Dorian’s Run

Shirley A. Anderson

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-09831-084-4

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-09831-085-1

© 2020. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

I devote this writing to my children, Catherine, Deborah and Kevin Anderson.

“The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has as yet discovered.”

Oscar Wilde

FOREWORD

The description of Brian Duffy, the jogging cat thief, is a fictional character based on accurate events. Many of my characters are combinations of individuals I met while living in Montara, California. The sites are true, and many of the incidents correct.

Starting in 1979 and ending in 1986, I was a local in Montara, California. My initial proof I was a resident in an extraordinary place arose when I could not get Bank of America to agree that it existed. My first bank statement reached me months late because someone in the Bank had manually altered the city name on my account from Montara to Monterey, California. It was that troublesome discussion on the phone, to customer service, explaining Montara was a real place and had its own postal zip code.

I served as window clerk for the US Postal Service and worked in the Montara Office. My explanation of the mail distribution in Montara was authentic.

Montara is a significant aspect in my narrative. It was a fascinating town where I raised two of my kids. The children grew up playing in the dried flower fields in the valley. We had a small pony that we boarded on Sunshine Valley Road. To my children, it was a magic place. To me, it was never boring.

DORIAN’S RUN

JUNE 1988

PART I

Mark, get set, go!

Chapter 1.

My affirmation to myself this morning is, “I want out.” Today’s morning run is the start of my escape. Running has been me out since being a child. It has become my refuge, my place to find peace. With my marriage ending, my morning run has become the way to empty my head and face these decisions. Not sure when I became so disenchanted with this “yuppie” lifestyle, and the pressure of living up to my wife’s expectations. Sick of the pretentious yuppie uniform I wear to work every day, my Burt Reynolds hairstyle, my trim mustache and the constraining V-neck sweaters over my colored collared shirts. Will not lie, plenty of vanity here. Always prided in the fact I weigh what I did in high school, time to thank my love of running for keeping me in shape.

Who are we kidding? We are the lemmings of our generation following each other into an ideal that made us market place consumers. The value we are placing on social status is driving our need for personal consumption. This is pushing my family, not to mention most of our friends, into financial ruin. When did we lose sight of what is important in life? Why so much pressure to consume? What happened to “the best things in life are free?”

I have rented an apartment, unbeknownst to my wife, Carla. Our sons, Kevin age nine and Jack six, are both too young to understand what is happening. Carla has the boys so involved in school and in activities this will just mean adjustments in their schedule. That is what our lives have become, the schedule.

My current schedule begins with these 6 AM runs into our middle-class neighborhood of Foster City. It is amazing to me how my own neighbors are following their morning schedules. People find no comfort by unpredictable routines, I find it constraining, choking off the spontaneity of life. Out on my run this morning a revelation hits me, “Will any of these neighbors consider my departure?” Running this path for eight years, I am invisible. I see so much on my runs, does anyone see me? If they knew how familiar with their schedules and habits I have become. I know none of these people. The way my generation exists. We only take an interest in our neighbors when we have a mutual benefit. Otherwise we ignore each other. Gone are the days of sitting on a porch swing waving or taking the time to converse.

It occurs to me just how easily I could invade their lives. I know their routine. Aware who will be home during the day and whose homes will be empty? Is there anything inside these homes worth owning? As Oscar Wilde once wrote, “We live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities.” These homes are full of unnecessary things.

Jog through the turn at our corner, there sits my home, third from the left, with the open garage door. Leave the garage door open when out running, not gone long. What happens in less than an hour? Enter through the door in the garage to our home and hearing my wife giving orders to our sons. Carla is rushing around the kitchen, grabbing lunches. “Brian, I am leaving to drop the boys at summer day camp, be back in thirty minutes, she shouts.” “Fine Carla”, I reply, “When you get back, I want to talk to you.” Is she even listening to me? Carla hurries the boy’s out the garage door and they leave. This is part of the schedule.

After a quick shower, I enter our bedroom to pack; reflecting on just how fast time flies. Has it been eight years since we moved into this house? Remember college as it were yesterday. The first-time seeing Carla, the women I will walk out on today. There she was, striding fast across the campus at UC Berkeley. It was my first year as a grad student and Carla’s junior year as an undergrad. Finished up my Master’s Degree in English Literature while she was working on her Bachelor’s degree in Art History. How happy Carla looked in her tight, faded jeans, the tall brunette with the wind in her hair and the dark brown eyes. Hard to believe that was twelve years ago. Can still recall how she hurried past, Carla being too distracted to be aware of me as she greeted her friends. Knowing I will find a way into her life.

I pull two old suitcases from the bedroom closet and placing them on the bed, my packing begins. Rented a furnished apartment and since then moving my things into it. No one is aware. Not good between Carla and me this last year. We have become distant and never speak to each other anymore. Many conversations regarding separation going nowhere. Carla is content with her life, her schedule, she is not happy. No longer content with this position and unable to discuss details to separate with her, forcing me to take action. She will do everything to avoid confrontation, image is most important. That has been her biggest concern, how this will appear to our parents, relatives, and friends. She sees this as somehow a personal failure on her part. My mentor Oscar Wilde once expressed, “The one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception necessary for both parties?”

Halfway through my packing and looking up, Carla standing in our bedroom doorway. “Brian, what are you doing,” she asks. “What do you think?” is my response. “This again,” her reply. Carla turns and walks out. I hear her car pulling out of the driveway. Convinced that she is thinking this decision is just another veiled threat, unsurprised by her reaction to leave the scene. For me, it will be different.

Several weeks ago, I took a drive over to Half Moon Bay, not aware I was looking for a way out. I strolled along the Main Street of this little coastal town and noticed a “FOR RENT” sign over a small jewelry store on Main Street. My father had owned a jewelry store in San Bruno, this was an omen; I walked into “Ken’s Jewelry” to inquire about the sign. The owner, “Ken” told me the apartment was still empty and gave me the number for the management company. Within the hour, the Rental Agent and I were standing in what would becoming my alternative place. Typical of most old Main Streets, you find these small overhead apartments facing to the street. The stairs leading to the apartment are around back in the alley. As we climbed the stairs leading to my new home, I see two doors across from each other. We entered the door on the right. It was a bigger space than expected, stepping into the living room with a well-used leather sofa and a TV on a stand. There was a compact kitchen with white tile counters and vintage appliances. They looked ancient to me, and I was trying to put a positive spin on the decor. The Agent commented, “The appliances are in excellent working order.” One tiny wooden table sitting under a window that looks to the street. Want to see the happenings on Main Street, unnoticed. They furnished the kitchen with the basics. As we wonder the short hall, past the bathroom with a tub, the Agent commented, “Two bedrooms.” The first bedroom had a queen size bed, night stand and dresser. In the second bedroom there were twin beds and two small matching dressers. It was perfect, and the rent was cheap, I took it on the spot. The agent informed me, “No garage but they have a carport across the alley with an assigned spot.” The agent explained that the Management Company had rented the apartment by the week. “They use it as a vacation rental, he said. They’re tired of the turnover and want a more permanent tenant.” Signed a year lease that day, I was making a plan for my unknown life.

Hear Carla’s car pull back into the driveway, I stop my packing and sit on the bed. Carla occurs in the doorway and she asks, “Where are you going?” Telling her my short-term plans she responds with, “Let me help.” That was Carla; she knows how to solve the problem and she was as tired as I am of holding onto something that is slipping away. We spend the next hour loading up my Jeep Cherokee and Carla’s Ford Escort. She follows me to Half Moon Bay. As we climb the steps to my fresh life, my neighbor at the door to the left appears. I have seen my new neighbor a few times over the last month as I moved my books and other personal items. Up to this point, our conversations were quick “hellos,” he is was always in a hurry. My neighbor cannot hide his surprised look; moving in a girl? After a quick introduction of, “Travis, this is Carla, Carla, Travis Wilson.” Travis bolts the stairs and leaves. That is when it hits Carla, I have been living with one foot in my old life and one foot in my alternate life for some time.

Carla spent the next hour helping me unload everything from both cars, and then we sat at my small kitchen table to talk. Putting on a kettle of water, “Would you like tea?” I saw her bristle with annoyance at this offer. Carla is a diehard coffee drinker. One difference we first discovered about each other.

Our conversation is different this time. It is not emotional or a fight to hang onto what we know is over, we discuss how we will manage the “temporary separation,” as Carla keeps calling it. We are school teachers and have the summer off. Carla will soon start a six-week stint as a summer school teacher for the local middle school. Because I am a sophomore high school English teacher, the plan had been for me to take this summer off and work on writing projects. In the last few years, I have served as the Assistant Track Coach to the freshman track team. During the normal school year, Carla teaches visual arts and photography at a high school in Millbrae. Carla is an advisor with the journalism classes and helps with the annual yearbook.

We formulate a plan for a new schedule. She mentions it works best for her to take the boys each morning to their summer camp, and I will pick them up in the afternoon. Her plan for me is to stay with the boys until she returns home each day around 3:30 PM. “It will be best to alternate weekends right away so the boys get use to a routine and know what to expect, she says.” She wants the boys to think, just a summer adventure where Dad needs quiet time so he can work on his writing. This will be the story Carla will tell herself, our family and friends. “This will work, we will keep the focus on our sons,” I tell her.

Carla stands up to leave saying, “well I better get going to pick up Kevin and Jack from their first day of summer camp.” She informs me she wants time alone to talk to our son’s. Before she leaves, we agree I will be there the next day to pick up the boys from camp. Carla informs me, “I have things I need to do to prepare for my summer school classes.” As I stand on the landing at my new apartment, I watch Carla leave, and notice a spring in her step and a lightness around her I have not seen in months.

Close the door to my new home and a deep sense of sadness mixed with relief. For the first time in a long time, I find myself alone. I try to unpack, but overwhelmed by nervous energy. Go out for a run to explore my new surroundings.

Spent time as a child along this coast, visiting Half Moon Bay many times, now enjoying this bustling little tourist district as its newest resident. As a kid, we drove over the hill from San Bruno to attend the annual Pumpkin Festival.

Start my run south, Main Street and turning west to the ocean. Mark Twain was not kidding when he said; the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. That is how this day was taking shape. By the time I reach the ocean, hit with a strong mist. The surf is high, and the sky is a dark grey overcast. You learn to respect the surf along this coast. It changes fast, and the ocean has strong rip tides. Once as a small boy of six, remembering holding my mother’s hand, while standing in the surf only to be swept from her and bounced in the waves. Lucky for me, my father was standing close by to grab me as I was being swept out to sea.

Leave the shallow surf to run up the sand and head back through the streets to my apartment and notice my pants and sweatshirt drenched. Start up the stairs to my new place, I hear a familiar voice behind me declare, “Man, you are soaked,” and turn to find Travis. “Drowning my problems,” is my reply. “Chick will not be your new roommate?” He asks. “No, more like my soon to be ex-wife.” “Got it,” I hear from Travis as he enters the door to the left.

Thank goodness for scalding water. The shower after removing my wet clothes is from heaven. There is nothing like being chilled to the bone one minute and warmed to the soul the next. As I enter my living room, I survey the fragments of my life strewn around the apartment. Time to find places for my many books and then hear a loud knock. Open my front door, Travis holding a bottle of Crown Royal Whiskey as though it was his most prized possession. “You look like you could use a drink.” Step aside to let Travis by, we head over to my dinette table where I move items off the chairs so we can sit and share his whiskey. Find two glasses in the cupboard, we begin our acquaintance.

Travis has that weathered look on him that shows he spends most of his time outdoors. Surprised to find he is my age. Travis is unusually tan with dusty blonde hair that is looking dried and brittle from the sun. He informs me, “I grew up in Santa Cruz, what about you?” “I was born in San Francisco but grew up in San Bruno.” “Living or lived in Foster City where I am a teacher at the high school.” “Radical man, I loved high school, I was part of my high school surf team and went to college at UC Santa Cruz. Go, Slugs!” It always confounded me that a college chose for its mascot the slimy yellow banana slug that clings in the trees along this coast. Travis said, “Always thought I could be a teacher. But never determined to finish college. Dropped out my third year to become a surf instructor.” How did this member of my generation escape the trappings of the opulent 80s?

Travis tells me, “I tried marriage once, for a brief time. Marriage was not for me; I prefer the single life.” “Do my best to avoid the life of a yuppie. I migrated up to Half Moon Bay around four years ago and never looked back.” “Hey, life as a young urban professional is not that terrible,” I tell him. “Yeah right, too much baggage for me, Travis explains.” “I spend my days working in the surf shop off Main Street and teaching surfing to tourists.” Travis explains he is a thrill seeker. “I have tried to surf the Mavericks off the point near the Naval Station north of El Granada.” Also saying, “Two nights a week I tend bar up the highway at a local hot spot in Montara called the Ocean View Saloon.”

I envy my friend and his unexamined life. We shared his whiskey and the details of our lives until the early hours of the morning. My recent friend admitted he had to be up early for work at 10 AM, liking his idea of early. Not sure if I passed out that night, or fell asleep.

Chapter 2.

Sleep until 8 AM, new for me after many years of a schedule. Crawl out of bed to make a cup of tea, wondering how my boys will do waking up without me this morning. Carla takes care of their morning needs, but I have always been there, somewhere in the background. It was strange not to have started my day with a run. Save that for later, when my head feels better. Turn my mind on the task at hand, I work at unpacking.

Around noon, I set off for my house in Foster City. It feels odd to drive back into the driveway of what had been my home just yesterday. Once inside and wondering from room to room it hits me, I will not miss the place, just my sons. My liberation is stronger than my wish to return for them. We would have separated years ago, if not for the boys. Carla was, in a word, determined. Sure, she thought marrying a Berkley graduate student gave her status and knowing at the time she saw me as a future college professor. I chased her and being infatuated by her confidence and determination, now these are two things that annoyed me the most. Carla was a planner, nothing spontaneous. She planned vacations to an art form, leaving nothing to chance. Somewhere becoming cynical and complacent, it was my passive, aggressive way of dealing with her.

Out of the driveway I jog, getting in my run just before picking up the boys at day camp. Go past the same houses, seeing a unique part of my neighbor’s daily routine. Pass the Dalton’s house on the corner, I see the tailgate of their Volvo wagon open. On the ground sits a bottle of white wine. Mrs. Dalton was a stay-at-home mom, semi-retired now that her children were out of the house. Her husband still works and travels. She just came back from the grocery store and forgot the wine after she set it on the ground. The Dalton’s seemed like affable people, although we never were what you might consider friendly. Here I go again, dwelling on my neighbor’s and their habits. Thirty minutes later into my run, I turn and set my direction for home. Pass the Dalton home again, there still sits the wine on the driveway. Pick it up and off to home. That was strange; I am the good neighbor and should have knocked on their front door, but today only disdain for this neighborhood and its complacency. When arriving at my front door, my heart is pounding harder than normal. The adrenaline rush feels good. Smile to myself as I place the bottle on the counter, Carla likes white wine.

The boys rush at me as they see me waiting on the curb to retrieve them. My youngest, Jack, is too excited at seeing me, too be confused regarding my absence this morning. Kevin is more cautious and concerned. We pile in the car and head to their home. We keep the conversation to the events of their day. Once home, I have the boys sit in the kitchen and make them peanut butter on crackers for a snack. Our conversation turns to our new family condition and trying to explain to them, I love them more than they will ever know. Hope to see them every day and explaining, “How important that I be by the ocean so I can do writing about the sea.” It sounds good at the time and they appeared to love planning visits to my away home near the beach. Kevin and Jack focus on a summer by the ocean instead of the summer when their Dad moved out of the house.

At 3:30 PM, Carla walks through the door on schedule carrying a shopping bag. She sees the white wine and stops. “Did you bring me a bottle of Chardonnay?” she asks. I beam at pleasing her.

Stay for dinner and until the boys settle in to watch TV, my normal night routine with them is winding down and they will be in bed soon. Figuring they will see me again tomorrow appears to reassure Kevin and Jack that things are not so changed. Head out for my thirty-minute drive in my trusty Jeep Cherokee, back to my sanctuary near the coast. Drive the 92 Highway, my mind wonders to Carla and where she was this afternoon. Why was Carla gone longer than it should have taken her to stop at the teacher’s mart for the few supplies she brought home?