and here is a taste of the real story that inspired the novel ...
Seattle Walks
Back in 1996, when I lived in Seattle, each morning, I walked all the way from Queen Anne to Pioneer Square, which was a long haul. Each afternoon, I walked back. It took forever.
I never rode the bus, because I was constantly flat broke. It was ridiculously dangerous, because in those morning hours, it was still dark out, and the route included some filthy, sketchy streets, but I was incredibly lucky. I never had too much trouble, other than that my feet hurt a lot. For months, I took that same dark route, and I mostly sidestepped danger; however, there were some hazy days and nights.
I know now that something happened, but I'm still not sure what it was. In recent years, different scenes have crept up on me in the form of flashbacks, but they are still blurry, and I must say, I'm glad. Overall, I was blessed. Unbelievable.
On the way, early morning, I stumbled into the Five Point Cafe for coffee, a smoke, and sometimes an egg sandwich, if the bartender was in a good mood. "Mickey, like the mouse," he always said. Every day, he shook my hand as if we'd never met, and I kept right up with his rude sarcasm. "Christine, like the car," I always said back. Mickey's left ear was so stretched, he had a cork stuck through it. Probably the worst server I've ever encountered, and he cracked me up, but what a dick.
The Five Point was attached to a Laundromat, so from the bar, I could space out and watch the clothes spin on big screens. It was loud as hell in there -- they often played Soundgarden, even at five a.m. Usually, bands hung out in the back -- funny, tattooed guys still partying from the night before. Huddled in corners, they whispered about gigs, sound systems, bodily fluids, drugs, and songs, and there was the occasional scream, laugh, or yell. Someone was always giving someone else some shit. Sometimes they looked familiar, but mostly, I'd see four or five strange guys dressed in tattered t-shirts and pants littered with pockets and holes. Thinness was common. So were burns, track marks, tats, Mohawks, locks, sweaty heads, tattoos, piercings, and except for me, there were rarely women around. Constantly, they yelled at Mickey, but the band guys never talked to anyone else who wasn't sitting with them; they kept their stories close. Looks, scowls, half-smiles. That was about it.
In those days, there was a certain wall of angst that covered up any and all fear.
On the way out the door, I passed the young Goth kids. Like true vampires, they stayed up all night and slept during the light hours. Clearly, I remember one girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen. She had stick legs and huge, eight ball eyes. Her face was caked with white foundation and clownish, stark black/white makeup. Eyeliner was smeared all over her cheeks. Whenever I saw her, she weirdly stared at me with those looming dark eyes. Nearly purple. She never said a word.
Who knows, maybe she was a vampire. You know, the real thing.
Quickly, with purpose, I kept walking. People asked me for money. Not change. Usually, they asked me for five or twenty bucks. Sometimes rain trickled down, and I never used an umbrella. I just got wet. And so did my backpack -- a weight strapped to my back, one loaded down with clothes, journals, books, and food I'd stolen from the hostel or wherever.
By the time I made it to Pioneer Square, the bicycle taxi boys were getting ready to go, and the pizza man across the street waved and flirted. When I opened the coffee shop, it was quick. Music choice was first, and then I got ready for the breakfast rush. But after the breakfast was over, the regulars started wandering in. A music producer, a slew of musicians, painters, a hair designer with rainbow-colored hair, artists, cartoonists, and people who worked or played at the OK Hotel around the corner, a famous rock joint. It was a wild crew.
On the way home, when I stopped at the Pike Place Market, I watched the random street musicians play, and they were usually so good, they raked in the cash. Many of these street musicians were more talented than the club bands. Out there, playing street music was a whole different ball game, and people were very serious about it. Musicians often fought over the good street corner spots, the money maker locations on the sidewalk. Fist fights, haggling, nasty looks. I was one of these players. At the time, I played in clubs, on the streets, and at the hostel where I lived. I played anytime, anywhere. I practiced constantly, writing song after song.
I thought that maybe the music could save me. Something, anything.
Usually, Seattle afternoons were clear during that summer. About halfway back, I always stopped at Lux coffee shop, where I used my tip money for an Americano that was in a cup the size of a soup bowl. Lux was reddish dark and creepy, and the servers were all assholes, but people kept going back for the abuse.
When I finally returned to the hostel in Queen Anne, I was usually beat, but there was no possible way to get rest. See, there were 60+ people living in the house, and there was usually a party going on somewhere. Even my living space was noisy, dangerous, filthy, and at times, violent. Again, I was incredibly lucky.
My walks lasted for months, but then I couldn’t keep up, because the streets took me by the neck. By late summer, the streets took me over completely.
Mostly, I went to clubs, ran around the streets, and I was hanging out with a music producer and a painter, but I was always in love with someone else. Because back then, true love wasn't really "on the brain."
Because when a person is always in love with "someone else," a person is never really in love at all.
C.A. MacConnell
