The English Major by Jim Harrison

Author:Jim Harrison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2008-03-13T16:00:00+00:00

CALIFORNIA III

I reached Sausalito at 4:00 p.m. figuring that I’d call Robert and then have a quick hamburger because Robert never has dinner until eight in the evening by which time I’d be half-batty with hunger. In between stints of driving I had been walking beaches and had forgotten lunch within the thrall of the sea. My longest hike had been at Pt. Reyes where I had watched a group of evidently young seals keeping an eye on me. I had dozed against a boulder during which they had approached quite close. I said, “Hello” softly wondering if seal thinking and dreaming wouldn’t be totally absorbed in the oceanic rhythms I found to be so soothing. I had read that sharks eat seals but that wouldn’t be all that bad compared to a prolonged stay in an oncology ward.

I had just pulled off the freeway in Sausalito and was near the former home of my boyhood hero Jack London when Ron died. Ron is the private name of my thirteen year old Ford Taurus with just short of two hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. The actual Ron was a high school friend who died when his tractor (a John Deere) tipped over backwards on top of him while pulling a stump. Ron was impetuous and had a heavy foot on the gas. He couldn’t wait to graduate from high school and join the Marines. He wanted to go to Viet Nam and fight for our “freedom.” By naming my Taurus after Ron I was honoring his hopelessly swaggering memory. At his funeral at the Methodist Church Ron’s uncle, also named Ron and an ex-Marine said that Ron would have made a great Marine whatever that might mean.

Anyway, I coasted into a parking lot with a smoking Ron. Luckily a Mexican fellow was sitting on a phone truck drinking coffee and trotted over with a fire extinguisher. When I popped the hood the smoke billowed out. I had blown a head gasket covering the whole engine with oil. The wiring had begun to burn and the Mexican hosed the engine down with foam before the flames could reach the carburetor which would have started a gas fire.

“Your car is shitcanned,” the Mexican said. There was the name “Fred” on his shirt pocket.

“Thanks, Fred. I think my car has gone to heaven.”

He laughed and walked back to his truck. This Fred made me think of Vivian’s Fred but only for moments. I called Robert with the bad news and he said, “Good riddance” to Ron’s demise, and then told me to walk a few blocks down the street to the No Name Bar. Robert had a scheduled conference call with “Glitzville” and would send someone to pick me up.

At the bar I had a whiskey and a wonderful ham and swiss sandwich. One thing that has gone wrong in America is the general acceptance of bad ham. The bartender wasn’t busy and we talked about Jack London. He was curious about my strange accent and then said Jack London was still real popular in Russia.

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