My Only Friend La Croix - Chapter 12
My Only Friend La Croix is no apparition, but he is real. He is no feature of fancy imagination, and his presence is felt securely. My Only Friend La Croix does not speak to me, for he has no words, yet he pronounces the words between the words. My Only Friend La Croix himself has the capacity to call me. If not for My Only Friend La Croix, there would be no weight to the world.
My Only Friend La Croix stares at me, relentless. He wants me to move but we are in a stalemate. Without appropriate motion, My Only Friend La Croix cannot be freed from his slumber. Only when I begin to move subconsciously will he make his presence known. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. We stare. I gaze at the white cream coat of his, and he at my pale, shadowed face.
The Rat came to visit San Francisco right around his birthday in December. He crashed with me at Casa Sanchez and I introduced him to all of my local spots—we went to Spro in the morning and walked around Liberty and 21st Street in the early evening, basking in the rose gold glow of the street lights which laced the hills with their tranquility. We walked around in the dark at Corona Heights and around The Castro and often stomped all the way up to Alamo Square. We did the length of Golden Gate Park and saw the spectacle of the intensely-pruned trees at the Japanese Tea Garden and obscure plants from every continent in the Botanical Garden. He and I made a lot of art, painting vases and trees and all of the spectacles of the city. The beauty of the place was convincing enough for him, so he decided that he would drive up his van in due time and I would try to get us an apartment to split.
I toured a spot near Japantown. It was in a grey building with lots of peeling paint, but it was right across from Jefferson Square Park, so I figured it would have a lot of nature access. The apartment was fairly central, situated between the Tenderloin, Hayes Valley, and Japantown. Unfortunately at the time I didn’t realize that there wasn’t really anything in the immediate area except for the park—not super walkable to any one thing, although it was close enough to many places. We rented the apartment, and I said my goodbyes to Casa Sanchez, running the mile-long trip in a U-Haul van a half a dozen times to get all of my belongings. The microclimate revealed itself to us within a week: misty, shitty, and cold. Goodbye to the warm days of Dolores.
The Rat went to Hayes Valley for a chicken sandwich and a beer to get a sense of our “local” crowd. I already knew Hayes Valley well, given that I worked there for over a year, but you never know about the people who flock there in the evening. The Rat and I kept to ourselves, mostly, and we decided to go leg around—we preferred to explore the city rather than cozy up in a venue for too long in any case. We left Sugar Lounge and made a cold, cold walk along Polk Street until we made it near the top of Russian Hill. The climate shifted and it became windier but somehow warmer. The Rat commented on the amount of waxing places and salons in contrast with our neighborhood. What sort of women live in each San Francisco neighborhood, we wondered? The name of the neighborhood, Polk Gulch, felt inherently dirty. Sharp contrast for a place with that many nail salons, waxing places, and chicks driving around in BMWs.
A smoldering cigarette spit out smoke on the concrete as we had our first view of the Bay past Russian Hill. I stared at it as I gave The Rat ample time for his moment first seeing the water as a resident, basking in the glory of the sight, lights trailing off beyond the San Francisco Bay. The view hits you over the head, instilling doubt that you actually live in this picturesque place. I had been in his shoes before, not completely sure about this magical place, cold but hopeful.
We walked down toward Fort Mason. I liked to imagine that there were sailboats tracing along arbitrary lines in the pitch black water, but there were none visible to me. Our pace lagged as we stomped up the maze of Fort Mason. We ascended the stairs, then traced the northbound ledge. There was a man setting up a folding table with a tablecloth and candles and roses along the path to his romantic nook. It felt like something for a proposal, but perhaps that was illusive grandiosity of my own mind. We passed him and I thought about Dee.
We hit Bay Street and walked up Laguna. I thought about how it might be to ride my new motorcycle on these insane streets. Would I topple down? Certainly, if I slipped up. The damn hill is nearly forty-five degrees. A novel experience, for sure, and worth trying.
The fog rolled in from the west as we approached Lafayette Park. We could see it clearly as it blew. A eucalyptus grove rests at the top of the hill in the park, and the great trees slowed the wind, collecting water in their leaves, making rain under their canopies. The dark line of wet earth was crisp—water delivered straight to us from the Pacific. I stepped past the line and felt the rain.