Even remembering the clubs at this point is going to take some strain. I spent most of the week writing about the drugs that get sold in between your favorite TV shows and it’s taken so much out of me. When there is a moment to pause in the office, when the client is gone and the account people are doing their best to get the little girls who are trying to make a name for themselves to say yes for a “Thank you for all the hard work” lunch, there is a silence that pushes up against me. It the silence of humanity. So, thinking back on these times in the late night streets of San Francisco is hard. Even writing this story is hard because I should be writing about Mongolia and stringing together an epic but instead, instead I am doing this because there is something that is pushing me. That other book will come – it’s not there yet. There are only fragments of what I want there, but nothing solid. Here, all of this exists so if I can push it out, perhaps it won’t anymore. I’m not sure. This is the part that is the most difficult in putting together a book. Out in Los Angeles, my friends are making movies and celebrating together, but this is a solitary undertaking. The voices, however they are created, are all inside of me and there’s not much to do about it. Right now, in present time, it’s Saturday morning and only a dog is barking on the streets below.
I’ll go back to San Francisco and now, as I tell this, I remember just how much took place at night. The Club – what was the name of that place – I can’t remember now. It was so much a scene and the people that were there were always there. Levi would be there soon I guess, but I wasn’t much interested. We walked quick past the line and got in because we were always getting in to where we needed. Phil had juice pretty much everywhere. Just knowing people was the way he existed in the world. Madisson was much like him in many ways, I often felt like something else was holding me back. There were so many dividing lines running on inside of me back then. That age, everything is so ripping apart because you feel like – well, who wants to read about what you feel like. You want to read about inside that club I know. About the girls and the music and the drugs that were all being passes around in some strange way that you wish you had th guts to be a part of.
If you looked in the eyes of the people there – of the people dancing all around, you’d might not see anything. Madison and Phil went their ways and I was standing in the middle of people having fun and throwing themselves about without a care. I had too many cares to let go of everything. This wasn’t what I wanted to write about. I should have stayed out under that lamp post in the alley of city lights and waited for one of those ghosts to come after me and take me with them on a constant adventure. It’s what I was looking for but couldn’t loose myself in. What was I looking for at that point? If I was looking for love, I was going about it all wrong. Love cannot be found.
It was the early 90s and everyone was into X at that time, but not me. Even that night, we all took at pill but for me, it didn’t do anything. I remember sitting upstairs on these couches where everyone was touching each other and saying how much they loved each other while sweating out whatever was inside of them. Nothing was coming out of me. I had been leaving people and places all night long, so I toughed it out, knowing that Madison and Phil were edgy like me and would want to jump, but I was wrong as Madison hooked up with a girl and Phil just started dancing by himself next to the speakers while I sat on the couch and watched as people groped on each other.
I walked over to the window and looked out over the city, wondering where was a place for me to be and feel like myself without wanting. The sky started to lighten just a bit – for me the middle of the night is like that. It’s not getting blacker, but lighter. The next day is always right around the next tick of the clock. My patience got the better of me, and I made my way down the stairs and back into the streets, opening the door and getting a piece of the silence of the city. I was alone again and comfortable without the knowledge of anything else going on around me. Insulated.
Those streets of the city, filled with homeless and kids running around tagging up whatever they could were sad at the time but romantic looking back at things. There wasn’t too much to be connected to because you had to become part of something. Does that make sense? Who is going to want to hear this story? I have to get it out though – and that’s all there is to it. I’m sure the publisher is going to ask where the next book is and then I can tell them it’s almost done. No. No, it’s not the epic on Mongolia I have been telling you about. What? What’s it about? Oh, you know, the haunted streets and buildings of San Francisco. Vampires. Yes, that’s right. There are vampires in the story. I know. I know it sells. Well, don’t get your expectations to high up, it’s not all about Vampires, okay?
I took the, wow, what bus did I take home. No, it wouldn’t have been a bus. I would have walked those streets because it was my joy back then. Most of the stuff south of Market Street hadn’t been built up at that point. They were all just buildings that you passed without thinking much of what your eyes were seeing. The homeless people there were the last gasps of ghosts that never got to cross over. Perhaps they were paying a price for being too intoxicated with everything. It was hard to stay away. This is very true.