Silent Night
by Marcia Muller
Page 2 of 6
It had begun with, of all things, a moped that Mike wanted for
Christmas. Or maybe it had really started a year earlier, when
Ricky Savage finally hit it big.
During the first fourteen years of his marriage to my sister,
Ricky had been merely another faceless country-and-western
musician, playing and singing backup with itinerant bands,
dreaming seemingly improbable dreams of stardom. He and Charlene
had developed a reproductive pattern (and rate) that never failed
to astound me, in spite of its regularity: he'd get her pregnant,
go out on tour, return after the baby was born; then he'd go out
again when the two o'clock feedings got to him, return when the
kid was weaned, and start the whole cycle all over. Finally,
after the sixth child, Charlene had wised up and gotten her tubes
tied. But Ricky still stayed on the road more than at home, and
still dreamed his dreams.
But then, with money borrowed from my father on the promise
that if he didn't make it within one more year he'd give up music
and go into my brother John's housepainting business, Ricky had
cut a demo of a song he'd written called "Cobwebs in the Attic of
My Mind." It was about a lovelorn fellow who, besides said
cobwebs, had a "sewer that's backed up in the cellar of his soul"
and "a short in the wiring of his heart." When I first heard it,
I was certain that Pa's money had washed down that same pipe
before it clogged, but fate--perverse creature that it is--would
have it otherwise. The song was a runaway hit, and more Ricky
Savage hits were to follow.
In true nouveau style, Ricky and Charlene quickly moved
uptown--or in this case up the coast, from West Los Angeles to
affluent Pacific Palisades. There were new cars, new furniture
and clothes, a house with a swimming pool, and toys and goodies
for the children. Lots of goodies, anything they wanted--until
this Christmas when, for reasons of safety Charlene had balked at
letting Mike have the moped. And Mike, headstrong little bastard
that he was, had taken his life's savings of some fifty-five
dollars and hitched away from home on the Pacific Coast Highway.
It was because of a goddamned moped that I was canceling my
Christmas Eve plans and setting forth to comb the sleazy streets
and alleys of the area known as Polk Gulch for a runaway...
The city was strangely subdued on this Christmas Eve, the dark
streets hushed, although not deserted. Most people had been drawn
inside to the warmth of family and friends; others, I suspected,
had retreated to nurse the loneliness that is endemic to the
season. The pedestrians I passed moved silently, as if reluctant
to call attention to their presence; occasionally I heard
laughter from the bars as I went by, but even that was muted. The
lost, drifting souls of the city seemed to collectively hold
their breath as they waited for life to resume its everyday
pattern.
I had started at Market Street and worked my way northwest,
through the Tenderloin to Polk Gulch. Before I'd started out, I'd
had a photographer friend who likes to make a big fee more than
he likes to celebrate holidays run off a hundred copies of my
most recent photo of Mike. Those I passed out, along with my
card, to clerks in what liquor stores, corner groceries, cheap
hotels, and greasy spoon restaurants I found open. The pictures
drew no response other than indifference or sympathetic shakes of
the head and promises to keep an eye out for him. By the time I
reached Polk Street, where I had an appointment in a gay bar at
ten, I was cold, footsore, and badly discouraged.
Polk Gulch, so called because it is in a valley that has an
underground river running through it, long ago was the hub of gay
life in San Francisco. In the seventies, however, most of the
action shifted up Market Street to the Castro district, and the
vitality seemed to drain out of the Gulch. Now parts of it,
particularly those bordering the Tenderloin, are depressingly
sleazy. As I walked along, examining the face of each young man I
saw, I became aware of the hopelessness and resignation in the
eyes of the street hustlers and junkies and winos and homeless
people.
A few blocks from my destination was a vacant lot surrounded
by a chain link fence. Inside gaped a huge excavation, the cellar
of the building that had formerly stood there, now open to the
elements. People had scaled the fence and taken up residence down
in it; campfires blazed, in defiance of the NO TRESPASSING signs.
The homeless could rest easy--at least for this one night. No one
was going to roust them on Christmas Eve.
I went to the fence and grasped its cold mesh with my
fingers, staring down into the shifting light and shadows,
wondering if Mike was among the ragged and hungry ranks. Many of
the people were middle-aged to elderly, but there were also
families with children and a scattering of young people. There
was no way to tell, though, without scaling the fence myself and
climbing down there. Eventually I turned away, realizing I had
only enough time to get to the gay bar by ten.
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