Read Online Walt by Ian Stoba - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian Stoba
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary
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both of us, experiencing friendship for the first time. I found Walt childlike in that he had so little understanding of things that I took for granted. Yet with Walt I found none of the distance I had always felt around children. Walt I could talk to.
Somewhere along the line he had taken to continually humming the music that made counterpoint to whatever was going on around him. The music of the Easybeats was with us wherever we went on those days.
One adventure particularly sticks in my mind. We had by this time explored most of what I felt we could see on reasonable walks and bus rides. Walt had never ridden in a car. It was time for the 49 Mile Drive.
The 49 Mile Scenic Drive was created by the City as a means of low-cost automotive entertainment for tourists. It is supposed to take half a day and cover most of the major points of interest to those visiting San Francisco. That is the official version.
There is an old joke here that no native San Franciscan has ever actually completed the Drive. I have proven this wrong innumerable times. The rhythms of the Drive are familiar to me. I know all the difficult spots where the path is not well marked. I know the way through the park, and I know which way to go at Webster Street.
To me the drive is something philosophical. It is the closest thing I have to a religion. It makes for a wonderful panorama of misunderstanding. Places are passed by before there is any possibility of exploring or understanding. Like life, I suppose, the Drive covers a great deal of ground in less than a day.
In any case, the Drive requires a car, and that is one item which I did not have. I knew that it would not be much of a problem; it would simply require a visit to Jose, King of the Parking Lot.
Walt and I walked up to Nob Hill carrying packages of food and small things that we thought we might be of use during the Drive. Walt, of course had his constant companion lunchbox held closely by his side. I had by this time told him that lunchboxes were also useful for carrying things, especially food. Pandering to Walt’s fascination with the thermos, I had made some hot soup for him.
He was trying to drink some out of the red plastic cup as we walked up the hill. His attempts were unsuccessful; he was splashing it all over himself. I was thinking ahead to the Drive and not talking. The only sound aside from the shuffling of our feet was Walt slurping his soup and occasionally letting out little yelps when he spilled some and burned himself.
Just over the crest of the hill, barely out of the shadow of Grace Cathedral, is the parking garage over which Jose presides. Whenever I arrive at the garage, Jose is invariably found sitting on the floor in a full lotus position, eyes closed. His breathing is impossibly slow and controlled. One side of his head is substantially larger than the other, swollen upward in a strange way.
Perhaps I should note before the narrative proceeds any further that the garage which I currently describe is located in one of the wealthiest quarters of the City. Rich people pay huge sums of money to rent reserved spaces in Jose’s garage. In so doing, they ensure that they will never have to deal with the problems of parking and tickets and towing that make up such a large part of life for other local drivers.
Many of Jose’s patrons have three or four or more vehicles living in the garage. Since the number of vehicles they can be using at any one time is limited, I figure that they will never notice if I should happen to use one of their cars for an afternoon. I have a routine which has never failed me.
I walk up to Jose and nudge him with my knee. This seldom rouses him from his meditation so I grab him by the shoulder and shake. When his eyes finally open, I yell at him and abuse him as I imagine his rich customers must. Jose has a terrible memory, or so it seems. He always seems to recognize me, but is never sure if I am a customer or something else.
At this
Somewhere along the line he had taken to continually humming the music that made counterpoint to whatever was going on around him. The music of the Easybeats was with us wherever we went on those days.
One adventure particularly sticks in my mind. We had by this time explored most of what I felt we could see on reasonable walks and bus rides. Walt had never ridden in a car. It was time for the 49 Mile Drive.
The 49 Mile Scenic Drive was created by the City as a means of low-cost automotive entertainment for tourists. It is supposed to take half a day and cover most of the major points of interest to those visiting San Francisco. That is the official version.
There is an old joke here that no native San Franciscan has ever actually completed the Drive. I have proven this wrong innumerable times. The rhythms of the Drive are familiar to me. I know all the difficult spots where the path is not well marked. I know the way through the park, and I know which way to go at Webster Street.
To me the drive is something philosophical. It is the closest thing I have to a religion. It makes for a wonderful panorama of misunderstanding. Places are passed by before there is any possibility of exploring or understanding. Like life, I suppose, the Drive covers a great deal of ground in less than a day.
In any case, the Drive requires a car, and that is one item which I did not have. I knew that it would not be much of a problem; it would simply require a visit to Jose, King of the Parking Lot.
Walt and I walked up to Nob Hill carrying packages of food and small things that we thought we might be of use during the Drive. Walt, of course had his constant companion lunchbox held closely by his side. I had by this time told him that lunchboxes were also useful for carrying things, especially food. Pandering to Walt’s fascination with the thermos, I had made some hot soup for him.
He was trying to drink some out of the red plastic cup as we walked up the hill. His attempts were unsuccessful; he was splashing it all over himself. I was thinking ahead to the Drive and not talking. The only sound aside from the shuffling of our feet was Walt slurping his soup and occasionally letting out little yelps when he spilled some and burned himself.
Just over the crest of the hill, barely out of the shadow of Grace Cathedral, is the parking garage over which Jose presides. Whenever I arrive at the garage, Jose is invariably found sitting on the floor in a full lotus position, eyes closed. His breathing is impossibly slow and controlled. One side of his head is substantially larger than the other, swollen upward in a strange way.
Perhaps I should note before the narrative proceeds any further that the garage which I currently describe is located in one of the wealthiest quarters of the City. Rich people pay huge sums of money to rent reserved spaces in Jose’s garage. In so doing, they ensure that they will never have to deal with the problems of parking and tickets and towing that make up such a large part of life for other local drivers.
Many of Jose’s patrons have three or four or more vehicles living in the garage. Since the number of vehicles they can be using at any one time is limited, I figure that they will never notice if I should happen to use one of their cars for an afternoon. I have a routine which has never failed me.
I walk up to Jose and nudge him with my knee. This seldom rouses him from his meditation so I grab him by the shoulder and shake. When his eyes finally open, I yell at him and abuse him as I imagine his rich customers must. Jose has a terrible memory, or so it seems. He always seems to recognize me, but is never sure if I am a customer or something else.
At this
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