"I got a girl, named Bonnie Lee, I know that girl's been true to me. I know she's been, I'm sure she's been true to me."
Wharf Rat
Grateful Dead, 1971
Music by Jerry Garcia, Lyrics by Robert Hunter
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As I think back to that night, I still can't believe we fought over something that trivial. Nevertheless, I got mad, stormed out of Amy's apartment and started walking.
We were going to go out for the evening, and I wanted it to be special. It was Valentine's Day, and I had something I wanted to share with her. We'd been dating for over a year, and I believed we were meant for each other.
Then she came out of her bedroom wearing a dress that a previous boyfriend had bought for her overseas. It was actually exquisite, but it rubbed me the wrong way. This was supposed to be my night -- our night -- and I was irked that she would wear something someone else bought her.
I know, it was childish. But in a moment of madness, my latent jealousy reared its ugly head and I stormed out, "to clear my head," I told Amy as I slammed the door to her apartment.
I thought I'd just walk down the street a way, cool off, then go back. But something drew me further and further, toward the waterfront. Amy's apartment wasn't all that far from San Francisco Bay, and for some reason the tangy aroma of the salty sea beckoned me.
I was sitting on a bench by one of the piers, staring into the bay, listening to the sea sounds: the ringing of the buoys, the gentle lapping of the water on the shore, the cries of the gulls. A wet, chilly fog was starting to roll in and somehow it fit the mood I was in.
I was thinking dangerous thoughts right about then, about whether I really wanted to invest any more time in a relationship that seemed to have such ups and downs. I for sure wasn't going to apologize, because I didn't feel like I had anything to apologize for.
She'd been the one who'd done me wrong, by bringing up a reminder of the one that came before, the rich slicker with plenty of money, but very few morals. He'd treated Amy abominably, ran around behind her back, gambled with her money and dabbled in drugs.
Amy and I had met at Berkeley, where we had the same advisor in the same field of study. We had some classes together and had become friendly. But we hadn't dated until our paths crossed a couple of years after graduating, and I learned she'd finally ditched the asshole she'd been seeing at college.
She's the only child of parents who are fairly well-to-do, and while I wouldn't call her spoiled, she sometimes has a hard time seeing things from the perspective of others, doesn't take into consideration the feelings of others.
As a result, we sometimes don't see eye-to-eye on some things, and we are both just stubborn enough that when we do disagree, we tend to not want to compromise.
Don't get me wrong, we love each other very much, but right at that moment, I was wondering if I loved her enough to accept her as she was, whether I could change her attitude or change mine.
I didn't hear the old man at first. He sort of shuffled up toward where I was sitting, then suddenly there he was. I jumped a little, startled at his abrupt appearance.
"Say, sonny, you got a dollar to buy an old man a cup of coffee," he said in a rasping voice.
I swept my gaze over him, and I have to say I was fairly repulsed. He was a scrawny thing, about average height, but gaunt and stooped from the years. He was shabbily dressed in what looked like Salvation Army clothes that had been slept in repeatedly.
His hair was gray, tangled and unkempt, he had a full, scraggly beard and he had a ripe aroma about him that suggested sweat, grime and liquor.
He was a bum, a wharf rat, one of those nameless, faceless people the tourists never see unless they come out in certain areas at night.
But there was something in his eyes, a profound sadness, eyes that I could tell had seen more than their share of heartache. They were quite cloudy, and I guessed he probably had cataracts that had long gone untreated.
Nevertheless, his eyes seemed to touch me, because I reached in the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a couple of ones.
"Here you go, old man," I said.
He pocketed the bills, then pulled a paper-wrapped bottle out from the inside of his worn jacket. He tilted the bottle up and took a big swig, then put it back where he'd had it stashed. He fixed me with an unnerving stare then sat down on the bench next to me.
"Sonny, you look like you got problems," he said.
"Yeah, I've got a girl, Amy," I said, and I told him what had transpired earlier that evening.
"I know she's been true to me, and I love her," I said finally. "I'm just not sure what I want to do right now."
He pondered my story, then looked over at me again.
"You got a little time, dontcha?" he said. "I want to tell you about the consequences of walking out on a good woman. Maybe you can keep from makin' the same mistake I did."
"Sure, I guess," I said. "You want to walk over to the diner over there and get that cup of coffee? I'll buy."
The fat lady behind the counter looked at us with some amazement when we walked in the diner. There were a couple of other people in there, stevedores from one of the warehouses, but I'm sure nobody had seen a pair like us, a young, fairly well-dressed fellow in the company of a wino.
She came around and got us our coffee then left us alone.
"OK, old man," I said. "You said you had a story to tell. I've got nothing but time."
"My name's August West, and yours is...?" he said.
"Paul, Paul McSwain," I said. "Pleased to meet you Mr. West."
"Ha!" the old man cackled. "I ain't no mister. Just call me August."
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AUGUST WEST'S STORY
I was born here in the city, and the docks and wharves have always been home to me. My folks ran a bar that catered to sailors and stevedores. Of course, it's long gone now. I think they put up a hotel or something there. Progress, you gotta love it.
It was a rough place at first glance, but there was hardly ever any trouble. My father was one of these guys that everybody liked and my mother was hell on wheels. Between the two of them they kept the peace in their place.
I guess growing up around drunks rubbed off on me, because I started drinking when I was a teenager, and I been a drunk ever since.
I know this life I'm livin' is no good, but I'm too old and too pickled to quit. I'll prolly wind up dead in the gutter some night, but that's jus' the way it goes.
Well, that's not quite true. I was pretty smart in school and I did graduate, but I wasn't smart enough or rich enough to go to college. I was drafted into the Army, but I didn't pass the physical because I had flat feet. Lucky me, huh?
I was around during the hippie days, but I wasn't much on that sorta life. Oh, I'd go to the park on Sundays and listen to the bands, but I had a job workin' the docks and them boys didn't take a shine to any longhairs.
Anyway, it was on a Sunday at Golden Gate Park, and I was listnin' to the Dead when I met her. I wasn't crazy about a lot of that hippie music, but I liked them, because I knew Jerry Garcia from back in school. He grew up in the same neighborhood I did around the same time I did.
I was just watching the kids dancing around and enjoying the music when I saw her. My God, was she gorgeous.
She was maybe a little taller than average, slim with long brown hair and she was wearing this dress that was quite sheer and I swear she didn't have no underwear on. Her little boobies were just a-jigglin' like two cats in a Kroger sack.
But when I got a look at her face, well I was done for. She had this radiant look, big brown eyes and a smile that just lit up the whole park.
I had to meet her, so I went up to her and told her I liked the way she danced. She smiled at me and asked me to dance with her. As we danced, I noticed her checkin' me out, and she must've liked what she saw, 'cause when the show was over she invited me to her place.
She had a little flat on Clayton Street, a couple of blocks off Ashbury. We got up there and the first thing she did was pull out this doobie. I'd smoked pot before, a long time before. Hell, the crowd I ran around with in school, we were doing it long before it became hip.
Well, we got stoned and got to know each other. She worked in the book store at USF, and she was very smart, very well-read. Now I may have grown up in a bar, but my father was a literate person and he passed along a love of reading.
We just talked about books and great characters, then we got hungry and went down to grab some grub. I don't know what it was, but we were really takin' a liking to each other, and when we got back to her place, it was just turned dark. We smoked another doobie, and it made me hornier than a dog with two dicks.
We was sitting on the floor, Indian-style, listening to some music, when we just sorta looked at each other and slowly came together. We kissed deeply, our tongues working together. I could feel the heat from her body as our hands roamed over each other.
Now I wasn't no virgin, and neither was she, but this just felt different from any of the other girls I'd been with. For one thing, she was a damn sight prettier than anyone I'd ever had before, but it was also what I felt. It was like I'd found the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
It didn't take much to get her dress off -- there wasn't much to it -- then she slowly stripped me and we ended up on her bed.
