The texture of pain

cement wallDespite the jumble of contradictory Sean sightings by the redwood encampment in People’s Park, I felt sure he had been there last night. I thought about how I had slept just blocks from him, my radar already casting its beams as I slumbered. And how he rested unknowingly nearby.

I wandered a few blocks down to Telegraph Ave., where an assortment of young street people were forming a gauntlet at sidewalk’s edge. Many had dogs sporting bandanas. A few had cloths spread on the sidewalk with odd wares: small rock and minerals samples, glass pipes, trinkets. I looked for Sean among them, hopeful in a way that he was part of this anarchist collective and not the crackheads in the park.

I stopped in front of a sweet-looking bearded man who was selling rock samples to show him my pictures of Sean. He recognized him immediately and said he passed this way daily, usually in the afternoon. And that he usually wore a straw hat, a kind of cowboy affair. I tried to imagine Sean in such a getup–he always hated hats, and cowboys for that matter. “If you just hang around here you’ll probably see him,” he said.

I pounded him with questions: How did he seem? Did he have friends? Was he okay? The young man–whose name I later learned was J.–was thoughtful in responding. “He’s a bit of a loner,” he said. “He seems a little spaced out. Sometimes he talks to himself.” My heart sank.

I was too buzzed to linger, so set off to see if I could find Sean in the streets. I stopped a vendor who was hawking a homeless newspaper. I bought one and showed him a photo of Sean. “Yeah, I just saw him at McDonald’s. He was with a girl. I think they do a bit of weed.” I asked for directions and sped off, my eyes combing the sidewalks and park benches hungrily.

As I walked past the university, I thought of my parents–who went to school there and actually met and started dating shortly after the war. Surely they had walked this sidewalk together in the ’40s, although I can’t imagine it was then full of castaways, mutterers in flip-flops, drunks sleeping it off on the sidewalk. Never in a lifetime could they have imagined their first grandchild would be among them.

I looked in vain at McDonalds, cruised Shattuck Ave.–the major commercial drag that connects Berkeley and Oakland. He was nowhere. So I circled back to Telegraph and delivered a couple of slices of banana bread I had bought for J. I chatted him up about his life on the streets and looked at some of his rocks, when he suddenly pointed and said, “Look, here he comes.”

I scanned the crowd in search of Sean and saw no one I recognized. And then I noticed him: Tall, bearded, ambling in a daze at the far end of the sidewalk. It was Sean. We looked at each other and I could feel his surprise registering slowly, grainily.

I gave him a smile, raising my hand like a TV Indian saying “How.” I walked slowly to meet him. “Hey, hi, it’s me,” I said. “You’re probably surprised to see me.”┬áHe said nothing. He looked at me coldly and his eyes were very red. “I hadn’t heard from you in a while and I missed you,” I said gently.

“Get away from me. I don’t want to talk to you,” he said and brushed past me.

Not time even to register effrontery. I caught up behind him, walking one step behind like an old-time Japanese wife. I said nothing for a moment, then began again: “I know this must be surprising, honey,” I said. “I just wanted to see you. I love you, sweetheart.” He ignored me completely, though I could feel his alertness.

He suddenly stopped short and looked me directly in the eyes. “You are harassing me,” he said evenly, “and if you don’t stop I will call the police.” He turned a corner and was gone.

This stopped me dead in my tracks. I heard a sound I’d heard before, a kind of animal noise, a howling. And then I remembered: It was a sound I’d heard during my long labor with Sean, like a wolf somewhere. It was me. Only I was so submerged in pain that I wasn’t connected to self anymore.

I howled and turned my body into the building I stood before. I could feel my forehead and fingers scratching against the roughness of the concrete. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

J. came up and touched my shoulder. “Oh man,” he said, “that’s so rough.”

“Go after him,” I pleaded.

J. took off around the corner and I covered my face with my hands and cried some more, leaning against the building for support. These were tears you had to stop for and I remember wondering what people passing by were thinking, and if this were maybe commonplace amid such misery.

He jogged back around the corner and said, “I’m sorry. He gave me the same. I tried to talk to him but he was very hostile.” I fell into J. and he wrapped his arms around me while I cried. “Oh God oh God oh God.”