Excerpts from Storm WArning

Four years ago, during the Monterey Jazz Festival, on a warm night filled with the aroma of sea salt and jasmine and the sweet pungent scent of marijuana, clouds of smoke floating over the crowd, I played with my eyes half closed, watching people’s heads swaying to the music, some clapping, others undulating to the groove, and I noticed a striking woman in the audience. She had long, wispy red hair over a high forehead, a regal nose, and thick red lips, lips that begged to be kissed. Her companion was a tall, slender man whose narrow face, patrician nose, and small mouth gave the impression of a hawk poised on a branch contemplating its prey. His eyebrows arched over dark, knowing eyes, and he stood with his head angled slightly to one side, nodding rhythmically to each beat of the music. He wore a hint of a smile and whispered now and then into the redhead’s ear. She responded by pursing those large red lips as though whatever he’d said electrified her soul. 

She was Catherine Gauthier. A painter and Parisian now living in San Francisco with her partner, the hawkish man. He was Ari Kirakosian, owner of BiblioTech, one of the City’s largest book stores, a quirky assortment of new and rare books, manuscripts, maps, recordings, and technology antiques in Lucite displays, including an Apple I, a TRS-80, and an Altair 8800. For geeks, BiblioTech is manna from heaven. It has free wifi and computers throughout the retail space where patrons can search the store’s vast collection or download books. BiblioTech has five floors; the third is a huge social space with oak tables and chairs, a coffee bar, a wine bar, and scores of easy chairs where people can read or talk, which they do endlessly. It has the kind of hip ambiance San Franciscans love. On the fourth floor, at the back of Ari’s historic brick building, is a secure area where he stores his most valuable collections. Behind that is a cozy room few people ever see, a room lined with bookshelves, tattered floor lamps, and dust balls that have been there long enough to have names. The room smells of aged parchment and leather, musty fabric, and stale cigarette smoke, and it has four overstuffed chairs that might be as old as the building itself. 

As Ari and I became friends, he invited me to join him there for discussions with two of his other friends, John Sebastiani and Julien Kito. John is a former Navy Seal who became a Jesuit priest and was a first responder at the World Trade Centers during 911. Later disenchanted with the priesthood, he’s now a security consultant. Julien is a retired professor of philosophy at Cal Berkeley. In his honor, we began calling ourselves the Philosophers Club, not without irony. We meet weekly to talk about everything from history and world affairs to the nature of the universe and the existence of God. Wine and spirits flow freely, and although we don’t solve the world’s problems or answer philosophy’s most intriguing questions, we have a fine time bullshitting away the hours. Tuesday nights with these guys are sacred for me.

The first time I took my Sportster to Wymans, the lot resounded with the guttural roar of Harleys. Thirty or forty bikes gleamed with chrome, one chopped Harley after another. Their riders were clad in black leather, faces harsh and defiant. They wore black watch caps, Nazi helmets, or greasy bandanas. Some openly smoked weed, which back then was like shoving your middle finger up DEA’s nose. Many had knives hanging from their belts or chains wrapped around their waists. Everybody packed heat. They were filthy, bearded, and stank of oil and cigarette smoke and beer, and if you fucked with one of them, you fucked with all of them. Wymans was located in turf claimed by rival Latino gangs, but it was a free-fire zone because none of the gangbangers would tangle with the Wyman brothers or the tough sons of bitches who rode Harleys there. Even cops kept their distance. Especially the cops.

On my first trip to Wymans, three Angels lumbered over when I parked my Sportster and swung off it. I had wild-looking, long, dark hair and a mustache and goatee, which I still have. I was wearing threadbare jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. Not Ivy League, so they didn’t spit on me, but I wasn’t in leathers and wasn’t affiliated, which made them suspicious. I thought we might be headed toward something large, and I was ready to stand my ground. Then a twenty-something guy ambled out of the garage wearing black leather pants and motorcycle boots. He was slender but muscular and had long black hair held in place by a blue bandana. He was bare from the waist up. The skin on his torso and arms rippled with blue tats when he moved. 

“What can I do you for?” he said, wiping his hands on a red rag.

“I’m looking to customize my bike.” When he turned to look it over, I saw a pair of drumsticks sticking out of his rear pocket. “Hey, man, you’re a drummer.”

He looked back at me. “You play?”

“Sax. Jazz and blues. Some rock. I’m Sonny Marshall.” 

“Garth Wyman.” We shook hands, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Angels easing away, which told me that in this tribal hierarchy, Garth was a high priest, if not a crown prince. “Where do you play?” he asked me.

“Here and there. How ‘bout you?”

“Same.”

“I’m looking to hook up with something steady.”

“Yeah? Know a guy you should talk to. Bass man. Plays a Fender Precision. Guy name of Xavier McQueen. Blues man. I’ll give you his number.” 

“Cool.”