Authors: Annie Carroll
Playing for Julia
Playing for Julia
By Annie Carroll
This book was originally published as “San Francisco Summer ‘69”
Thank you
, Diane, Miles and Megan for encouraging me to write about living in San Francisco during the 1960s. And thanks, too, to my friends who generously spent their time to read and comment on the manuscript as it developed and evolved.
While several real people make cameo appearances in this book, this is a work of fiction. None of the characters really existed; none of the events—except Woodstock—really happened. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or is used fictionally.
Copyright © Lightwood Publishing 2013 All Rights Reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions.
Contents
Chapter One
Ali pushes the canoe away from the back porch of our houseboat. Seated in front of her, I dip my paddle into the water, breaking the reflections shimmering on the lake’s surface. We begin to glide down the narrow channel between the docks where the houseboats are moored side by side. Ahead I can see lights beginning to twinkle in the darkness of Queen Anne Hill across Lake Union. In the sky, the last trace of sunset.
“It’s too cold for this,” Ali mutters.
She’s right. It is cold even for mid-April. It always seems to be cold when you live in a house floating on logs a few inches above a lake, as we both discovered in the last year and a half. Rain endlessly dripping from above and chilled damp air seeping up from below.
“I know, but it’s our last chance,” I answer with a sigh
and paddle a few more strokes. “I think this will be the only thing I miss about Seattle. And twelve hours from now we will be on the road to San Francisco.”
I can al
most hear Ali’s smile behind me.
“We better stay clo
se to the ends of the docks,” I say as we begin paddling northward toward the ship canal. “With this mist I don’t want to be run down by some big boat.”
We paddle along in silence as the mist thickens. Occasionally, I hear muffled sound
s—a door closing, a murmur of voices—coming from the houseboats as we pass by. Then from somewhere ahead I hear my favorite song, “Night Ride across the Plains
”
. It is coming from out on the lake and getting louder.
“What’s that?”
Ali asks. I turn around and shrug my shoulders.
We turn the canoe toward the music. The mist begins to thin out a little and I can see a boat—no,
a white yacht—blazing with light. Music is pouring out across the lake. The people on board are silhouettes.
“
It looks like a boat party,” Ali says with a grin on her face. We continue paddling toward the music and shining lights.
“Hey
, there.” It’s a man’s voice coming from the yacht.
“It’s a couple of girls in a canoe
.” I hear another man’s voice.
“Hey, come on board,
” one of them calls out.
I glance back at Ali. Why not? She nods her head and calls back to them: “Okay.”
In a minute Ali is tying the canoe to the side of the yacht.
“I bet you were looking for me, weren’t you, honey?” I can’t see his face as he lean
s over the rail. I glance at Ali with a surprised look on my face. What a thing to say, I think. Why would we be looking for him? Who is he, anyway?
He reaches down to help Ali c
limb onto the deck, then clasps my hand and pulls me aboard. In the light I realize it is Tommy, the guy who sings “Night Ride”. Not as tall as I thought, but good looking, wavy blond hair and, up close, I see his eyes are a light brown and slightly bloodshot. He is grinning from ear to ear. Hmm…maybe a little drunk.
“Come on inside, girls
. It’s cold out here. I’ll get a beer for you.” He wraps an arm around Ali’s shoulder, then mine, and steers us into the cabin.
“What’s your name
, honey?” he whispers to Ali.
“I’m Ali. She’s Julia.”
Of course, he’d ask her first. Not only is she pretty but she is naturally blonde. And she has blue eyes to go with that blonde hair. Me, I have shoulder length brown hair and green eyes. It’s the blondes who always get the attention.
“Hey everybody
, meet Ali and Julia.”
We get a few glances from the half a dozen guys and as many young women standing and sitting around the cabin.
Most of them are wearing jeans, a couple of the girls are in velvet and lace, and all are clutching their jackets tightly around themselves, obviously chilled. Not many are talking. No one looks too happy. One guy appears to have passed out in a corner. Empty beer bottles are scattered everywhere. Clearly, this party has been going on for hours and is on its last legs.
“Somebody
, get these girls a beer,” Tommy says.
He
hugs us both closer and I realize he is a lot more than a little drunk. I wonder if he could stand on his own if he didn’t have one of us on each side of him.
“So what did you think of the show last night? I was great, wasn’t I?” He asks Ali, a big grin smeared across his face.
“Uh…sorry…we missed it,” she answers with an apologetic smile. “We were packing. We’re moving to San Francisco tomorrow morning.”
A guy hands me a bottle of Rainer beer and gives on
e to Ali, too. I look up to thank him and a tremble runs through me.
“Thanks,” I manage to mumble and look away from him quickly.
He’s tall. Taller than Tommy. Black hair—not too long, not too short—falling every which way. Sky blue eyes. He must have an Irish grandfather somewhere. He’s wearing black jeans, a thick blue sweater, black leather jacket and dark blue cowboy boots. I don’t know who he is, but standing right beside him, my body is now humming in a way I have never felt before. My pulse is beating faster and I feel flushed. What’s going on?
“You’re welcome.” His voice is as smooth as warm honey. His smile is, too.
“I don’t think your name is really Julia,” he says. “It’s Lady of the Lake, isn’t it? And here you come, gliding out of the mist.”
I force myself to take a breath and look up at him again. I try to smile and desperate
ly sort through memories of old English legends. “Lady of the Lake? She’s the one who gave King Arthur his sword, if I remember right?”
I take a sip of beer and look around, anywhere but
at him. Maybe my pulse will slow down if I just don’t look at him. Maybe my body will stop humming.
“That’s what one old story says. In another version Merlin is beguiled by her and she—“
“Hey,” Tommy inter
rupts, yelling out to no one in particular. He is really drunk. “Ali and Julia are moving to San Francisco. Two more beautiful ladies in that beautiful city.”
He smiles at Ali. “You oughta come visit us. We’ve rented a big
house on Lake Street and we like to have pretty girls around. Gonna have fun in Frisco.” He burps.
I look over at Ali with a r
aised eyebrow. She looks back with a tight frozen smile that’s almost a grimace as Tommy runs his fingers through her hair. Both of us are thinking the same thing: this was a mistake; time to go.
“What’s your last name, Julia?” It’s Mr. Black-Hair-and-Honey-Voice again.
I look up at him and my breathing instantly becomes shallow. I don’t understand this. Why am I reacting this way to this man at this drunken party? I don’t even know who he is.
I can barely answer him: “It doesn’t make any difference. We
’re leaving now.”
“I’m Austen.” He smiles his honey smile. “Here. I’ll give you something so you’ll remember
that.”
He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacke
t and takes out a book of matches and a pen. He writes something inside the matchbook. He takes my hand and presses the matchbook into my palm and with his fingers closes my fingers around it. It feels like a shock of electricity runs through me. I pull my hand away from his and turn to Ali.
“Ali, we better go now.”
“Leaving so soon, Lady of the Lake?” I look back up at him and nod my head. I think I will faint if he smiles at me like that again.
A minute later we are scrambling back into the canoe. “Thanks for the beers,” Ali calls out as we paddle away into the thickening mist.
As soon as we come closer to the houseboat docks, I begin to giggle nervously and then break into laughter.
Ali looks back at me and
starts laughing, too. Then: “Watch out.” We almost run into the end of a houseboat dock.
“Oh my god, is that what we’re going to find
in California? He was so drunk, so—“
“—obnoxious,” Ali completes my thought. “What an idiot.
So vain. And when he began running his fingers through my hair—creeepy.”
“Well, it’s made for a memorable last day in Seattle
,” I smile and shake my head. “I still like the song “Night Ride
”
—even though that guy is awful.”
We start paddling again, passing the now light-filled houseboats. Night has fully descended on Lake Union
and the mist has grown thicker again.
“I saw that other guy give you something just before we left. What was it?”
“A matchbook. He probably put his phone number inside. I didn’t look.”
“
Who is he?”
“I
don’t know.”
“And h
e gave you his phone number?” Ali asks, surprise in her voice.
“I think so.
Guys do that all the time. He probably hands them out to every girl he meets.” I hope my voice doesn’t give away how I felt when his hand encircled mine. I still don’t understand my reaction to him. It makes no sense. He was good-looking, but I’ve met a lot of good looking men and never felt like that before.
I know it is bad luck to say it out loud, but I whisper it to myself: Ali and I have stumbled into luck in our first weeks in San Francisco.
Right now I am sitting in
the living room in our tiny cottage in the Richmond district waiting for the telephone to be installed. Ali is out shopping for groceries.
The first afternoon we were in San Francisco w
e checked into a motel on Lombard Street and went directly across town to North Beach, eager to explore our new city. We looked in the wall of windows at the front of City Lights Bookstore where Kerouac gives readings. We walked up to Washington Square where a long-haired hippie in torn blue jeans was playing a guitar and singing
Turn Turn Turn
. He didn’t play very well, but the crowd of people listening to him didn’t seem to mind. The long-haired girls sitting on the grass around him seemed especially enthralled. Ali and I listened for a few minutes then walked on across the grassy square.
We peeked in
to the ornate St. Peter and St. Paul’s Church across the street where three old women in black scarves were kneeling in prayer, then walked back down Columbus Avenue past Vesuvios, a famous bar where North Beach intellectuals hang out. We couldn’t help but giggle at all the garish topless clubs along Broadway and the barkers outside trying to lure people in—even us, two young women in our twenties. I can’t imagine they’d think that we’d really want to see topless go-go dancers.
It felt like I was coming alive for the first time. Finding ourselves at the center of the universe. It was magical. And sunny. No more Puget Sound endlessly drizzling rains—just a sky full of California sunshine.
We’re here, we’re here, I whispered to myself gleefully. Finally, we are here and my new life begins.
We stopped for an espresso and instantly
I had a new favorite coffeehouse. This coffeehouse is plain—off-white walls, dark woodwork—except for the brilliantly shining espresso machine mounted on a counter in the back. The only seating is at small round tables with bentwood chairs in the large front room that is almost patio-like, facing the street. The obvious star is the espresso. Better than any I ever had in Seattle.
That evening Ali and I
went to an Italian restaurant on Chestnut Street where we had stuffed manicotti for dinner. Hmmm…Italians seem to be everywhere in San Francisco, unlike Seattle where it seems almost everyone, including Ali, has some kind of Scandinavian background.
The next morning dressed in
a grey salt-and-pepper tweed suit, I climbed the stairs to an employment agency on the second floor of a somewhat decrepit office building not far from Chinatown. Ali, in her tailored blue skirt and jacket, followed right behind. We knew we had to get jobs fast.
We both
brought resumes with us, but the mousy receptionist insisted we fill out her employment registration agreement. The interviewer’s name was Audrey and she had flaming red hair pulled up in a bun on top of her head and was wearing a pale blue silk jacket-dress and too much make-up for a woman her age. She must have been at least 40.
I was called into her
small office first. She read my job history, then looked up at me. “Oh, this is interesting,” she said, taking off her glasses. “Tell me what you did at
TV Weekly
.”
“I started as an editorial assistant, compiling
and editing information for the weekly local TV listings. After about eight months I was promoted to laying out the pages for four of the local magazines in Washington and British Columbia.”
“You know, I may have something for you,” she said with a friendlier smile. “Most of the girls who come in here can barely type, let alone do anything else. What is your phone number? I have to make a couple of calls, but you may be just the right girl for one of my clients.”
“Uhhh…I don’t have a phone number yet. My friend Ali—she’s out in the waiting room—and I just arrived yesterday. We’re staying in a motel in the Marina. I can give you the phone number there.”
Her smile vanished.
“You must get a place to live and a telephone.” Her tone was strict. “I don’t do job placements for transients and, heaven knows, the city is filled with young people coming and going these days. Everyone wants to come to San Francisco and live some crazy, drug-filled hippie life and dance all day in the parks. Businessmen are becoming very leery about hiring anyone new to the city. Especially anyone living in a motel.”
She frowned and shook her head.
“As soon as you and your friend have an apartment and telephone, call me. Until then…I can’t do a thing for you. Here is my business card.”
The tone of her voice said
‘Dismissed’.
“Thank you,” I forced a smile as I left her office. “I’ll call as soon as we’re settled.”
Oops, we are in deep trouble, I thought. No apartment. No telephone. Money going out, none coming in. In the reception area I told Ali what Audrey had said.
“She’s not the only fish in the sea,” Ali
retorted. “Let’s get out of here.”
The next two employment agencies were in the Financial district and our reception at them was no
warmer. Nothing available now. We will keep your registrations and job histories on file. And let us know when you have your own phone number.
We walked
up Columbus Avenue to North Beach. Me, feeling somewhat despondent. Ali with a determined look on her face. The waitress at my favorite coffeehouse brought espressos to our table in little white cups. No saucers.
“I’ve decided to skip employment agencies, “Ali said decisively. “I’m going straight to the
Chronicle
and
Examiner
. I’ve had almost two years’ experience writing for the Want Ads department. The heck with that flame-headed woman and her rules.”
She sounded brave,
but added: “Maybe I should call my old boss at the
Post Intelligencer
and see if he can help me somehow. And I think we should look for an apartment today, too. I didn’t see many For Rent signs on the way over here and not many in the paper this morning, either.”
I don’t know whether to call it luck or a miracle, but
five days later we found this tiny cottage surrounded by two-story apartment houses near Clement Street out in the Richmond district. We were driving by when an old man with a droopy white mustache and brown suspenders holding up his pants, was putting a sign on the front fence. The green paint on the outside of the cottage was faded, but at this point we were checking out anything we could find. We stopped and—another miracle—the rent was something we could afford. So we looked around inside and paid a deposit in cash on the spot. He took down the sign and we moved in the next day.
This cottage is utterly bizarre. One big bedroom
, upstairs, is painted stark white. It is big enough for two twin beds—but, of course, there were no beds. We bought mattresses and put them on the floor, then hung a lace curtain on the one window. The bathroom downstairs is really from another planet. Bright orange tiles half-way up the walls. Bright orange floral wallpaper the rest of the way to the ceiling. And a purple shower curtain. The kitchen has yucky olive green tiles around the sink, one wall painted fire-engine red and a green Formica table with shiny chrome legs. The refrigerator is avocado green.
I think
this strange interior is why the rent is relatively cheap. Well, cheap enough that we could pay the first month’s rent in cash, which made our Italian landlord, Mr. Bianchi, happy. He said we could pay the security deposit with our next month’s rent. What a nice man.
So
, now, here I sit on a dingy dark blue sofa that came with the cottage, waiting for the man to come and install our telephone. I’ve already unpacked everything I brought with me. My clothes, my records and record player, some books, a big pillow covered with beautiful Indian fabric I found in an import store near the docks in Seattle. And, of course, the matchbook.
When I finally opened it I read: Lady of the Lake, call me. Austen.
And a phone number.
I haven’t called him. I won’t call him
. I found out when we were looking at a map of San Francisco that Lake Street—where that drunken Tommy said they were living—is a few blocks from here. Almost every day I catch myself thinking about his honey voice and black hair and his smile. But I won’t call him. That’s what silly teenage girls and dumb groupies do. Not me. And what if he didn’t remember who I was? That would be beyond embarrassing. So I won’t call him—but I don’t seem to be forgetting him either.
A knock at the door snaps
me out of my daydream. It is the man from the phone company. Our telephone has finally arrived.
An hour later Ali
, dressed in her blue interview suit, bursts in the front door. “I got the job! I got the job. Thank heavens they need someone at the
Examiner
. I’m sure that phone call from my old boss helped. The receptionist said they get dozens of applications every week, but most of them don’t have any experience.” She slumps down onto the sofa. “I start next week.”
I guess red-haired Audrey was right
about how difficult it is to get a job in San Francisco these days. Now I wonder what she had meant by having something for me after I had a place to live and a telephone.
I find out the next morni
ng when I call her. “Julia Weslan,” she says as if searching through her memory. “Oh yes, you’re the dark-haired one from Seattle. You worked for
TV Weekly
—right?”
“Yes, that’s me. I have a phone number now and a permanent address.” I emphasize ‘permanent’ and give her the number and address.
“Well, dear, I already filled the job opening I mentioned to you, but I will keep your registration on file, in case something comes up. Thanks for calling in with your phone number.”
As I hang
up the phone I wonder: Now what am I going to do? Maybe Ali has all the luck.
Ali reads the disappointment on my face. “No interview?”
I shake my head. “She already found someone for the job.”
“For
get that woman and her dyed red hair. You should do what I did. Call up the newspapers and magazines directly. Skip all that employment agency stuff. You have great experience on a national magazine, for goodness sales. There’s bound to be a job out there waiting for you.”
“Not exactly national. I wor
ked on the local editions,” I add, knowing full well that Ali knows this already. She is just trying to make me feel better.
She frowns at me for a second and then her face lights up.
“New idea. Don’t call. Take copies of your resume and just walk in the door and apply for a layout job. Julia, you look great—really pretty and well-dressed, not like some of those flaky hippie girls. You might as well start at the
Chronicle
. Or the
Examiner
. I can ask my boss there for you once I start work. And there is a weekly shopping paper called the
Progress
.”
Ali’s suggestions lift my spirits.
“And how about
Rolling Stone
? Its offices are here, but it has national distribution. It’s not just a local magazine. That could be really neat.”
“Rock ‘n’ roll? I don’t know…” My voice fades.
The image of Mr. Austen Honey-Voice pops into my mind and I dismiss it immediately. I can’t allow myself to think about him. I have to focus on landing a job—a real job. I don’t want to get stuck working as a temp answering phones or filing paperwork in the basement of some dreary insurance company.
“They do serious articles, too. And what do you care—you’d be working on the graphics side. You wouldn’t have to interview crazy musicians or anything
like that Tommy Obnoxious.”
I’m smiling now. Life looks better. Ali’s pep talk has worked.
