Golden Gate Fog
J. Quinn Brisben 14 AUG 2004
I saw it dazzling white on top and
Covering all but the tops of the cables
And the towers, moving like a herd of
Angel sheep into the bay, what I had
Only known from books, movies, and
The subtle sound effects of radio drama;
Later, inside it on the bus across the bridge,
Sensing the mysterious draining of color,
Emerging to bright Sausalito and sitting
In front of the tourist cabin while my
Father smoked and my mother fixed
Supper inside, and I rather liked the
Saggy couch that was my bed that night,
We talked, trying to find subjects
That would hurt neither one of us as
He picked up my paperback of The Glass
Key, read a page, then said, “The man
Who wrote this was a lunger; one
Lunger can always tell another,” and he
Was right. Dashiell Hammett had rotten
Lungs, and neither he nor his heroes
Expected to live as long as he did. I am
Older than Hammett ever got, and with
Luck will live as long as my father who
Was eighty-five at his death, although still
Sharp and dangerous in my mind with no
Fog except the parts I never understood.
The next afternoon I stood on Powell Street
Waiting for the cable car to Chinatown,
Having made a pilgrimage to Post and
Stockton where Miles Archer took one
Right through the pump, and watched the
Fog drift first over Geary and then
Over O’Farrell Street, giving me
Fantasies of being Sam Spade or
The Continental Op, and I recall
That moment clearly, although it was
Fifty-six years ago last July.
Forty years ago come another September
Two new friends introduced themselves:
The redhead with freckles was named
Geary, the white-haired ex-Seabee
Was O’Farrell, and they asked me if
I knew the parallel streets in downtown
San Francisco, which of course honed
A memory. I lost touch with O’Farrell
After he retired, and I miss him because
He understood my odd jokes that depended
On having lived in another fading world.
Once as he passed I told my students
That he had dated Barbara Frietsche and
He stopped and recited the whole poem
Because there are some things you cannot
Forget no matter how hard you try. Geary
I chiefly recall from pictures every Easter
Of him with his wife, a baby in her arms,
And the rest stair-stepped down in their
New togs; eventually there were ten.
The pope gave him a medal for that,
But, when I met him many years later,
His hair by then turned white, he said
That times and customs had changed
Even in the church; he had fewer
Grandchildren than children and no one
Gets medals for that kind of loyalty now.
The fog blurs sights and sounds and
The years increase its density and the
Terrible ache in the bones, and a lot
Of memories blur and leach out but some
Remain, chiefly ones you want to forget.
