The day begins at 9:45 AM when I finally pull myself out of bed to face responsibility, which is a lot harder when it's my Saturday, especially before noon. I'm up and dressed and out the door by 10 and on my way up to Auburn to meet Ron Montana, the author my grandma wants to introduce me to. For whatever reason, I bring my camera. It's a beautiful day.
I get to Auburn and park in Old Town and snap a few photos of the little park by the creek behind the parking lot while waiting for my grandma to get back from the gym. She's adorable. Nature is wonderful.
You can see the Auburn Courthouse through the trees.
I meet my grandma behind the coffee-shop (Courthouse Coffee, her old business, my old employer) and we get a visit from Coffee Cat, the local homeless feline that my grandmother has been feeding for the past few years. They're best friends but the cat won't let anyone touch her. Afterward, my grandma shows me the progress she's made in the studio and shows me the kitchenette she wants to have installed.
Meeting Ron Montana was pretty neat. He's an older guy in a baseball cap with a bushy white beard and reading glasses. He's there with Lois (Auburn's local radio personality) and a handful of other prominent locals like a woman who owns an equestrian equipment shop who used to be a race-car driver, a British woman whose family owned a Lamborghini dealership in the bay area, another radio host and another author. I give Ron samples of my sci-fi short stories. He admits that he made more by selling a single screenplay than he made from any of his writing. The other author, Jack, when asked if he had any advice for me, said simply, "Start drinking." I left with a list of authors I should look into and a free meal. Weird to see Mike, my old boss, and realize how much I still don't like the guy. Afterward I went over with my grandma to see Mom at her place of work, caught up, told her about Jenny ("Are there any girls in your life?" is one of my family's favorite questions), heard about her water-bill headache and made maybe-plans to come back up for dinner sometime soon. Grandma drove me back to the coffee-shop and that's when I called Sean.
Here's what Ron said in an e-mail about my stuff:
I’m not crazy about either title but Ferguson is very marketable. You should subscribe to the SFWA newsletter which is a very good guide to who’s buying what in SF.
The Time Traveler is a brilliant, well written and fast paced action filled execution of a very well worn story line. It shows that you really have the talent but selling that one will be a challenge. If you do decide to submit either, please study format requirements. Yours need upgrading to industry standards.
- Ron Montana
While I waited for Sean to wake up and get ready, I took a couple photos of the Courthouse and then my batteries died and I wandered through Old Town to buy new ones from the gas station. Continued up behind the Mexican restaurant along a little road that winds up into the hills, which led me up to the train tracks--one direction leading to a dark tunnel and the other crossing a bridge over the freeway.
Along the way I passed a pile of junk, an electric typewriter, a mirror, a motorcycle under a blue tarp and a disregarded child's bicycle being consumed by the ivy.
Then I walked across the train bridge, fearing antiquated footing and police sirens, unable to turn back and thrilled by the adrenaline. Graffiti on the platform let me know that I wasn't the first to venture across, but I still knew that I was one of the few. The view was phenomenal. Special, for me only. Once across, I climbed beneath the girders to examine the details that kept the metal contraption suspended. My adrenaline high encouraged me to follow a wooden platform down what I considered the throat of the bridge, but I couldn't quite convince myself that I would survive. Back up on the tracks there was nowhere to go but back across, and I returned to the original side of I-80 and set my sights on the mouth of the tunnel around the bend.
I knew it was a dumb idea to go into the tunnel. I'd faced this decision once before, during high school, when I'd taken my aunt's dog out here for a walk and considered exploring its secrets. Didn't do it, though, and never forgot about that small, incomplete desire. That curiosity carried over from my freshman year, it seemed. So here I was again, ten years later, closer now to the tunnel than I'd ever been before, and this time with a camera. I calmly took photos of the wet graffiti that lined the first ten yards of the tunnel's stone walls, well out of harm's way should a train come barreling through the opposite archway.
I knew there was so much more to see, though. I knew the stone walls transitioned into rock walls, fresh and wet with the make-up of a subterranean cave. Where bats and goblins and mutants and danger coexisted with dripping ceilings and slime, where the air was cold and moist and echoes had minds of their own. I couldn't help it. I had to go further. I kept my eye on the light at the end of the tunnel and tuned my ears for distant train whistles, and started forward, passing the final graffiti tag where the stone ended and the earth was too wet for paint to stick.
I made it about a 100 feet into the tunnel where a stream of water showered down from the rocky ceiling and splashed noisily on the tracks below. I tried to photograph the moment but the lens couldn't focus on the water's obscure origins among the smooth earthy texture. I knew each minute I spent in the tunnel was increasing my risk of crossing paths with a train, and each step away from the entrance was another step I'd have to sprint if I did hear the echo of a horn breeze past my ears. So I returned outside, albeit reluctantly, and on my way back toward the bridge I noticed the hollowed structure nestled against the hillside below the tracks.
And I just knew that I had to climb to the top of it.
It was pretty much time to go after that. Sean texted and said he'd meet me at the coffee-shop. I was all set to leave after one last venture across the bridge--breathtaking every time--when I happened to look down below the bridge and noticed a sub-level platform that ran along the bottom layer of support beams, maybe fifty feet above the freeway traffic cruising underneath. I was already halfway down the road, struck motionless by this insatiable urge to break rules and climb fences and explore the prohibited, wondering if I had time for just one more adventure. I had to. I couldn't help it.
So I slide and hop along the edge of the hill, weaving among the girders supporting the bridge above, and make my way to the ladder that leads to the platform, which is within reach because someone has propped a wooden plank against the cement post. I climb up. My heart is racing. I take a couple photographs and watch the cars driving underneath, and I look across the freeway at the far end of the rusty platform and wonder: Am I really going to walk across this thing?
Fuck yes I am.
Each step feels like my last. Each breath, a gift. I keep one hand on the dusty railing and move briskly from one side of the freeway to the other, thinking if people can see me that they must think I'm insane, and my blood is pumping like it's never pumped before. I feel weightless. I feel wonderfully irresponsible and brave and crazy and excited and alive. I make the return trip without hesitation. It's better than any roller coaster I've ever strapped myself into. I feel like a champion.
I meet up with Sean and we take our separate cars back to Sacramento. I take a couple photos of the construction they're doing at the hospital near the freeway. When we've reunited in my room we smoke a little pot and start drinking Pabst and spend some time on the windowsill and listen to Velvet Underground while talking about his move to San Diego on April 1st and strolling to the liquor store for Kamels after early dinner at Chipotle. We make maybe-plans for a bonfire at midnight.
Later, Jenny shows up and we keep drinking and everyone's wearing green and of course Jenny pulls it off the best. We loosely plan out the evening and wait for Jen and Nick. Once everyone's arrived, we sing "Pursuit of Happiness" and we take shots of Jack Daniels with ginger-ale chasers during the chorus of "Where Is My Mind?" and warm up our livers for the coming festivities. Downtown you've got de'Vere's with a live band and a ten-dollar cover charge and we head there first for car bombs and long lines and some good old fashioned Irish punk music. The portable toilets are disgusting. I've already stopped paying attention to how much I've been drinking and down a Harps after a vodka-cranberry and then take Jenny back to my place to use the bathroom there. In my room we hold each other and kiss and secretly wish we could just stay there alone for the rest of the night, but our friends keep texting and we finally agree to meet at Streets of London. It's crowded and there's a line and a five-dollar cover and the floor is sticky with spilt beer and everyone is happy because it's a holiday meant for drunk people. Jenny and I drink car bombs and then head outside to hang out in the patio. The others finally arrive and we all get more beer and take trips to the bathroom and light up cigarettes and banter drunkenly until Sean gets sick and he pukes in the trashcan and no one seems to notice. Like a trooper, he keeps going and our group migrates out of the stuffy pub and back onto the streets, heading for Golden Bear. En route, we pass by the the purple carriage that houses a One Man Band (literally just one guy in a cocoon of random instruments who will play any song you request with minimal musical skill but maximum enthusiasm), and I can't help but steal Jenny away to experience this with me for my first time. The guy wakes up from a crossword puzzle and excitedly gets behind the piano while we pay five bucks each for his entertainment. "Give me a topic," he says, and Jenny replies, "Love," and this leads to a rendition of "All You Need Is Love." Sean stumbles in and the four of us belt out the chorus together in drunken, off-beat harmony. Great memory. Then the One Man Band asks Sean for a topic and, with his head resting on his arm, slouched over the top of the piano, Sean says, "Abortion." This stumps the One Man Band and we end up having a peculiar discussion about a woman's right to choose, and I don't even remember what song he ended up singing but I couldn't help but wonder if Alanis Morissette ever sang a song about abortion, since that seems like something she would've done. Outside in the real world, we meet up with Jen and Nick outside of Golden Bear, but for some reason we all decide against another bar, and they go home. What followed was a cheeseburger, cheesecake, dropping Sean off at my house, walking back to Jenny's and finishing St. Patty's Day with a good night of sleep. And I didn't even get a hangover.
- Left to Fry
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