CREATIVE DRIVE

The newsletter for those of us who know that AI is crap

NUMBER 47

Life offers a lesson each time you step outside.

A story can take almost any form. We’re taught that in elementary school. The real and immediately identifiable aspects of life are welcome in creative writing, as are stories fictional and fantastical. However, while young writers are often advised to stay close to home in their literary forays, the comforts of home and family can be somewhat stifling.

I didn’t care for rules when I was a kid. By this I refer to rules that exist for their own sake but lack the support of logic. Because logic was a private pursuit, I developed most of my knowledge through processes of experimentation. Mistakes were common, and I was familiar with most of the classic errors a young person could make. In any case, it wouldn’t be accurate to say I attained great maturity as the years progressed because, as the runt in a large middle-class litter, I felt that I was permanently young. I saw almost everyone as being older than I was. Consequently, I fought like heck to be better than anyone at what I did. Regardless of whether I or any of my siblings could really be the best at anything, we were encouraged to maintain that belief. Dad was a doctor, and Mom was a polymathic art historian. I was me, and that was generally the problem. I assumed that fighting was required in school. I tried never to lose, basically so that I didn’t have to describe the terror of it to my parents.

It was early in the dawn of adulthood that I moved from Southern California to the city of San Francisco, hiding a year’s supply of nerve among the clothing and other things I’d crammed into a few boxes. My once-in-a-lifetime girlfriend — gorgeous, more experienced and eager for a change of scenery — promised to join me. We could start a chapter with something new.

WARNING: The story you’re about to read is true. The names have been omitted in order to protect the innocent.

Midmorning sunlight bathed the world in the sparkling warmth of possibility, and I, alerted by the scent of opportunity, hopped onto the 30 Stockton bus on its way north from Union Square. It stopped at Sacramento Street or whatever and then the others along the way. Eventually I found my destination in the North Beach district — a music store not far from Fisherman’s Wharf — and went in. Then I remembered something important:

Stores are for people who have money to spend, and I’d already blown a week’s worth on just two days of groceries at a little place across from my apartment.

I should say here that I’m an avid musician. I was primarily an instrumentalist then, and I was hopeful if not confident that the world of music would one day find and embrace me. It didn’t matter that I’d chosen to live in San Francisco for the time being instead of L.A. I simply believed there’d be a future even if I couldn’t yet define it. So, it was reassuring that the salesperson in the music store, which seemed to specialize in studio-grade gear, was very complimentary as I demonstrated my fluency on the guitar. I couldn’t afford the item he’d recommended, but he was nice enough to sell me a much cheaper version at an excellent price. I then left with my purchase, which was conveniently boxed for the ride back to my street.

The day’s excitement was about to ramp up, but it wasn’t because I’d just dropped a small wad of greenbacks on an amplifier that was more suitable for a stage than for an apartment. Actually, the excitement came in the form of a discussion . . . no, an exchange of words . . . that occurred shortly after I took my place on a bench seat near the front of the bus.

The vehicle was somewhat crowded, but more people were being let on. A man approximately thirty years old stepped aboard carefully, accompanied by a striking black-and-silver, blue-eyed Siberian husky. (I’ve always liked dogs, but my aging beagle was at home with the folks. I thought it was cool that dogs could ride buses in San Francisco.) The man proceeded past the driver, and I could see that his eyes were half-open.

“Excuse me,” the driver said.

The man gave a quick tug on the dog’s leash, indicating that they’d pause. He didn’t turn to face the driver but instead said, “What?” He held that outward stare, beneath lowered lids, toward a point several feet down the aisle.

“Sir, you’ll have to step back off the bus. You didn’t pay, and I can’t allow your dog.”

“But I’m blind, and this is my guide dog. We ride the bus for free.”

“Sir, please step off the bus. I won’t move till you’re back on the sidewalk.”

“But I am blind,” the young man said, maintaining his gaze toward the rear of the bus. “I just told you that.”

The driver tried to be polite despite his impatience. “I can call a supervisor,” he said. “Or, you and the dog can leave the bus so that I can take these passengers on their way.”

“What don’t you understand about this!?” the guy said, clearly irritated by the driver’s insistence. “I’m blind, so the dog and I can ride any bus in the city for free.”

“Well, I’ve seen you around,” the driver replied.

“Oh, you have!? You’ve seen me around, here with all these people every day!?”

“Listen, I HAVE SEEN YOU AROUND. So, if you won’t leave the bus, we’ll wait till a supervisor arrives and has you and the dog removed.”

It was then that the young man became a bit snide. He had no choice, though. He’d been identified as a freeloader. “Oh, I see how it is! You’re one of the good guys, huh!? You’re not gay, and you don’t smoke grass. You just don’t do bad things, right!?”

“I SAID, I HAVE SEEN YOU AROUND! Now, leave this bus or I’ll ask a supervisor to deal with you!”

The man finally relented. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving.” He and the dog turned and exited via the front door, whereupon an elderly man stepped aboard and took a seat opposite me. The bus hissed and pulled away, and as we left I heard the young man proclaim:

“This is the first time that’s happened in the four months since I got here!!”

The excitement couldn’t end just like that, though. There had to be more, particularly with such a number of people on board.

The new passenger, who huddled over a rolled-up paper bag he held covetously on his lap, turned to a neighbor in the first forward-facing row and spoke admonishingly:

“You never know what could’ve happened. Dat guy coulda had a gun!”

“Right,” the gentleman answered dismissively. The other passengers gave a collective “ooohh,” gathered their breath and listened for what might happen next.

“He coulda had a gun, I tell ya. I remember when they kidnapped the Lindboygh baby, and I’m a lot older than you ah!” (His Brooklyn accent was right off a “Three Stooges” reel. I’ll just spell things the way they sounded.)

“Okay,” the gentleman said. “I get you.”

“Hell, da guy coulda had a GUN, and I should know. I remember when they kidnapped the Lindboygh baby, and I’m a lot older than YOU ah!”

“Yes, I can tell that. Now, if you don’t mind . . . .”

“Well, da guy coulda had a gun! I remember when they kidnapped the Lindboygh baby, and I’m a lot OLDER THAN YOU AH!”

“Please, sir, just enjoy the ride and be quiet . . . .”

“What!? Listen, that guy coulda had a gun, and I should know. I remember when they kidnapped the Lindboygh baby, and . . . .”

“All right already! What’re you trying to do, pick a fight with me!?”

The man with the bag was taken aback. Never had he been subjected to such an unseemly accusation. It demanded an response.

“Pick a fight wit’ ya? I wouldn’t doyty my hands!”

The bus pulled to a stop, and the old man with the bag got up and left. Was that all? Hell, no!

The crowd of passengers loved that shit. They erupted in applause and laughter, as if the whole thing had been scripted and rehearsed. I wasn’t so wise to have taken it as a joke. After all, I’d just seen a liar try to pull off a scheme and an unwell elderly person harass a stranger. It was funny, though, and I remember every word of it. I can see the face of the dog owner and what he wore: a white-and-red plaid shirt, woven belt and jeans. I even saw him the next day near Fisherman’s Wharf, walking and chatting in the company of his husky and another guy. He gestured colorfully, like a player in a show at the Renaissance Faire.

I should say something about my perception of writing as an aspect of my life and personality. Writing wasn’t merely a function performed in response to an assignment. It wasn’t something I blindly assumed I could do without consideration for misspellings, grammar, syntax and logic. Writing was the process of managing an obsession with words; of orchestrating their interactions and conveying the emotions they conjured. It required perfect structure and beautiful poetry. The severe Irish nuns of my childhood, metal-edge rulers in hand, had enforced that lesson. My brilliant Scandinavian mother had guided me in it, and my older brothers and sisters had continuously reminded me of it. Moreover, the confounding stubbornness of my nature demanded that I produce excellent writing with every attempt. My girlfriend had even said, “You can write. Be a writer.”

Young people today seem to move according to some AI-generated program. As early as the eighth grade they know which college they’ll attend and which mega-conglomerate will hire them. They play organized sports on professionally coached teams, and their diets consist of brand-name products. They see what others are doing, monitor the trends online and do likewise. Tomorrow is a given, and they own it. This is a good thing because they’re more willing to ensure their stake in the world. However, despite the cynical conformity that hovers above like an unseen overlord, they’re more accepting of themselves and others. They can be surprisingly subtle in their expressions of individuality.

The San Francisco of 1981 was the city in which I could search for myself or at least catch a glimpse of what I could be. I’d establish myself as an artist representative using the methods a photographer friend had shown me. Someone might hear me play some music too, and then I’d be invited to a recording session. (That happened eventually, but it was in a journalistic context.) Energy, talent and time were all I had to trade, but the challenge of exploration in a place I’d known more for its name than its methods would soon teach me a thing or two.

The boulevard of experience was hilly. Some opportunities were pursued and seized as they were about to slip over the horizon, but others fell out of the sky like debris from a high-rise construction job.

Obviously I’m no longer a kid. I might think of myself as a relatively youthful man, but lately I see less of that aspect in the bathroom mirror. The gorgeous girlfriend became my incredible wife, and together we raised two awesome children. In the process I’ve learned that happiness should be the first decision of each day, as I’ve reminded the kids in times of emotional difficulty. A good story, though, has a life of its own. It engenders a love of adventure and the willingness to welcome what awaits us. I think of the little stories often enough. They make it easier to forget the moments that weren’t as funny. So, although I’ve made a career out of producing and editing official documentation, I’ve worked to maintain my love of laughter.

Hey, if you’re the guy with the dog, I hope you were able to give the bus driver an apology.

THANK YOU for reading this issue of Creative Drive. I'll be back after the July 4th holiday with a brand-new story and quiz!

? Copyright 2024 by Lawrence Payne. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated or distributed without permission from the author.