trashed
a few times. The sale of drugs became frequent. Things got ugly
and seedy and crowded.
The area is still beautiful
though. The well-worn paths have logs lining the side to prevent
anyone sliding off the slippery ground. A straw hut sits off to
the side of the pools, acting as a resting spot for sweaty clothes
and muddy shoes. Rocks have been shaped out as seats. Slip into
the upper pools and you might want to jump out, as the water is
hot. Descend with the flowing water over the rock edges to the lower
pools and you can finally rest in the gentle warmth, blister-free.
The mineral water soothes the skin, seeps into your bones and clears
the mind of the worries of bus tickets, hotel keys and that job
you'll have to get on your return home, to pay off holiday debts.
I returned to Pier 39
a couple of weeks later to seek out Gabby and decided to only tell
him about the good things; better to keep his memory of it as perfect
as possible, that's always best I've found.
But my pre-arranged smile was not required, and my heart sunk, as
he was no longer there. He now had a place to stay. A German writer
friend of his had set him up in a flat and paid his first month's
rent. He had also got him a second hand car. Gabby was now his assistant.
Whatever supplies his German friend needed, he was there to do it,
and apparently, he relished the opportunity to work.
As for Jimmy, he was
still without a home, but was helping an entrepreneur sell various
gifts and merchandise on Fisherman's Wharf. We chatted as he beamed
at his change in fortune. After half an hour, I said goodbye, as
I had a plane to catch the next day and many things to sort out
beforehand. As I turned to leave, he told me about his dream to
buy a second-hand van. Firstly, it would provide a warmer place
to sleep. And secondly, he wanted to fulfil his dream of packing
up all his possessions into the van, and heading off to New Mexico
to the Carlsbad Caverns, the site of some awesome caves. Years ago,
Jimmy used to spend a lot of time there, and he wants to, one day,
go back to his favourite place on earth.
E-mail: editor@polosbastards.com
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