***Channeling John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Recently my old friend from high school days Josh Breslin (full name Joshua Lawrence Breslin but nobody ever called him anything but Josh except his mother, what do you expect, and some old time WASP girlfriend who tried like hell to make him, him of “the projects” born, more presentable to her leafy suburbs parents), told me about a trip that he and his longtime companion Laura took to ocean spray Big Sur out in California. He had not been on there in that part of California for many years (and neither have I although I have been to California many times since then but with not enough time to get there and chill out for a few days) but he had earlier in the year been under the spell of old “beat” king of the west coast ocean night, Jack Kerouac, after re-reading his Big Sur, a book about his unsuccessful attempts to dry out in Big Sur after the notoriety of his classic On The Road literally drove him to drink (or drink more is a better way to put it). That spell got an added boost by viewing a film based on Kerouac’s work, Big Sur, after reading the book. While the film was not nearly as evocative as the book it did provide vivid shots of Jack and company on one of the Big Sur beaches and that enflamed Josh. And so they went, went to retrace the meaning that Big Sur had had in his youth in the long gone days when he had his wanting habits on.    

See, like I said, Josh and I go back to North Adamsville High days here in Massachusetts, but more importantly later on the American West hitchhike highway where in the summer of love 1960s we were searching for, well, searching for something that we did not find then at least. But the time he told me of his journey when we met over at Jimmy’s Grille in Boston we both agreed that the search was the important thing and we had no regrets about trekking out to the coast many times looking for Eden, “looking for the garden” as we used to call it. We also agreed that we both were still looking, still had those ancient wanting habits on, and that we probably would until the end. Josh noted that strangely as he told of his time out there that while he was thrilled to “channel” the ghost of Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Allan Ginsberg and the rest of the “beat” gang who held forth on that sacred Big Sur beach in the time before we even had any real idea that we too wanted to be rebels against out part of society he was almost more taken by Cannery Row in Monterey, the ancient site of John Steinbeck’s classic Cannery Row although only small fragments of that area exist unsullied by a tourist hungry theme park. He and Laura had stayed in Monterey so he was able to get a better grasp of that ancient ground that he had not investigated much before. He had been there last before the theme park exploded when that ocean front was run down with closed canning factories and derelict housing.         

******

Josh Breslin was no question the illegitimate son of the kindred that John Steinbeck wrote about in his book Cannery Row and maybe if you dug down deep enough, grabbed some genealogy chart, went back enough generations, kindred of those Okie/Arkies he wrote about in The Grapes Of Wrath that migrated west in the dustbowl 1930s and landed in sunny Southern California and whose progeny would go on to fill up the surfer boy, hot rod Lincoln, biker angels, casting couch starlet blanks in the blue-pink western sky night. But maybe we should not press the relationship too stronger since his people on his mother’s side were hearty French-Canadians from up in upper Saint Lawrence River Quebec and his father from hillbilly mountain, coal mountain Kentucky and those brethren thrown out of Europe for every possible reason stayed put in the hills and hollows and did not have the energy to move west. Josh, ocean grown himself, felt the kinship that one feels for those who society threw on the scape heap with the decline of the fishing industry out there and the decline of shipbuilding in his old hometown of North Adamsville which left his father, and his family, on the same scape heap in the “golden age of America” 1950s.         

Illegitimate by the way not by some fallen birth, although I insist that he was born under some ill-meant star, but because these days Josh no longer, like in the old days travels west, travels to California using just his thumb, maybe if he had a little dough taking the bus some of the way, and one time going east to west hopping on the old freight trains, a nasty way to travel and he told me once that after that experience he would no longer berate tramps, bums, and hoboes for enduring such a method of getting west. But enough of “old days” transportation for Josh now flies to California when he feels that periodic urge to head west. Flies and has always marveled (and was thankful that he now had the wherewithal) that he could start out on the East Coast Atlantic Ocean, usually Boston, and be on the West Coast Pacific Ocean a few hours later a trip that used to take anywhere from about five days (if he grabbed a fast run to the coast trucker looking for company, even hippie boy company) to a couple of weeks if he got unlucky and was left in some place like Winnemucca in Nevada where he had to sleep on the side of the road when it got too dark while waiting for a ride after being left there by a Native American trucker who lived up in the mountains near there.   

This last trip west had been spurred by a recent re-reading of Jack Kerouac’s trying to dry out from a drunk book Big Sur so Josh had that destination on his mind when the urge hit him again. Of course along with the “don’t thumb anymore” days he no longer sleeps on the side of the road in some urine smelling, sweat-smelling paper strewn bus station, or in some make-do lean-to tent but now seeks refuge in hotels and motels which he also does not mind doing. The problem was that he could find no place listed in Big Sur for he and his lady friend, Laura, to stay so they had to stay in Monterey which led to that earlier illegitimate son reference because the last time he had been in that town he had slept on the beach, slept on the beach to the sound of the sea lions barking or whatever they call the sound sea lions make. Slept near the wharf where iterant fisherman brought their goods to market from the troublesome seas (and explained why the lazy seals like lazy humankind hovered near that landing area not having to work too hard for a hand-out meal). Slept the ragged sleep of the tramps, bums, and hoboes, feeding off their ragged stews, and drinking their rotgut Ripple. And feeling at home even though out in the “jungle,” especially for the young iterant, you were as likely to face a knife from some half-crazed rummy as a friendly “hello brother” road man.   

But means of travel and methods of accommodation, hell, the eating habits of sea lions, were not what was bothering Josh but rather that almost never-ending sense he always had that he shared plenty with the ghost of those old time denizens of the cannery rows of the world, the skid rows. So all thoughts of flights, of rental car drives, and hotels drifted from his horizon as he got off of Exit 402B on the Pacific Coast Highway and headed to downtown Monterey. He needed to stop at the CVS on Lighthouse Road in what passes for Main Street in the town for a few provisions and while there he noticed that the street had not changed that much since the last time he had seen it maybe twenty years before. Downtown Monterey is really just an adjunct to the Cannery Row dress-up theme park which attracts the tourists and still has that hard-scramble feel of having missed something. Josh knew he was home, was among kindred he though when a relic from the 1960s, a guy, who knows a rummy or a dope-head it was hard to tell, with a ZZ Top beard (long in other words), a tie-dye tee shirt and a Hawaiian hat came up to his as he was leaving the CVS and asked him for a cigarette. Since Josh no longer smoked he had to say no but gave the guy a buck toward his efforts.

As the relic passed on Josh thought in a flash about all the corner boys from his youth (behind the elementary school, Doc’s Drugstore in junior high, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor in high school where we hung together having met in class and he introduced me to Frankie Riley the king of the corner boy night) a goodly number of them who slipped through the cracks and wound up on some skid row somewhere, or like his best friend Peter Markin from elementary school face down in some dusty Mexican town, Sonora, with two bullets in his heart after a drug deal went awry). Thought about the “brothers under the bridge,” guys who did not make it back to the “real world” from Vietnam days who set up an alternative world in the arroyos, along the riverbanks, along the railroad trestles of Southern California, and guys, tramps, bums, and hoboes whom he wandered with when he had his own addictions to fight, his own lost “real world.” That got him thinking that he should take a walk along the street, see whether any more ghosts showed up. He would not go to the Cannery Row façade since after reading brochures and seeing how everything pointed to that destination that was strictly for touristas but walk Lighthouse after leaving Laura at the motel to freshen up.           

And he was not mistaken. In a few blocks, maybe ten, he passed the usual Goodwill, Salvation Army (the Sallies had saved his skin more than one time with a hot meal, some clothes, a bunk bed for a few days at a time all for the price of having to listen to their version of the “good book” a small price to pay then for what ailed him, what addiction he was trying to go “cold turkey” on and he had always afterward put a few bucks in their buckets at Christmas time), and assorted used clothing stores (back in the day in places like Harvard Square, Telegraph in Berkeley, Soho in New York City, such stores along with the ubiquitous Army and Navy outlets were prized places to “re-invent” yourself as a dreamlike fantasy soldier, a swarthy pirate,  a Victorian gentleman or lady, a prairie pioneer complete with gingham dress  or buckskin jacket, some 1930s movie actress but now such places are for those a step below Wal-mart in the bustling world), run down cafes (dark lights to hide the dirt, rough food, poor service  unlike even the most poorly run Hayes-Bickford where the food was rough, aged before your, eyes and the coffee unspeakable but the company was worth the price of admission), the barely surviving pizza parlors (one on every corner it seemed run by the someone in the latest wave of immigrants hungry to make it in America and willing to work long hours but coming up short on the art of pizza-making unlike back in North Adamsville corner boy night when Tonio twirled the dough and made your senses come alive with the smell of freshly baked doughs), the ubiquitous tattoo parlors (despite the current craze for identity tattoos some of them quite elaborate and comment-worthy for everybody from high-end  celebrities to low-end hoodlum bikers these places still looked like you had better check with your doctor after leaving), the used book and record stores all looking like they were ready to close their doors forever with the next ill economic wind that came through the town (those old used books with their musty smells and broken bindings hiding many treasures which may not survive the digital age  and the records scratched and wobbly but again holding many treasures). Even what passed for one of the “upscale” places, a 1950s and 1960s retro-hamburger place where he stopped for a light lunch was barely making it although the food, the service, the posters of the usual suspects James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, Elvis and the like, and the be-bop music spinning some stuff from early Motown to doo wop to Beatles from that period told him that in another locale like Harvard Square or maybe in Frisco they would be standing in line out around the block to get in. Such is the fate of cannery row towns when the main industry goes south and all that is left is the relics, buildings and people.        

A Cannery row flashback as Josh turned around after a few blocks to head back to the motel to do his own freshening up as the ghosts of the past passed by in his head; tramps, bums, and hoboes met on Monterey pebbled beaches (and remembrances of some old time hobo, Lightning Shorty, telling him and all who would listen the differences between those three categories of wayfarers, taking the gaff from a couple of guys whom he called bums who stood just below his royal hobo status and a guy who was later was found on the beach newspapers for a pillow dead as a doornail, heart attack at forty-three when he looked about eighty to youthful eyes), sweet sand interrupted by belches and sea lion barks (we agreed “or whatever they call that sound” and that the buggers were lazy just waiting on the rocks for the trawlers to come in and throw their refuge into the sea), smoke fire at night to ward off the chill burning down to embers as dawn came up, maybe make an olio mishmash from the meat and vegetable leavings found behind  some grocery store (no food pantries or heroic soup line kitchens then by kindly church people, not that he remembered anyway), drinking Ripple wine (or worse –“what’s the word, Thunderbird, what’s the price, forty twice”), smoking old Bull Durham rolled [really nasty smoke and what the hell Josh had never learned how to roll right, always left too much paper unrolled or did not twist the ends right, same with mary jane rolls despite his many experiences]. Where had that brethren gone, gone with the tide maybe, gone after catching some westbound freight (going to be with Father Death for those who are clueless about what that expression means), or some Southern Pacific trestle for a new home. Adios, pals.

Next night, a Friday night, a trip, a Laura-urged trip, to Cannery Row proper and bang, bang, kindred, maybe the long lost progeny of those long gone brethren. Most of the wayfarers had kids strewn across the land mainly still in California from what they said although how they would know is anybody’s guess. When the brethren high-tailed it they were moving fast, moving away from anchored life, from bills and mortgages, from the damn nagging wife and whining children. Some men are not built for such things, not built for much but that wandering gene deeply embedded in their DNA, a gene that could have been easily passed on to that night’s refugees. All the father-less children looking for their moment in the sun, for somebody to look their way and show the world that they had made it without the wandering old men.

Josh generation kindred seeking momentary immortality cruising Cannery Row in hopped-up (and loud hopped up to boot) canary yellow Camaros, two-toned ’57 Chevys, chrome-infested Harleys, sporty Triumphs, sportier MGs, sleek Plymouths when such cars were sleek also two-toned, Mustangs invoking memories of other Sallys, Sallys to ride in the freshen air beach summer nights, Jags that looked like Jags and not like one of twelve other cars, hell, the works showing off their sense of the past, their mechanical abilities, their desire, and their showmanship.

Funny Josh mentioned to Laura California back a generation before ours, ours the generation of ‘ 68 for those asking, the generation that came of age after the blight of the Great Depression and surviving a slogging war looking for kicks, looking for something other than “from hunger” took to the great blue-pink American West night and in little back lot garages or in some permissive father’s garage put together the “hot rod” to seek kingdoms in the drive-in movies, drive-in restaurant, drive-in everything if you had that “boss” car that would get you noticed. Here the now long-toothed progeny, those who could not shake their youthful fantasies and why not, were hovering the air of the night remembering back to those ancient times when such horsepower meant you were king (or now queen too) of the road, the great edge city highway looking for the heart of Saturday night. Old Tom Wolfe, the guy who explored the western wild boy hot-rod valley boy scene (and the surfer scene Pacific coast scene too), would have surely gotten a  chuckle out seeing blonde- wigged grandmothers, grizzly-bearded old pappies, handkerchief-hatted  bikers, riding in tandem reviving ancient thoughts (and gathering many flash photos from convenient tourista cellphone cameras). Josh knew he did.      

But enough on to Big Sur, on to Jack’s sea, Jack’s great big walloping zen-om-splish-splash wash, splash again great big white crested sand blasting away rock from eternity, Jack’s love sea  (although Jack could have been a proper Cannery Row denizen as well, an East Coast mill town boy who would have no trouble with cannery kin). Each wave tearing into the hard granite like- stone (stone etched in old eastern towns, towns like Josh grow up North Adamsville, not far from Jack’s river of life, Merrimac river of life and maybe haunted in the back of his mind that those torrents washing over his mill town river land and those torrents washing the craggy stone clean were kindred and speak, speak mighty torrent), endlessly searching for that soft spot, that place where the stone like some ancient New England grist mill mashes the rock to the shore, makes the rock humble before the great waves. And too before those rocks crumble, turn to sand in ten thousand, hell, a million washings, turned to pebbles, turned to human size rocks, rocks, piles of rocks, piles of rocks spaced apart almost like some human cemetery, piled so that some cranky anthropologist in ten thousand years will remark, remark to a candid world, if candor still holds some virtue, that weren’t those “primitives” crazy to worship the sea gods, that like old Pharaoh they craved that kind of immortality. And the wind provided the protection so that some future vandals would not scourge the grains of sand when they desired to pay homage to their own sense of immortality. Who needs to say more.     

And then back to Cannery Row. Sitting where some old sardine factory stood unused and unloved after many years of service (including a copper-plated turned green searing memorial to deep-sea divers lost in the struggle against the sea, the struggle to bring the strange sardines in for canning), broken and torn down after years of bringing the fish in Josh looked up and saw a sculpture, a sculpture centered on the novelist John Steinbeck. Steinbeck who in his time made infamous Cannery Row famous (although the numbers who would be able to identify his name with the place or the great everyman and everywoman Joad Okie California migration classic that he wrote, The Grapes of Wrath, is probably a couple of generations later fairly slim except for English majors and an off-hand skid row aficionado like Josh who spent time there before he got some of his addictions under control and abandoned the places where skid row and its inhabitants survived) and his friend, a marine biologist, immortalized in Cannery Row, a handful of skid row bums made so after the sardine industry went south, and they, unskilled in their time for other gainful employment went on the bum, made themselves local characters by the time Josh met them along the beachfronts and along the flop house and charity soup line circuit. He told me he would tell me about that later, some other time.

What Josh did tell me about that night was about “Madame” Flora (and she was no British noble figure so you know what kind of Madame she was) who ran the best, the fairest, and the easiest to enter if you had the money whorehouse on that section of the coast back in the day. Right across from the Monterey Police Station so you knew Madame was a sport and “connected.”  As Josh remembered Madame and her sweet place he had to also remember Thea, or at least that is what she called herself when he knew her, Madame’s best girl.

Thea had been caught up in the whole West Coast hippie thing (she had been in Frisco when the summer of love exploded in 1967 a couple of years before we got there), had later developed a serious cocaine habit (after going through the alphabet of lesser drugs, legal and illegal mostly illegal) and had taken to “muling” like a lot of snow freaks to feed the habit, got burned when her man decided that he was smarter that the damn Mexican braceros he was working for as a distributor and found himself face down in a back alley of Tia Juana with his face blown off when he thought ripping off a brick was an easy road to independence, and she needed to make her own way. (Josh cringed when he related that part of the story since he knew I knew about Peter Markin and what had happened to him down in Sonora.) Her own way then being given a room at Madame’s who saw in Thea’s airy funny ways and still good looks a cash cow (good looks especially in dark rooms with guys with serious dough and serious and unusual wanting habits which Thea had the book on, the Kama Sutra book). Josh said that in those days, the days of his struggling with his addictions, well after the days when we were carefree in California and thought the new world we were exploring would last forever rather than the ebb where we caught the tide going as we headed west Thea reminded him of Butterfly Swirl. That name, the moniker of a hippie princess from Carlsbad down in Southern California, who we met (and fought over) in Frisco brought instant recognition. She after spending some time with Josh eventually went with me and we lived in Oakland for a while before she headed back south to her surfer boyfriend when it turned out that the hippie princess life was not for her. Butterfly Swirl was this vision out of some Botticelli painting all ethereal, all wispy and virginal although she knew how to make a man’s toes curl. No question Josh would be drawn to such a woman even if she was a faded version of some youthful lust.      

Thea proved to be resourceful at what she did, and so she had worked her way up to Madame’s best girl when Josh ran into her in Carmel a short time after his own struggle with a snow addiction had finally been conquered where she had stopped in order to buy some jewelry and he had spotted her on the street looking lost (directions lost) and they struck up a conversation winding up sitting in a café drinking coffee and wine for a while. Once she told Josh her profession, which she was up front and not bashful about describing, after they had talked for a while he told her as they parted that he might come to see her at Madame’s sometime. She smiled.  And he did. And Thea, a child of the 1960s and of some sense of sexual adventure, some sense that there was more than the missionary position to the sex act took him around the world. He would run into her every once in a while and they would go out for a few drinks. But Josh always paid the freight when he saw her at Madame’s for his occasional trips around the world. Josh, a bit melancholy when describing her talents, said she was something, not a hooker with a heart of gold but a smart intelligent women who took what she could do best and rode with it. Then one night Josh went to Madame’s and she was gone, had left with some guy in a three-piece suit who Madame said had promised Thea the world.  Adios Thea, adios pal.