mmmmx

Imaginary Ghost at an Imaginary Dinner
at a Real Pizzeria, and Other Ghosts,

Here in the City in Which I Live

     The dead are notoriously hard to satisfy.
            —Jack Spicer (writing as Federico García Lorca)


Try explaining that to the ghost in the

corner, here, at Uncle Vito’s. Sure, I

could regale you with tales from this

pizza joint, as I experienced it my first

few months in Frisco.  It is a pizza joint

that sits here at what is essentially the 

intersection of Union Square, Nob Hill, 

The Tenderloin and Chinatown, but that

wouldn’t explain the ghost’s presence.

As far as I know, Dad only spent that

one day in San Francisco, our family

vacation in 1980, which was my first

experience here, as well. Not here at

Uncle Vito’s, though.  This place I would

experience without my dad, starting some

four decades later. So why, I wonder, is

Dad here (and not here)? I hope it’s not to 

gloat in that demeaning way he would, knowing

how it always got to me. Although even that

would be fine, in the end, given that I miss

him.  He died too young, at 59, less than a

year after I moved here. I moved to San

Francisco in the Summer of 2000.  And

Dad died in early 2001. I’d already rushed 

once to Arkansas for what would be my

my last time to see him, but it wasn’t the

end, as the doctors had warned, not his

final days. He was on a ventilator and at

the time I only saw him through a window

into a dark room.  The experience was a bit

creepy, leaving me empty, but fortunately

he somehow recovered, was taken off the

ventilator after I left the following morning, 

and went on to have a few cherished further

months, during which we were fortunate enough 

to have a few conversations over the phone before 

the  lymphoma did finally destroy him, the big 

manly man that I never was. He was a cop, 

a veteran of war, a house painter, a fireman,

a fence-builder, a cattle-man and, biggest 

manly man duty of all, he was the father

to four raucous kids born less than

three years apart. But the thing is,

I’m not at my old neighborhood

pizzeria now.  That scene, the ghost

of my father, and a whole lifetime

of ghosts are all drifting in and out

of my imagination, and my varying

states of nearly awake and almost

asleep.  And while I don’t often visit

the apparitions of things that were

once but no longer alive (like I actually

seem to be now) in my rather creative

contemplation, it would certainly seem

to make sense why I’m finding myself

surrounded by ghosts this weekend.

They are the subject of the current

section in the book of poetry which

I've been reading the last few days.

At present, I'm down the hill and in 

the hood, several blocks away from

the lovely and spacious pad in which

I resided on Nob Hill, my home for

thirteen years, which was just a 

couple of short blocks away from 

Uncle Vito’s. Tonight, a minute from

two in the morning on a cool July

evening, my world is understand

ably inhabited by many ghosts.

And it makes sense I’d see my

father, in particular, at the pizza

joint that has been at the corner

of Bush and Mason for as long as

I’ve lived here, which, given the

evolving situation the pandemic

has forced upon its many fine

eateries, and the city’s evolving land

scape, Vito’s is one of the only dining

joints in the city that is still extant.

These now dead places in which I’ve

dined off and on for my time on the

West Coast make up a large portion

of the ghosts of San Francisco, of the

ghosts that inhabit my life, places lost,

people lost, friends who’ve just vanished,

many of whom I’d rather never run into

again, all things considered, certainly not

the ones who would turn out to still be living

and breathing, that is. But is that true? I won

der.  It is sure nice to see Dad. I’m glad he’s

found a place to hang out here in town,

in this parcel in which I’ve now lived longer

than I did in the state in which I grew up,

attended undergraduate college and spent

the first couple of years of what would become

my paid career, before heading to the Midwest

for graduate school, then to Boston, then, finally,

here, to what would soon be my Home with a 

capital H. After I left home for college at

seventeen, and while I still lived in Arkansas,

Dad would show up unexpectedly all uniformed

as a state trooper or in military garb just to, I

suppose, check in on me, to see how I was

doing.  At the time I would think this was just 

something he would do mainly to catch me off 

guard, to rattle my senses, to irritate me.  That

was how it was between me and my father.  

But maybe it was because he liked surprises.

I do not.  But he definitely cared deeply about 

his kids.  Even me.  And, truth be told, I always 

got a kick out of those random visits. And so,

wouldn’t it be nice to see him in the corner of

Uncle Vito’s right now a I sat, of course, at

a window seat, downing my pizza and guzzling

a soda, (which would be diet now)? Yeah, it sure 

would. So what can I say to these thoughts.  

Thanks for dropping by, Dad? See you around

again soon?  Yes.  And here’s to hoping.