RUNNING SCARED # 9


I was feeling good Saturday night when I got home from the poker session. I’d said a proper goodbye to Rose, and I’d allowed myself to win a little more than usual. I needed a nest egg to finance my move.

When I opened my cabin door I found a note from Aaron on the floor.

“Call me anytime. I’ll come to wherever you are. And
when you come back in Spring I’ll take you flying through the redwood
canopy.” A

Sounded like he was courting me. Sounded tempting. How long had it been since I’d felt female, much less desirable? Part of me just wanted to go over to Aaron’s place, climb into his bed, and let him take care of me. From the day I met him he had had my back, but the smarter part of me knew it wasn’t the right time to get more seriously involved with anyone. I needed to get my life straightened out first. Although I longed for the comfort of loving arms, I needed to stick to my decision and get out of Dodge.

Milt picked me up the next morning after he had delivered the papers. All I could think about for the first twenty minutes was Aaron – going over what I knew about him – realizing there were too many things I didn’t know about him. Making a list of questions to ask him when I got the chance – keeping in mind his aversion to answering personal questions. Milt happily chattered away the whole time.

As the miles sped by a sense of relief began to flood my body and I found I could breathe again. I’d obviously been holding my breath ever since I was attacked. In Garberville I asked Milt to drop me off at the cyber café. I did a little research on the Bay area and decided to stay at the Berkeley YWCA a night or two to begin with. I had a couple of San Francisco area phone numbers Katherine had given me. I’d phone them when I got there.

I walked out to the nearest truck stop, and started searching for a ride to the Bay area. I figured that anyone trying to trace me from Murietta would find it more difficult if I hitched a ride with a truck driver. I glanced around the parking lot and through the windows of the café looking for a likely prospect -- someone friendly, but not too friendly. As individual drivers exited the café and headed for a driver-owned truck I’d approach, ask where they were headed, then ask if I could ride along.

The third driver I talked to gave me a long appraising look and said, “Sure, why not?” I assured him that I had twenty dollars I could give him for gas, and that he could drop me at any Bay area truck stop. Maybe ten minutes down the road he said, “I suppose you noticed my gun,” and patted his right hip.

I almost panicked, but as coolly as I could I said, “Not really. Are you expecting trouble?”

“Gotta be prepared,” he said.

“Anything I should be worried about?” I asked.

“No, I just thought I’d mention it so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said. “I’d hate to think you were afraid of me.”

He glanced over at me. I grinned. We both laughed, and the tension was broken. By two-thirty I was in Berkeley taking a taxi to the YWCA. He turned down my attempt to give him the gas money.

When I got settled in my room I called a woman named Laurie, I told her a little about my problem, and that I needed to find a safe neighborhood to look for a room – somewhere with many cafes or small businesses where I might find a job maybe trading work for meals. “Not too yuppie,” I said. “And not near a college.”

“Why not near a college?” she asked.

“Because all the college kids have the part-time jobs,” I explained.

She laughed and made several suggestions. I thought about asking her about taverns with regular poker games, but figured I’d best scout those for myself. I tried to call the other woman, but got no answer. Maybe I’d try her later if necessary.

The next morning I got some bus schedules and directions to both areas. The first one I checked out was transitional -- going from prosperous to marginal, plenty of taverns but not feeling safe to me -- too many walls that had been tagged with graffiti or newly painted in patches. It was a long bus ride with two transfers to the other area Laurie had mentioned. I was beginning to feel discouraged, but knew I had to persevere, to keep going through the motions. If I stopped moving I could be stalled for days. I’d been through enough of that in those early weeks after I first left Seattle – a flurry of activity followed by spasms of catatonia. I was stronger now.

Madrona seemed to be a quiet place -- two streets with shops and cafes, a service station and garage, three taverns, one tiny Lutheran church. One of the shops was a paperback bookshop – bring in two books to trade for one. A blue-collar kind of neighborhood. I decided to ask around at the taverns to see if they needed a dishwasher.

If so, it would be easier to check out any poker games. I felt some trepidation about playing poker for money. I had no idea if I was really good enough, but the only way to find out was to play a couple of games. See how much game I really had. The idea of doing that really scared me – but scared me in a good way. The worst that could happen is I’d lose some money.

The first two taverns I went into didn’t seem that friendly, but the third had a female bartender who said to come back later to talk to Steve – that they had been looking for part-time help. I asked if she knew of a cheap room for rent in the area. She said to check a couple of bed-and-breakfasts nearby – that winter rates by the week were pretty reasonable.

I stopped at a nearby café for a late lunch. Business was slow and after I finished eating I told the waitress I wanted to speak to the manager or owner. “Something wrong with the food?” she asked. I reassured her and a few minutes later an older man with a stained white apron around his waist came over to my table.

“Is there a problem, Miss?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I was just wondering if you could use some help for an hour or two a day. I’m wanting to barter work for meals.”

“Off the books?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m running away from home,” I said and shrugged. I was aware of him noticing the scars on my face, and he looked like he understood. He offered me breakfast in exchange for a daily hour and a half of kitchen work, including washing dishes, for the next two weeks. “Thanks,” I said, “see you tomorrow morning at seven.” I felt happy. Things were looking up.