The Long Road Home
By Jeffrey D Loucks
Prologue
Some would say it’s presumptuous of a man in his twenties to write an autobiography. Perhaps it could be conceived as even more presumptuous given this book will end in 2001 when I was only twenty-two. The simple matter is I feel I have something to say, and I hope my life and travels will be of interest to some.
This is a book of my life and travel; in my younger years they were synonymous. It follows my birth in San Francisco, to my living in Paris at thirteen, moving out of San Francisco to the small Californian town of Mount Shasta and the difficulty of handling this change at fifteen. Then, only a year later, my departure to New York City which would influence my life over the next three years. My eventual move to London would come and go without a hot shower followed by beautifully cold showers in Barbados and Puerto Rico. Then my time in Asia in the start of 2000 where without knowing it I would slowly began transforming into a traveller.
It seems to me there’s plenty going on, certainly plenty for me to write about and teach. My goal is to show that one doesn’t have to be rich to travel. One doesn’t have to “want” this, their entire life to get it. I fell into travelling I like to say. My dreams were that of a Capitalist not an Explorer.
I can only hope this book gives someone the courage to go out and do whatever they want. To know any dream can be fulfilled but you can’t wait for it to fall into your lap. I’ve dealt with many people, beliefs, biases and misconceptions along my way. There’s nothing I would change, not for a moment. This doesn’t mean it was always easy, but it has and I hope it will continue to be an adventure!
Chapter 1
Birth
The evening sky filled with a lumbering fog falling from the surrounding hills. Arriving ever closer to the waters edge this tidal wave of cloud beamed straight for the Golden Gate Bridge. By sunset the bridge will be engulfed, imminently followed by the skyline of San Francisco. As the neighbouring cities bake in the summer’s heat these residents are forced to don jackets and jumpers year around. This August evening was proving no different, except for one little miracle.
Cautiously we enter a small flat on Castro Street. The décor is typical of its period; white stucco walls, an orange ceramic kitchen, and brown shag carpeting running wall-to-wall throughout the little two bedrooms flat. In the living room on the shag carpeting leaning up against an oversized white couch sits a pregnant woman. Hovering above her on the oversized sofa with supper fluffy pillows that makes it almost uncomfortable for the woman is her ageing husband; beer in hand, staring at the television. Another man, also baring a beard sits next to the husband, showing avid interest towards this Monday Night Football match due to a five-dollar bet riding on the outcome. None of them care greatly for Monday Night Football or Football in general, but having found it a great way to socialize on a Monday it’s become something of a tradition. Tonight however, this close friend was the only guest. According to the expecting couples doctor the baby was due at any moment; with this being their first child there was a hint of added excitement and anticipation in the air.
Their Doctor at Kaiser Permanente Hospital told them to expect birth between the tenth and the fifteenth. A solitary bag had been sitting by the front door since Saturday waiting for its trip. Halftime arrived and at 15-13 to the local side everyone was happy. The two men went to the kitchen for fresh Sierra Nevada beers and gazed into the fridge mindlessly. The corn chip Nachos sitting on the table had gone a bit soggy, the melted cheese not as tempting and the salsa tasting more and more like vegetables as each minute passed, clearly new food was needed.
This type of gazing had been known to last the entire length of a beer but alas that was not to be the case this evening. Suddenly a slight moan was heard in the living room, followed by a cry for help. Running in both men were immediately alerted by the signs of pain on the woman’s face, for clearly our heroin’s time had come. Eight stressful hours later at four thirty-five in the morning on the thirteenth of August, nineteen seventy-nine, a baby boy was born, weighing in at ten pounds four ounces. This is the story of that baby boy.
The next day’s would bring about the assurances all parents hope to find out; a healthy boy was born, no missing fingers or toes, and no extra bits either. My mother would spend the first night in the hospital under doctor’s orders. Despite there being no complications in the birth Dr Applebomb was a cautious man. He liked to see his mothers walk away always looking more alive than dead. Therefore, being thrown out the same day thanks to an early morning pregnancy with this doctor didn’t fly; especially if it was only an insurance company paying the bill. When the new family finally arrived home my mother found a clean house with nibbles prepared; for on this occasion my father knew how to behave.
My mother: Marguerite (Peggy) Anne Gandrau would serve as my fathers’ fourth and longest marriage, one that would ultimately last twenty years. At the time of my birth my father: Jeffrey Bruce (J.B) Loucks already had a small family. My two older half brothers: Guy and Kelly; have never been part of my life. They grew up in Las Vegas and rarely visited for reasons unknown to me. I received nearly the same name as my father, falling just shy of a junior by getting his grandfathers middle name: Daniel.
Peggy was born in 1950, the second child in a Catholic family of five girls and a sixth much younger boy. Her mother, Jean, was born in San Francisco in 1928 of working class parents. My grandfather, Bob, comes from South Dakota; and had the good fortune to meet my grandmother in San Francisco while serving in the Navy during World War Two. After the war they married and moved to Burlingame, a suburb of San Francisco. Children would quickly follow suit: first Colleen in 1948 followed by my mother in 1950, Deborah 1952, Karen 1953, Nancy 1956 and finally a son, Mark in 1960. By then my grandfather must have felt completely overwhelmed living in a house with six girls. For twenty-five years he worked for Western Electric and was a housepainter many evenings and weekends. He managed to put five girls through Catholic school and own three houses. I would never meet him. He died of a second heart attack with diabetes complications in 1975. Though my grandmother had not worked outside the home since marrying, she learned how to drive, got herself through business school and raised a teenage son on her own; fortunately my grandfather left her with a decent level of financial security.
Much to her parent’s disapproval my mother moved to San Francisco in 1971. After knowing my father only 3 months they moved in together. I know little of my fathers’ family as it was rare that he spoke of them. I believe they lived in Las Vegas where he’d grown up; but beyond that they remain largely a mystery. This goes for his youth as well, for although I knew about Guy and Kelly, and their mother Babe, I’ve never met her. Of his four wives I only know my mother and Babe’s name, perhaps because the formers it’s so memorable! My mother however is a different story.
Her adolescence when not in church kneeling on the family pew was spent with girlfriends taking slow drives down San Francisco’s Height and Asbury Streets. This epic corner represented the heart of the 1960’s hippy movement, beatniks, liberal thinking, antiwar campaigns and free love. With Peace and Love being the slogan of the day my mother would be forever endowed with a liberal ideology. It was this ideology that later allowed the streets of San Francisco during the Seventies to witness a mass influx of Homosexuals who found comfort in the peoples’ open-mindedness. Sadly, Hippies and Homosexuals were not the only issues on the nation’s minds during this time as American’s sat in their living rooms watching dead boys come off cargo planes from Viet Nam by the thousands. This carried with it many protests in the streets of my city and the rest of America. My mother, in her early twenties, was the perfect age to experience all of this firsthand. Perhaps; this is why years later when given the opportunity to visit any country in Asia she would choose Viet Nam; spending three weeks surrounded by people she was raised to view as the enemy.
My father, born in 1941, made him the perfect age to be in Viet Nam; however he avoided being one of the hundreds of thousands sent as a result of having two small children at home to look after. Luckily for him, in 1968 this was enough to make one eligible for an honorary discharge; which he happily accepted.
My parents would get married in Reno, Nevada, in 1978 after being together on and off for nearly 7 years. According to my mother they married not out of love but because they wanted children. I was born less than a year later. The happy couple decided to conceive yet another child two years on resulting in a little girl. On the 9th of May 1982 Opal was born. My sister is a combination of matriarchic names, my father’s mother, Opal, and my mother’s mother, Jean. This second child would prove too difficult for my father however, and following the same patters he’d displayed with Babe an inherent restlessness began. After a mere four years of married life, having produced two children he would leave my mother with a six-month-old baby and a two-year-old child opting for an easier life at his new girlfriend’s home. Much like Babe my mother now found herself alone to raise their children.
There was one principal difference this time for my father however. Leaving behind this family and city would not be as easy thanks to a small company called Has Beans Coffee & Fine Teas. Having set-up the company with my mother located at California and Fillmore Streets on November 13th 1976, three years before I was born, it provided a solid income. Starting off as a single coffee shop they quickly expanded into a retail and wholesale enterprise. If J.B was ready to leave my sister and me behind, he was unprepared to leave the lifestyle Has Beans provided for him. This being the case, Has Beans, not my father, would lay the foundation of my early years.
When thinking back upon my early childhood there are few memories I remember. Ironically, the one I hold most dear is possibly a dream. I’ve asked my mother on multiple occasions if she can remember it, sadly yet understandably she can’t. One night while lying in my crib I saw the walls of my bedroom covered in flames. I could see them clear as day; the flames were running along the walls about to engulf my entire room. I only had one option, go warn my parents. Getting out of my crib I could feel the brown shag carpeting at my feet. My hands ran along the beige stucco walls as I slowly felt my way to the door leading into the corridor. My room was pitch black. The lights in the corridor were off leaving only a single white light at the end visible. Feeling very disoriented I walked on towards the light in the dead of the night. Entering the living room I found my mother and father sitting on the overgrown sofa casually talking with our downstairs neighbours. I couldn’t understand why nobody seemed concerned about the raging fire. Standing there in a haze it took a few moments for my mother see me; then rising majestically out of the white cushions she took me into her arms, carrying me back down the darkness from whence I came. Returning to my room it was now obvious there was nothing to fear, for the fire had vanished. Without exchanging a single word the world seemed okay again. I fell asleep peacefully knowing she would always carry me to safety.
Memories of my early childhood are few and far between. Prior to age ten or eleven I remember almost nothing distinctly. If I then try narrowing it down to just my father the results produce a near blank. My suppressed memories are not induced by physical abuse; he preferred mind games; most likely it’s these games that have caused my desire to forget. For many years he lived above our coffee warehouse in the old office space which he converted into a loft. With mom also working at the warehouse I would see him most times I went there. He was not out of our lives, simply not part of it, a parental figure that had the authority to tell you what to do without providing the parental support. Every afternoon at one o’ clock Parry Mason, a detective show from the fifties, was televised. This show was my father’s favourite way to spend his lunch hour. If I were not in school and at the warehouse there was never any question about where I could my father at this hour.
On one occasion while sitting together watching he decided during a commercial break that he needed a specific Philips head screwdriver from his toolbox. Naturally I was the one going downstairs to get it. Under the stairs leading up to the loft he had a small niche that held his sizable tool collection. This collection was stored in numerous toolboxes. Telling me exactly where and which screwdriver he wanted I went looking for it. Fearing the inevitable before I even got up from the couch I correctly predicted I wouldn’t be able to find anything but flathead screwdrivers. On top of this there seemed to be nothing with a red handle like he’d described. With my head hanging low I went back upstairs empty-handed. He made no attempt to hide his contempt and annoyance towards his eight-year-old son’s inability to find the item. Sending me back once again I knew I had to find it this time; third shelf, left wall, it was one of the only items on the shelf and clearly in eye site according to him. My search not only on the third shelf but all over I believed to be thorough. The screwdriver was nowhere to be found. I didn’t have to walk back to my father however, turning to leave once again empty-handed I ran into him staring down at me. He reached out his hand, lifting it high over my head bringing it down on the third shelf where his hand lay upon a red handle. I had failed to look, to really look; clearly a crime in his book far greater than adultery. To a large degree this is the father I remember.
At no point can I recall my mother and father fighting. I’d imagine they did occasionally, fortunately though it was never in front of my sister and I. As good as it is that we never saw them fighting; I can’t remember seeing them being affectionate or kissing either, which is somehow quite sad. I always wished for my parents to reunite, I didn’t like the idea of them separated. Understanding what my father had done and knowing that I didn’t respect or enjoy being around him didn’t stop me from wishing they were together. I resented having to tell people my parents were separated, being a single parent child was not a statistic I wanted anything to do with. There were also the more base motivations in wanting them together; I hated having to wait on Christmas Day or Birthdays for him to show up, where presents were never opened before his arrival.
Opal and I lived with mom but would visit J.B, sometimes staying weekends at his place. We also saw him at work, at cafés or restaurants where he socialized. Occasionally we would go to dinner as a whole family. I saw him; he was part of my life but not my life. My mother was and still is the rock in my life. If there was a problem at school, or a baseball game I wanted to go to; I would look to her. She was there everyday, every minute of my childhood. A parent living out of the family home can never share the same bond; can never quite be part of that inner circle. It seemed my father was neither capable nor cared enough to be part of our inner circle.
On the fourth of October 1989 I was ten years old. I rushed home from school that day as for the first time in my life the San Francisco Giants were in the Baseball World Series. To add to the pressure and excitement it was against our biggest rivals, the neighbouring cities team, The Oakland Athletics. The television coverage would start at half four. We were playing the first game at home; mom had promised to be home before the game started so we could watch it together. I was sitting on the dark green couch in our large front room waiting for my mother, the suns rays shining through the front room curtains made the opening song to my favourite cartoon, Duck Tails, difficult to see. Suddenly my singing along to the theme song was interrupted by a massive shaking. I quickly realized the entire house was rocking to and fro! I’d learned in school to run under something solid, our dining room table positioned just behind the couch was the first thing I could think of and in moments as the earth shook under me I buried myself below it. Pushing the heavy wooden chairs in as close as possible I waited; for surly the entire house was about to cave in around me. Moments later everything seemed calm; very calm! Our little street outside was silent; it seemed the earth had suddenly stopped moving altogether as I sat on the floor looking around in a daze. The sound of the television was no longer in the background; even the birds outside seemed suddenly silent. Cautiously, I crawled out from under the table as voices in the street were becoming audible. Looking around the living room nothing seemed different, the pictures were on the walls, books on their shelves, and everything was in place as though nothing had happened. I walked through the swinging doors leading to the ceramic floored kitchen, it was dark, trying the lights did nothing, the power was gone, yet nothing had changed. Nothing seemed destroyed, in school they always told us of the great power and destruction that earthquakes caused, perhaps this one wasn’t so bad? Voices began to stream in from the street, is it now safe to go outside I wondered? Heading out my front door and walking onto our balcony I could see my neighbours, my friends, standing around talking to one another. Then suddenly I could hear a car rearing up the road. I quickly recognized it as our white Ford Escort as my mother came screeching to a halt in the driveway. Running up the stairs with tears in her eyes she took me into her arms. In the moment I needed her most she’d appeared quickly and miraculously. It was never possibly to question my mothers love for Opal and I, it was ever present and real. Later that night sitting outside with our neighbours in the dark the sky was an ominous red colour. The earthquake had caused plenty of damage we would find out, we were simply lucky enough to live on solid ground.
Living with my mother was a simple straightforward affair. I was aloud to play at friend’s houses while doing pretty much whatever I liked so long as I called to let her know where I was. It would take an incident with my sister Opal when she was nine that opened my eyes to how important keeping in touch really was. Coming home from school one afternoon I found my mother there wondering where my sister was. As we attended different schools I had no idea, generally when I arrived home she would already be there. I didn’t understand why my mother was at home, or why she was concerned at all until she told me someone at the school had called her earlier upon my sister’s demands when her French tutor hadn’t shown up. She spent a few afternoons a week with a French lady practicing general conversation. My mother, leaving work, arrived at the school to find Opal gone. Heading straight home, as the house was within walking distance she found the house empty, this is when I arrived. Calling in at the neighbours had produced nothing, the same result when calling the French ladies house. Time passed slowly while my mother became increasingly frazzled. Opal had just begun attending this school therefore so far as we knew she had yet to make any friends. This, we figured ruled out the possibility of her having gone to a classmates house. The decision was made to go back and check the school. (Keep in mind this is before mobile phones)! The schools secretary believed Opal to have left with the rest of the children at the days end, knowing nothing of the call made to my mother earlier in the day. I could see the signs of panic arriving on my mothers face as we drove around the neighbourhood going into shops searching for her before eventually heading back to the house hoping she’d returned. Finding the house empty mom decided to call the police. Being eleven at the time I knew there was nothing I could do and felt all the more useless for it. The police were not willing to help, they informed us that she had to be missing at least twenty-four hours before they would get involved; mom was furious. It was then that it dawned on me how my not bothering to call sometimes after school could cause similar amounts of stress. From then on I was diligent in letting her know where I was if not at home. Thankfully, my sister did turn up, the school had failed to inform us that they’d not only called my mother but had called the tutors house as well. The tutors husband picking up the phone promptly came to fetch my sister, arriving before my mother, being none the wiser that she was on her way. They had been running around doing chores, in English, until he brought her back at the normal time late that afternoon much to my mothers’ relief.
In the summer of 1989, just months before the earthquake, my father decided to move to Paris, France. He courteously asked Opal and I if we wished to join him. At which point I happily declined. Opal was eight years old, always being daddy’s little girl said she wanted to go, my mother relented. In August of that year they left and without knowing it my childhood would never be the same.
I was never fond of being young; I grew up in the company of adults. Around my father it was mandatory to behave as an adult, plus spending a lot of time in the coffee shops around adults made my inclinations more mature. As a result of this many of the kids my age seemed juvenile and uninteresting. Generally speaking my life was not demanding; I behaved well because my mother trusted and treated me as an grown-up; while other kids my age were grounded or yelled at by their parents I was not. My friends would complain about their mother or father often leaving me with nothing to say; knowing my mother and I shared more of a friendship than anything, this friendship only increased once Opal left.
With J.B and Opal in Paris it was now up to my mother to run Has Beans alone. At the time our little empire consisted of two retail stores and the warehouse, with a now empty loft space thanks to my father’s departure. This we decided to rent out, putting a lock on the two connecting doors into the warehouse it already had its own entrance and in being a self-contained unit was quickly snatched up by a young couple. The wholesale side of business was profitable but labour intensive; my mother had always preferred the retail end but was now forced into learning the wholesale side as well. With double the work she brought work home more than ever and clearly wasn’t entirely capable of handling it on her own. As an added bonus my father expected Has Beans to pay for his Parisian lifestyle. With my sister as bait there was little my mother could do.
I knew life was not easy for my mother and there were financial difficulties but as a ten-year-old there was little I could do. My eleventh birthday brought with it double celebrations. For not only had mom promised me that once I turned eleven I could work in the café but I no longer would have to suffer weekends at my fathers! Being aloud work in our flagship store on Fillmore Street every Saturday was momentous for me. This store was especially close to my heart as it was where my mother most often worked. The store was old, it was full of character. Entering, along the left side running nearly the entire length was a counter with bins full of coffee beans to be scooped out and weighed on the spot. Above the coffee on shelving were jars full of sweets, everything from Swedish Fish to Chocolate Caramel Turtles, it was a dream for me every time I stuck my grubby little hands into those jars pulling out sugar filled love. At the end of this long narrow store was another counter with an espresso machine and a few stools. In the early days of coffee stores the focus was on the beans and the machines; not espresso. We had three tables running the length of the store and two more in the windows next to where the fresh brewed coffee and the cash register was. It was a second home to me, the brown carpeting, old brown walls and wooden counters and cabinets, I felt safe here. For years I’d been at the heels of my mother while she worked, talking and interacting with the customers, many of whom had become friends, and treated me as their equal. They didn’t look to me as a child nor did I avert my eyes fearing interaction with them as adults. On my first Saturday, getting out of bed at seven am to help open and work the morning shift with one of my favourite employees, Travis, a twenty something surfer, a true California pretty-boy, I was both excited and nervous. Travis was cool! I wanted to be cool like him! Having never had a male roll model to look up to in my father I naturally found other men to lead by example.
There have always been such men in my life, guiding me not only where my father had failed but in times of need. The first man of this calibre was most certainly Travis. He laid some of the foundations I hold for being a good honest man while always enjoying life; if there was one thing Travis, his bicycle, and surfboard always seemed to do; that was enjoy life. He didn’t make great money with my mother but his love for Has Beans was comparable to ours. On that first Saturday morning I was greeted by Travis and all our customers with a warmness and welcome that made me feel as though I’d been working there my entire life. Of course I had been there my entire life, but this official step up everyone saw and accepted. The love I felt from our customers was the reason I felt more comfortable on Saturday mornings in Has Beans than on Monday morning in school. I consider myself extremely fortunate that Has Beans was a backdrop to my childhood. It provided me with a large group of adults whom I interacted seemingly with as an equal; which unknowingly prepared me for the world more than any school ever could. On top of this I earned enough money to never feel the pangs of hunger or want.
The only time in my youth I remember not being happy was at school or with my father. It’s not that he was such a bad man, we simply didn’t see eye to eye on anything. The happiest time in my life with him must have been when I was seven and we went to Paris together for a two-week holiday. There are few specifics I remember about this trip; we would have stayed at the same little hotel on Rue Cler, filling the days in cafes and parks. Two incidents however made this trip memorable; with one leaving a lasting mark. Along the Tour Eiffel (Eiffel Tower) are gardens, these gardens have flower beds which are encased in concrete planter boxes making them last longer, as well as act as benches. This is all seemingly fine so long as one doesn’t ram their head against them! We were playing a typical boy game where one rams into the other trying to move them from their mark. It was my turn, and taking a big run up I was just about to hit my father squarely on the arm when he moved! I missed my target but my body kept going until a planter box stopped me. Moments later, shaking myself off I awoke to find myself sitting on the pavement. My father was next to me with a concerned look in his eyes and it was then I discovered a trail of blood streaming down my forehead. Getting me to my feet he told me to wait there a moment while he ran to a small shack-like building that turned out to be a security control room. I followed my father wirily before suddenly finding myself standing in the doorway of a dark room filled with the glare of many monitors flashing scenes of the Jardins du Tour Eiffel as well as the Tour Eiffel itself. Hardly understanding my fathers poorly spoken French they looked behind him seeing me standing there dripping blood on their floor, they suddenly got the picture.
The ambulance didn’t take long to arrive and with sirens blaring the Parisian traffic dispersed. I sat with a folded a cloth upon my forehead, across from me I could see my fathers glare; it was easier to close my eyes trying not to focus on my throbbing head. Later in the emergency room I was aware of lying on the operation table with lights bearing down at me, heavy breathing mixed in with rapidly spoken French. Then it was over. Suddenly I had something to brag about at school upon my return! A small scare still exists to mark the occasion.
The other memorable incident had to do with personal hygiene. As it still stands to this day, showers are not particularly appealing to me. Much to my mother’s horror, and my delight, I only took two showers in the two weeks we were away. For a seven-year-old like myself that can only mean one thing: more bragging! Sadly, as an adult, society has worked its magic around me to the point where I find myself bathing almost daily…
Paris has been in my family as long as I can remember. I don’t now why we went on holiday’s there so religiously, or what appeal beyond the obvious beauty it held for my parents; however at the age of ten I could already claim over ten trips to Paris and it could have been thanks to this that the eventual departure of my father for this city did not surprise me.
I’ve never been able to understand the next moves my father made. Installing Opal and himself in Paris he continued to campaign for my enlistment. With us never getting along I don’t know what benefit he saw by having me living with him. At the end of my sisters first year in Paris she returned to San Francisco. My mother was not prepared to lose her daughter and had insisted upon her return. I’ve already told you about the incident where my sister went missing. Beyond that I must admit I remember very little of that year she spent with us. I spoke to my father perhaps twice a month, my sister may have spoken to him more often, but I rarely had anything to say. I remember he did make an extended visit to San Francisco as well which seemed to me to be more of a recruiting mission than a visit. For the only thing I remember him doing was talking to me about when I would move to France with him. Shortly after my sisters arrival it became clear that she planned on returning to France, but I was happy with my life and could see no reason to live in France with a man I didn’t like.
It was not until a few years later, in the spring of 1991 that a crack appeared in my wall of resistance. I was as happy living with my mother as ever, this was not the issue. It had to do with school. I attended a small private school were for each year there were only two main teachers. One of the teachers I faced getting for Year 7 was a man I didn’t like at all, to begin with he insisted that I write all my papers in cursive, something I was utterly unable to manage. That I didn’t like him and felt he had the same inclination towards me also added cracks. After long talks with my mother, for we both knew how I felt about dad, it was decided. I would kill two birds with one stone: avoid the horrible teacher and finally get my father off my back. My father and mother arranged that mom would come to Paris for at least a month over the winter while he looked after the business in San Francisco. The thirteenth of August came quickly that year. I was now officially a teenager, something I’d dreaded for years already. My outlook was simple enough; I didn’t know any good teenagers, so why should becoming one be celebrated? The very next day I got on a plane to Paris. Life as a teenager already sucked, for I was leaving San Francisco to live with a man I didn’t respect.
There was little joy in that year. My father demanded I come straight home from school everyday. This effectively killed off any chance of lasting friendships. I also somehow managed to fail all of my classes, including English! Puberty came as a shock as well. In my father’s house of acceptance and openness I was more confused than ever. There’s little doubt in my mind that he would have guessed something was going on with me, but never spoke of it. I remember when I started growing pubic hair; which as we all know itches, he would often yell at me for scratching in public. Never explaining that it was a normal reaction to early hair growth, instead he preferred to make me feel uncomfortable. I also remember at some point him saying he liked long legs. I think that’s as close to talking about sex we ever managed!
My mother proved no better as when she showed up she acted just as unaware as my father. The routine when she was living there had become one where soon after dinner Opal would go to sleep, she would clean the kitchen, and I would turn on a movie. Now the beauty of French television is its liberalness, certainly to a sexually minded thirteen year old. One night I made a big mistake however. Watching a movie about a man who seemed to go from one woman’s bed to another I went into the kitchen and asked my mother what a Gigolo was. This was the last night I watched movies alone!
My mother left Paris and my feelings of confused sexual tension in the presence of all women hadn’t subsided. Mostly it just made me feel like more of a freak than ever. I accepted this and once my father returned I returned to the submissive annoyed son once again. When the end of the school term arrived I joyously flew back to San Francisco, only to find an even bigger shock than puberty awaiting my arrival.
The stable world I’d left behind started to become a seemingly harder place. The confidence to confide in my mother was also about to be thrown into doubt as the return to my mothers’ house and familiar ways were quickly crushed on finding in my absence she’d begun to date! I was furious; I was really, really jealous! There were suddenly men other than myself in her life; that she slept with and cared about. This was not supposed to happen! I was supposed to be the only man in her life, yet suddenly I wasn’t. I had to share her! I didn’t like this at all and didn’t handle it well. The disgust I rained upon these men was most certainly heightened by my not feeling they were good enough for her. They were alcoholics, which only helped justify my hatred. My father also being an alcoholic didn’t change anything, at least with him it was undetectable as he was so adapt at the habit. Where these men, mere mortals, showed when they were drunk, often matching myself in their petty childish behaviour towards their lovers annoying child. I can only remember three different men to be fair, the last one she was with for nearly six years, long after I moved out of the house. Regardless, we never grew to like or respect each other. Having grown up with my mother’s full attention my reactions possibly should have been expected by these men, but they simply looked at me as the spoiled brat I proudly was. At fourteen this was to be the first of many shocks to come. The next three years would prove to be some of the most difficult I’ve had.
I never enjoyed school. While not doing poorly my mind was rarely able to focus on subjects that seemed irrelevant to my life. To this day I don’t know how to study, often finding when I do opt to take a course I don’t enjoy it. I was a large kid, although I wouldn’t say obese I certainly was. I possessed a large belly running alongside a small ego. Thanks to this, returning to San Francisco at fourteen for the 8th Grade I found kids from the younger classes picking on me without possessing the necessary confidence to stop them. By the time I turned fifteen life seemed pretty shit; I felt like I’d gotten the rough end of the stick.
I graduated from the 8th grade and started attending George Washington Public High School alongside eight thousand other kids. Mostly people didn’t pay attention to me, which didn’t bother me in the slightest. There was one Asian guy that for some reason would pick on me in and out of school, occasionally attempting to mug me but never with much conviction or successes. Beyond this I only befriended one boy that year and I didn’t even like him much. It was at this point my mother decided I should attend group therapy. I didn’t want to. I didn’t think I needed it. At this moment in America the entire country appeared to be going to a therapist. I was hip enough to not know what the kids were doing but to know exactly what the adults were up to. Riding the therapist wave wasn’t for me. Mom said I had to attend three sessions, if at the end of that I still didn’t like it then I could stop. Relenting one Wednesday afternoon, feeling none too comfortable at getting off the bus at the Hospital I’d been born in I walked into the group therapy session. I found myself sitting in a waiting room with ten other lost looking teenagers.
It was great! Next to these kids my life was without problems, a mother that loved me, no curfew or rules, no need to sneak out of the house, no father beating me, or girlfriend pregnant and in love with me. If I desperately wanted girls to pay attention to me I didn’t want them having my babies. These kids were the real thing, they made my problems look paltry and suddenly it clicked, that’s exactly what they were: paltry. I had a good life and should not so easily forget it. Yes my mother’s boyfriend was a dick, but he didn’t beat her or me, he simply got drunk and acted as stupid as I did towards him. Suddenly life wasn’t so bad; I was reluctantly becoming a happier better adjusted teenager thanks to a group of kids that were truly fucked-up!
In the early nineties the coffee business was going through a major transformation around America. Twenty years earlier my parents had opened their doors without considering serving cups of coffee. The business was about selling beans, grinders, coffeemakers and the occasional expensive home espresso machine. Now, with more competition popping up all around us it was expand or be crushed. Much like the early days of McDonalds where a local hamburger joint would have no chance a local coffee shop was left out to dry if a Starbucks moved in. The reputation and craving for this famous chain had reached ferocity by the time they entered San Francisco in 1994. As luck would have it their first store opened a mere two blocks from our flagship location. We’d transformed into a modern shop by that point, knowing a wave was about to crash in all around us. Drip coffee, lattes, cappuccinos, and even pastries were now part of our daily sales, my mother tried. From 1990 to 1994 six different coffee shops opened in a five-block radius to us, many of the stores larger and newer than ours; our long time clientele was disappearing. The Upper Fillmore District had always reflected the life my family lived, one of a secure middle class; we were not rich yet not poor. However, this didn’t mean we could afford life without our business. One rival coffee shop opened with our exact menu, listing all the prices at ten cents cheaper; with such tactics it was impossible to compete.
For all of my fathers faults he was always a good idea man, having entered the coffee business in its early youth had he been a good businessman the world may well know the name Has Beans instead of Starbucks. Sadly J.B was anything but a good businessman.
In 1992 the taxman knocked on our doors. It turned out my father only ever paid business taxes sporadically; this left my mother in the middle of an audit with a real threat of eventual ruin. Against her wishes after two years of fighting she decided it was times to shut the doors, bargain with the Internal Revenue Service, and start fresh outside San Francisco. The idea was to reopen our doors temporarily under her boyfriends’ name. This would at least leave us with something.
My young life plans had never included leaving San Francisco or California. Depending on my mood and age I was either going to take over the family business and turn it into an empire or I was going to have nothing to do with it; regardless, my future was in San Francisco. I’m fourth generation born and bread San Franciscan, something I’m very proud of. Now my world was once again being turned on its head as we searched for a home outside of my home with a man I didn’t like.
Despite our deep desire to stay in San Francisco it was also an escape from many good and bad memories for my mother and I. Perhaps this is what we needed in-order to heal and move forward. I would miss San Francisco greatly; I was leaving my home, the streets and busses, our customers, all the strange homeless people, everything that was routine and familiar. If not always good it was at least steady, it was mine, and that was about to vanish. There was only one direction my finger would point the blame at: my father. This man had won few brownie points in my life and now he was indirectly doing this to my mother and I; forgiveness would be a long hard road.
