"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."
