‘Bred Crumbs

Ten years ago today, I drove a small moving truck, dragging my ’92 Saturn (which I still have) on a trailer, across the Bay Bridge into The City. First stop was ditching the trailer, but thanks to bad directions from an English-challenged employee at the van company, I wound up being directed into the too-small circular drive of an elementary school just as classes ended, ultimately dinging the new car of a teacher who was none too happy about it. But insurance promised to do what it does, and while there was certainly a big heaping spoonful of Bad Omen to be had if desired, I instead took it all in something that, for me, approached stride.

Because I was just a couple more miles and a quick truck unloading from Home.

This should be the part where I list the plentiful virtues of said home, but San Francisco’s glories have been extolled extensively. Anyone willing to hear the call already has. Plus, I’ve realized, I’ve wound up doing what we all do: take It for granted.

So let’s pitch our minds back to Before. I was in Kentucky, where I’d been practically all my life. I had the best job I’d gotten yet, lots of creative outlet, with kick-ass hours (11 a.m. to 7 p.m.). I lived in a nice, hospitable small city with sufficient material needs met. I had a couple of close local friends and more than a couple of handfuls of fun, smart co-workers.

But.

I had figured out something about myself, something it had taken far too long to deduce. (Thanks, uptight society! Thanks, genetic gift for immense denial!) Finally, I had made it known to myself, made it known to a few of the closest people around me, and made it known to a sad succession of one-awkward-date-only, emotionally crippled encounters.

And I saw that while the present had its simple — no, let’s be honest, its easy — comforts, the future was not in the picture. Or rather, I saw that as soon an alternative came into view.

I had made friends through the miracle of the Internet, back in its capital-I days, and confirmed those friendships in real life. One of those friends lived in San Francisco. I visited. I loved. And then other connections happened, households rearranged, and next thing I knew, there was an open half of a cool but cheap apartment at the top of a hill tilting down to the Pacific, with the Golden Gate Bridge peeking its head just above the crest, and it had my name on it.

It was a risk like I’d never taken. Quitting a good job without having a new one lined up already. Leaving everything I’d ever known. The decision felt hard, but it really wasn’t. With every bending of the ear of a confidante — What do you think? Is it a good idea? And always, from them, bless them all, yes — with every saying out loud of the concept, it became clear no other choice was possible. On Saturday, November 9, those same Kentucky friends helped me pack the truck, load the car onto the trailer, and shove me off.

That’s what I should have been remembering more this past week, that trip west. I know it happened — I’m here, I’ve got the pictures — but it’s surreal now to think I did that, drove a truck and trailer all alone across a couple thousand radio-deprived miles. I should have been marking those milepost memories, damn me, counted off all those carefully calculated and pre-arranged motel stops. Ten years ago Thursday night, I camped in Columbia, MO, wishing to hell I’d had the guts to try to navigate the truck and trailer through the Steak ‘n Shake drive-through on the way there. Ten years ago Friday night, North Platte; next, Cheyenne; then, Salt Lake City, after twelve long hours plunging sharply down the Rockies; and, a decade before last night, the low point, in every way, Nevada. You see, after running out of gas in the hinterlands before limping onward to a motor-lodge night in Reno, dinging a teacher’s car with your rental truck just doesn’t rank as trauma.

So I arrived, settled in, dug my groove deep into the rainbow beanbag of San Francisco Values, baby. Halfway between then and now, I changed careers, started this typing-on-computers nonsense, rode out The Bubble, became a homeowner, and got lucky enough to stumble upon the partner I never would have in Kentucky. Oh, and I’ve done improv, made my way into IMDb (look me up if you want, it would be vain to link), and committed minor acts of unforeseen extroversion best not detailed in polite company. (See also: Pink Saturday; Burning Man.)

The miracle of it all is captured best by one more flash of then and now. My first Christmas on this coast, I gave the two just-married friends most responsible for getting me out here the small token gift of a pair of super-cheap plastic light sabers. That couple had us over for dinner recently in their newly rebuilt house, where a lot of their stuff hasn’t quite made it out of moving boxes yet. So, next thing we knew, those 10-year-old sabers were in the rowdy hands of their 5-year-old and my housemate.

The question arose: when you gave us those, did you ever imagine that they’d end up being used by our daughter and your boyfriend?

No, I did not. I didn’t dare imagine that even San Francisco could deliver me a bounty that rich.