From our perch we look down on to fingers of fog that reach into the bay and close around golden gates, stealing away the Friday-morning rush hour traffic from our view. On the hill opposite our perch is the sharp skyline of downtown San Francisco. The city rises out of the gray, like a series of beats on a heart monitor, proof, along with a cold metallic line of cars inching across the bridge below, that there is indeed life within this foggy existence.
The breeze whips across the hillside from the water below. I button the top of my jacket, stuff both hands into my pockets and roll my shoulders forward to try to hold in some bit of warmth. What's that saying about summers in San Francisco, I mumble under the rim of my jacket. I can't help but be reminded in this moment of the Austin summer awaiting me when I return home in a couple days.
I turn back to the two figures standing just below on the hillside. My gaze lingers on the smaller form of my son. He leans into the larger form that is his grandpa, Pappi as he calls him, and points to something out on the bay. Pappi holds him close with one arm while he paints stories in mid air with the other. The wind drowns out their words and I am for a moment eight years old again, at the ball park for the very first time, his arm around me like it is around my son now, while he tells stories of ballplayers that played the game before there was color, in black and white - legends he calls them. But then the moment is gone. There are other moments though... I am nine years old again, in a farmhouse, and there are bruises, and words, but tears are not allowed. And then at eleven, in a car, with cigarette burns, more words, but never tears.
I shake my head and squint in the face of the wind, in the face of such colorless moments, forever more replayed in black and white. My son turns back over his shoulder to me and smiles. His smile is worn only on his mouth. His eyes lack the sparkle of a smile born naturally in the moment. They betray the same longing, the same sadness that I also feel when our time together is so short.
"Dad, come look." He says above the wind. "Come look with me and Pappi, Dad." He waives to me, his mouth still smiling.
"Ok, tiger." I say. And I pick my way down the slope until I stand beside them, one arm wrapped around my son's shoulders, my hand resting on the arm of my father. My father offers a cautious squeeze and I swallow, smile and squeeze him back. He looks worn. His hair is gray and is matched by his goatee. There are deep wrinkles lining his cheeks below his eyes. And he squints, as though merely focusing ahead has become a strain.
"What are we looking at?" I say to my son. And I turn back out toward the foggy bay.
"I'm gonna be a Coast Guard Captain, Dad!" He says. He points and I see a shadow of it on the horizon.
"Oh yeah?" I say to him.
"Yeah." He says. "Daddy-Steve says I can be anything I want."
My father looks over the top of the boy's head at me with a question on his face. I raise my eyebrows.
"Steve is Jen's new husband." I say.
"Daddy-Steve?" He echoes softly.
"Yep. She's got him calling me, Daddy-Craig and Steve, Daddy-Steve." I say.
"Well Daddy-Steve is right." I say to my son. "If you want to captain that Coast Guard boat out there someday, then you will do just that."
"You can create whatever reality, whatever paradigm, that you want, Son." I add. "Don't ever let anyone tell you what you are or what you can be."
"That's up to you." I say. I look at him as he looks out at the boat on the bay. Then I look up at his Pappi, who's eyes are still squinting, still straining. Any blood beginning to rise as I talk to my son now slips below the surface, below the thick San Francisco fog.
"Did you know that Pappi grew up just over there?" I point across the bay, past the bridge.
"A long, long time ago." My father says. My son nods and looks up at him.
"Pappi grew up on the streets of San Francisco." I say. "He was just a little bit older than you. And he had to find food and a place to sleep every day. All by himself." I say.
"Really, Pappi?" He says. "You were all by yourself?"
"That's right." My father says.
"What was it like?" My son asks.
"It was a hard life." He says. "I had to work hard every day, down at the wharf, for any fisherman that would pay me."
"Cool!" Says my son, still looking up at him, eyes wide. My father puts his hand on his head and ruffles his hair.
"You think so, huh." He says.
I watch them for a moment and then I turn back toward the horizon. The fog has lifted just a little. The city lies sprawled out beyond the mouth of the Golden Gate. I can't help but picture my father out there on those streets somewhere, in torn pants, a grease stained jacket and a paper boy hat pulled down over his ears. I picture him in black and white. I picture him as my son. I picture him dragging fathoms of net onto the dock. I picture him wrapped in a soiled blanket, crouching beneath a China Town stairwell with a roll of bread, maybe a piece of cheese too. And as I picture him, as my son, on those streets, in black in white, I feel my blood slipping down deeper below the blanket of fog, deeper into the cold waters of the bay.
And then I picture him, years later. as he returns to this place. I picture him walking the streets in his brown slacks, his penny loafers, his leather driving gloves to keep his hands warm. I picture him walking fisherman's wharf with a stranger, a woman, on his arm. I picture her laughing and smiling as she leans into him. I picture him smiling too. I picture his smile is one born in the moment, not worn on his mouth alone but also in his eyes. I picture them enjoying a cappuccino on a hotel balcony overlooking the city. I picture them dining by candlelight. I picture them in color.
I am still squinting through the fog at the city when my son breaks the silence again.
"Dad, can we live in San Francisco?" He asks. "Can we live here together?" I smile at him with my mouth. My eyes betray me, I am sure of it. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. I don't let go for a long time.
"Someday." I say.
"You don't want to live in this place." My father says to him, to us both.
"Why not, Pappi?" My son asks.
"Nothing good ever comes of this place." My son looks at me. His brow is furrowed. His lips are pursed. I think he might ask more but then his face relaxes. My son sees something on my face, something in my eyes, my brow, something on my lips... He sees his Pappi as a boy on the streets of the city. He sees his Pappi with a strange woman. He sees his Pappi alone. He sees what I see and he understands that it is enough.
"What do you say we go see a ballgame this afternoon." I say to him, to them both. "We can get hot dogs and sodas and sit down on the third base line. And maybe Pappi will even tell you about the legends that used to play here, a long time ago."
"What do you think?" I say.
"Yeah!" Yells my son.
"Sounds like a good time to me." Says my father.
And so the three of us pick ourselves up and begin to make our way down the slope toward the car. The fog cover continues to burn off the bay below us as we walk and the sun begins to paint the city, the Golden Gate and the bay in the brilliant colors of summer. It is a perfect day for a baseball game with my son, and his Pappi.
