Chapter One - Tuesday, March 21, 1978

• Someone in the City

• I've Often Passed This Way Before

Someone in the City    back to top

THE PORSCHE 924 barreled off the highway ramp into the Presidio Heights section of “The City.” Its radio was blaring “That Old Time Rock’n’roll” by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band.

The San Francisco skyline at 6:50 a.m. looked like a postcard scene with wisps of billowy fog airbrushed over the orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge.

A few minutes later Mark Stanton wheeled the sports car into Arguello Street and stopped at the curb in front of the address B.J. had given him. It was an old, but well-kept Victorian house, yellow with white trim. When the car came to a stop, Mark lunged to turn down the radio, which was playing way too loudly for such an early hour in this peaceful neighborhood.

As he removed his sunglasses and looked about, Mark spotted a familiar lanky figure topped with a curly-perm. His good buddy B.J. was standing in the side driveway surrounded by piles of clothing. His frizzy head was bobbing up and down, as he scooped up an entire wardrobe scattered all over the yard. At first Mark thought his friend might be sorting the laundry. But, in the driveway? At this early hour? Then he noticed that clothes were fluttering down on B.J., one piece at a time, from a second story turret window.

From behind the steering wheel, Mark leaned back and looked up through the open sunroof. He spotted a woman halfway out the window, obviously irate, tossing garments and screeching, “you no-good shit-heel... you bastard... you dickhead...” a verbal barrage of epithets from the young woman accompanied the hurling of each article of clothing.

From the unfolding spectacle, it quickly became clear that B.J. had not told his girlfriend -- at least not until bright and early this morning -- that he and Mark were leaving for the East Coast. When B.J. looked up from his laundry and recognized Mark in the shiny new car, he dropped an armful of clothes, turned his back on the laughable scene, and headed for the curb.

Trying to suppress a shit-eating grin, Mark took the initiative, “Jackson, my man, it doesn’t look like you’re quite ready to depart.” Mark and B.J. -- and most of their friends -- had acquired the habit of referring to one another by just their last names. It was a baby boomer thing. Mark, trying to be diplomatic while maintaining a straight face, said, “Do you want me to circle the block and come back in a half hour or so?”

“No Stanton. Just give me a couple of minutes with Laurie and I’ll be ready to roll.” With that, B.J. turned and headed up the front steps two at a time with a determination to have a face-to-face confrontation with the woman of the household. In this instance, B.J. was the live-in boyfriend.

Mark settled back in his bucket seat and lit up a Salem contemplating the moment. B.J. was one of those enviable guys who always seemed to have his way with the ladies gliding from one torrid relationship to the next -- all with gorgeous women -- without any thought of commitment. His life seemed like Easy Street to guys like Mark who spent their lives tip-toeing down the rocky road to romance. Among their beach house friends B.J. was the undisputed expert on single women. However, the nasty little episode that was taking place this morning reminded Mark of some unsolicited but sage advice, there are no real experts. Perhaps this advice included Bill “B.J.” Jackson, the man every lady eventually referred to as “Sweet William.”

On the other hand, Mark Stanton always had the reputation of being the storyteller in their beach house group. And this morning, unfolding right before his eyes, was a real doozy of a story line. Wait until the guys hear this one, he thought.

Mark already had a complete anthology of B.J. stories committed to memory, but with some people one just never had enough. Like vintage French champagne, with enough time and constant turning, he would hone this storyline and save its debut for just the right moment, back in Washington, D.C.

Eventually B.J. emerged on the Victorian front porch with his arm wrapped around the shoulder of a disheveled beauty. She was draped in a powder blue silk robe that left very little to the imagination. With her head down and ear up against his chest, she clung to B.J. with both arms as he eased her down the front steps. The revealing robe fluttered teasingly in the crisp breeze coming off the Bay. Despite the awkward embrace and the juxtaposition of their bodies, somehow they moved in unison down the walkway toward the car -- a bizarre tango not unlike the movement of a hostage and gunman in the telescopic crosshairs of police sharpshooters.

Mark was certain that the scene would provide theater for the entire neighborhood for some time to come. Also, he sensed that he would not have to embellish this B.J. story much when he got around to telling it.

Arriving at the car, B.J. said, “Stanton, I want you to fill-in Laurie on our travel plans... while I collect my things.” B.J. left her and wandered off with a duffel bag, no doubt, to select what would be a wrinkled travel ensemble.

Still seated in the Porsche, Mark tried with every fiber of his being to focus on the tearful face above him, and not to peek at the barely-concealed, ample bosom poised right at eye level. B.J.’s friend, Laurie, whom Mark had not met before, was a natural beauty with spaniel eyes and thick sable hair. Here it was, daybreak. And from all the laundry lying around, it was Mark’s guess she’d been ranting hysterically for good while. She wore not a trace of make-up, and, obviously, she’d been crying. Despite these less-than-favorable conditions, Laurie was absolutely stunning. In fact, she was so beautiful that Mark found it nearly impossible to maintain contact with her penetrating pale green eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

What was he supposed to say to her? B.J. is going to ride shotgun with him for a week and then probably remain in Washington, D.C., until he wears out his welcome with some other star-crossed beauty. Knowing B.J.’s modus operandi by heart, Mark’s most optimistic guess was that his friend might return from the Nation’s Capital to see young Laurie in two or three months’ time -- if at all.

But was that what B.J. had told her? Probably not.

Mark maintained constant eye-to-eye contact with Laurie lest he give away his thoughts. God, I wish someone in the city who looked half this great was clinging to my thorax this morning, pleading, trying to keep me from going away.

Giving her his best job-interview smile, he said, “Good morning Laurie... I’m Mark Stanton.” He spoke somewhat haltingly, stalling for B.J. to reappear and take him off the hook. “I’m looking forward to a nice trip with Jackson. It will give us a chance to catch up with each other while we drive to Washington,” he babbled. “I didn’t really want to ship my brand-new car... so I thought I’d break it in with a road trip. When I mentioned to B.J. that I planned to drive, he insisted that he come along...”

Laurie interrupted, “William says he’ll be back in a week or two.” She was searching to locate B.J. as if to acquire some sort of visual confirmation. As she turned, the front of her silk robe inched open, even wider. “Do you know where you two will be staying?”

“Well, I don’t have a phone in my new place yet. But I’ll remind B.J. to call you when we arrive,” Mark said, thinking quickly, yet trying to maintain some flexibility and plausible deniability for his friend.
“The ‘rat’ just told me about the trip this morning,” she muttered in a soft voice, still on the threshold of tears, “I’m not mad about him going... I’m really not. It’s just that he isn’t anywhere near finished with the remodeling job on my house. The bathroom is a total mess... it seems as if every bit of plumbing in the house is torn up. My hot tub isn’t hooked-up yet... and now he’s gallivanting off to Seattle with you.”

Seattle? Mark had the right to remain silent, and he did. At this point, he was not prepared to split continent-wide “hairs” about East Coast versus West Coast destination points. Mark recognized that most California people actually view the entire world from the left coast perspective, so he presumed that it’s only natural that Laurie would assume that “Washington” meant they were headed for Washington State… ergo, Seattle, he supposed.

Despite his Ivy League education and Masters degree in philosophy, B.J.’s chosen career specialty was rehabbing fashionable upscale homes -- almost always owned and occupied by stunningly beautiful, fashion-conscious, wealthy single women. Where did he find them? That was one of the things Mark hoped to learn during this weeklong trip.

After what seemed an eternity of false departures, hugs and releases, and several good-byes, punctuated at one point by a spiteful single-digit salute from Laurie, B.J. was finally ready to depart. It wasn’t exactly a Frank Capra finale, but B.J. seemed satisfied that he’d pulled it off -- without either losing the girl for good, or losing face in front of Mark.

I've Often Passed This Way before    back to top

THEY STOPPED IN Deming, New Mexico, for a stretch of the legs. It was a little after 11:15 p.m. when they got back on the road. A half-hour later, B.J. nodded off to sleep. Mark was becoming quite tired and fighting off more abdominal cramps, but they were just a few miles from Las Cruces and only had 42 more miles to go to El Paso. Mark surrendered to a giant yawn. A few miles later he saw a sign that read “Historical Marker - One Mile Ahead.” He slowed down and eased the car into a dark roadside park. The headlight beams showed a couple of picnic tables and a 15-foot tall granite block with a large metal plaque affixed to it. He left the car running, grabbed his flashlight, and went over to read the plaque. There was a lot of text on the marker. It indicated that a few yards to the south, in the pitch-dark field before him, had been a way station for the famous Butterfield Overland Mail stagecoach line.

The night desert air was crisp and Mark could see his own breath vapor in the beam of the flashlight. It felt good to stand up and shake off the cramps.

B.J. awoke, stretched and popped his neck again. “What’s it say?” he mumbled from the front seat while rolling down the window. “It isn’t saying anything! It’s a rather inarticulate piece of granite. But, I have an idea! Why don’t you get your lazy ass out here and come read it for yourself. It’s too long for me to go back and re-read the whole thing again just for you.”

Right in the middle of Mark’s sarcastic assault on the hapless, sleepy B.J., another car veered into the small roadside park at a high rate of speed, hitting the gravel driveway with a crunch of noise and a cloud of dust. Mark jumped. The car’s headlights blinded the two of them for a moment. Mark’s flashlight beam picked up a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.

“What’s going on here?” a gruff voice from inside the car demanded.

“Nothing,” Mark said, turning his flashlight toward the car, only to reveal that it was a state police cruiser.

“Then what are you fellows doing here?”

“Nothing much... just reading your historical marker here,” Mark said pointing to the huge slab of granite.

Sensing a problem, B.J. got out of the Porsche and stood beside Mark. The officer stood on the far side of his car and aimed his flashlight beam at the two of them, looking them over from head to toe. Then he flashed his light at the Porsche’s license plates. He got back in his car and picked up his two-way radio, leaving Mark and B.J. there, whispering to each other.

“So what’s your plan here, Kemo Sabe?” whispered B. J., doing his best “Tonto.”

“I’m going to finish reading this marker,” Mark said loud enough for the trooper to hear.

“Then what?”

“Then, we’re out of here.”

A moment later, the trooper climbed out of the cruiser and came around to where they were standing. “You two are a long way from home. Aren’t ya’?”

“We’re traveling cross-country,” said B.J.

Mark noticed that B.J. did not use the “driftin’” word to describe their trip.

The cop wandered over to the Porsche. Peering into each window with his flashlight, he made his way around the sports car.

Mark hoped that B.J. had been hiding his empty bottles under the seat, like he had. B.J. was hoping the same thing about Mark’s side of the car.

“What kind of car is this?” the officer wanted to know.

“A Porsche,” Mark said.

“What color is this thing?”

“Pearl gray,” he answered.

“Looks black to me,” the trooper said matter-of-factly, staring at the Porsche symbol on the hood under the throw of his light. Then he turned his attention to the granite marker behind them. “So, this here historical marker... what’s it say,” the officer asked, shining his flashlight right at Mark’s chin.

B.J. nudged Mark in the ribs and gave him a sideways glance, fully prepared for a typical Stanton sarcastic retort.

“What is this?” Mark whined. “A road side pop quiz? He pointed to B.J. “He just asked me the same thing. Officer, I’ve got a good idea… if you don’t mind, why don’t you pull your car up just a bit, and shine that big ol’ spotlight you’ve got on this plaque. Then we can all read it together.”

Surprisingly, the trooper hopped back in his cruiser. He moved it up a couple of feet and aimed his passenger side “alley spotlight” on the towering historical marker. The wash of light illuminated the monument and the entire desert behind it. All three of them could hear the night critters scurrying every which way to get out of the bright beam.

For the next five minutes, things were quiet – except for the background hum of highway traffic passing by at high speed. The three of them stood there, at 11:45 p.m., in the darkness, reading a lengthy roadside historical marker about the Butterfield Overland Mail stage line station.

When they finished Mark added from memory what he could to the marker’s story. He noted that the Butterfield Overland Mail existed for only three years, from 1858 until 1861, before the onset of the Civil War. The mail came west from St. Louis through Ft. Smith, Arkansas, to El Paso and then went west of here, ending up in San Diego.

“Officer,” said B.J., “I want you to know that traveling cross-country with a frickin’ know-it-all like Stanton here is nothing short of a barrel of fun, let me tell you.”

“I see what you mean…” the officer directed his aside to B.J. “But ain’t that something. You know I must pass this little park about thirty or forty times a week... every week of my life for the last 11 years. I’ve never stopped, not even once, to read what it says. Who would’ve thought there was some real history along this sorry-assed stretch of road? Thanks a lot, fella’,” he said to Mark, “I’m gonna’ bring my two kids by here to learn all about this stagecoach stuff.”

At that point there was a loud squawk and an announcement on the patrol car’s radio. “Bravo one-niner. We find no warrants issued on a late model, black Porsche with California tags, Papa-Romeo-Sierra-5-1-4. Over.”

“Well, gents, enjoy the rest of the ride. It sounds like something I would’ve liked doing at your age… driving all the way cross-country.”

He advised the two of them to stick close to the speed limit through Las Cruces. “Those city limit ‘Barneys’ love to hassle out-of-towners,” he warned. B.J. and Mark thanked him and wished him well on his rounds. As they pulled past him and waved a salute, B.J. could hear him say but four words into his two-way radio: “two sissies from California.”

“Right Time of the Night” by Jennifer Warnes beamed down on them from a Las Cruces radio station.