THE CITY OF GOOD HERBS (Part One)

San Francisco was originally named Yerba Buena (Good Herbs), which explains a lot. W.S. was invited to present his research at a meeting in that polyglot place, and naturally I tagged along. It was our last chance for a vacation before leaving the university.

Unless you’re an astronaut, there’s no other out-of-this-world place quite like San Francisco, with its “live and let live” attitude. Living in a city that’s permanently at risk for earthquakes, shakes things up a bit. Maybe that’s why San Francisco has attracted and bounced some of the weirdest apples off of family trees.

Most history buffs know of Joshua Norton, who claimed to be Emperor of the U.S. and Protector of Mexico, and that San Franciscans humored him by going along with the delusion, but there were other colorful characters whose eccentricities are still woven into the fabric of that city.

“Oofty Goofty” felt no pain and growled at people at bars. He charged five-cents a punch and ten-cents a kick, which probably contributed to his grumbling. James Lick, a beggar, bought some worthless sand dunes in 1847 that became Montgomery Street and made him a millionaire. But he never bathed or changed his suit, giving new meaning to “the filthy rich.” My favorite historical character was “Money King.” He was a loan shark, who once sent toenail clippings to a niece when asked for a token of remembrance.

This short history lesson serves as background for our upcoming adventure. We were happy to learn that our friend, Jeffrey from Denver was going to be in San Francisco on business, so we arranged to meet him for breakfast at a small café near our hotel. All tables were occupied when we arrived, but there were four stools at the counter. No sooner had the three of us sat down, when a man entered and took the remaining stool next to me.

We ordered our breakfast, and then the waitress turned to the stranger. “What can I get you?” she asked. “I’ll have eleven fried eggs, over easy. No toast. No potatoes. No nothing,” he replied. The three of us watched mesmerized as he piddled and puddled and finally swallowed those eggs. When he left, W.S. said to the waitress, “Wasn’t that a bit unusual?” Without missing a beat, she nonchalantly replied, “Yeah, he usually orders a dozen.”

Leaving the restaurant, we began to ascend the incline of an extremely hilly street. W.S. and Jeffrey took the lead, while, I, of the shorter legs, trailed behind them. Involved in conversation, they didn’t notice an exceedingly tall woman walking down the hill toward them. Suddenly, she began to teeter and wobble.

Before I could yell, “Timber!” she straightened up and fell face forward toward them. Simultaneously, they looked up. W.S. stepped to his right, Jeffrey stepped to his left, and the descending woman toppled face down between them. “I thought you were going to catch her,” Jeffrey and W.S. said to each other, as they both stood staring at the body on the sidewalk.

“Well, one of you should pick her up,” I said breathlessly, as I finally caught up to the scene. “She’s not moving,” said W.S. “Do you think she’s dead?” Jeffrey whispered. “For crying out loud!” I said, as I picked up her head. “She’s drunk as a skunk. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure she’s a she.” “A what?” said W.S. “A woman,” I replied. At that the tall person sat up and looked at us. “Are you okay?” I asked. “It was that third olive. I told the bartender that I only wanted two olives, but he really likes me.” “I’m sure he does,” I replied, “but I think that you broke the heel off of your sandal.”

By this time, Jeffrey and W.S. were long gone. Once they realized that they wouldn’t have to call out the marines or the fire department, they had lost interest, and told me that since I didn’t need them anymore, they’d meet me back at the hotel. I watched the fallen man/woman hobble off, and decided to do some window-shopping around Union Square before joining them.

As I crossed the street, I suddenly felt a vice-like grip on my right elbow. (To be continued---)

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006