As our beloved friend Ben Meyers departed from our crew on Tuesday, we found ourselves with a little bit of extra elbow room in the "Le Sabre," and although a little bit goes a long way with us, it still wasn't quite what you would call comfortable. Along with the discomfort of sleeping in a car that was starting to test our wits, was the taunting presence of the "No Inhabiting Your Vehicle" signs lining the street like an urban picket fence, and the resulting discomfort and paranoia beginning to inhibit our explorations of the city, and the zest of our nightly wine induced pow-wow's. Along with these substantial annoyances, was the first of our "vehicular hardships" that had been suffered thus forth on the trip- a flat front left tire.
I could see that B.O. was starting to lose his patience with our situation in San Francisco, and since we had gotten our fill of the city in the same way that children get their fill of candy from the "please take one" baskets on halloween, it became apparent through the teams now thin list of priorities, that it was time to get our shit together and prepare for our great escape. And a great escape it nearly was, because there on Fulton Street that very next morning, we awoke to a flashing frenzy of red and blue lights, and a stout female police officer tapping at B.O.'s window. The Great B.O. roused forward instantly, rolling his window up while gearing his reclined seat upwards, and staring forward soberly into the unending sphere of light being beamed into his face with a crude decree of pomp. B.O., entirely opposite from myself, was the most stand-up guy I knew at dealing with the cops, and before they could even request anything from him, he had his I.D. and registration presented to them with a proud, slightly unrested smile, and a warm mid-west accentuation in his explanation for "pulling over for the night, cause he had been traveling, and was dangerously drowsy."
The cops ran his name and so forth, came up with nothing, and told him to put the 40's of highlife in the trunk before we drove off. Apparently, someone reported that there were some people in the car that appeared to be dead, so they called the cops. This seemed silly to me, but I didn't have much time to reflect upon the said scenario. I was mostly just happy that they missed the wine box that me and Chassy's legs had been miraculously concealing while sleeping.
So we went to our second home, the safe way, and we carelessly dozed off a few more hours while listening to "it's no secret," from Jefferson Airplane's album, 2400 Fulton Street. The dreary figures of the early morning grocery scene, faintly woke at us, and soon after, the light blue aura that had been slowly soaking its way up the sky as we slumbered, finally took over with newly protruding warmth, and a bright declaration that strained red behind even the tightest eyelids. We awoke to the subtle clamor of neighboring cars that cautiously peered into our voyeuristic sleeping situation, and no Jefferson Airplane playing on the CD player, which meant, we had a dead battery. Surprisingly, this was the first time we killed the battery, that B.O. had assured us, "was the best battery on the market," which is why we listen to music, and run our appliances whenever we want, and still do- so apparently, it's a pretty damn good battery; as far as batteries are concerned at least.
We solicited a jump after 30 minutes of trying, and figured that our poor luck in the past few hours was a good foundation in some solid reasoning to split town right then and there. As much as I'd like to make a turbulent proclamation out of our departure from San Francisco, we all felt a certain weight in hesitation before, and during our leaving the wonderful city. Like moving out, the feeling that we had left something behind, sat strangely among our fluid sense of the term "home."
We all drove over the great gated red bridge, solemnly watching the grand columns whir by. I snapped some photographs, that when I look back at, mock my fleeting visions of that grand moment. The somber sound of camera snaps, reflecting nothingness in a twisted portrayal of what was really happening. A futile human effort to capture some kind of indescribable feeling, in a reel of stock footage. Sometimes you get lucky, but for the most part, its a rarity.