A Warm California Fantasy

Celia woke to someone boiling an egg in the kitchen.

The house had six rooms, three floors, and more people than either number could support. Its walls held the smells of coffee, damp wool, hair oil, and cigarette smoke. A mattress filled the landing outside the upstairs bathroom. Two boys slept behind a curtain in the dining room. Celia shared the back bedroom with a student who had gone to bed after midnight and now breathed through her mouth.

She dressed quietly in a brown skirt, blouse, and the cardigan she kept for San Francisco mornings. July did not mean warmth here. Fog had moved inland during the night, and the window glass was cold.

On the stairs, Ruth Kaplan held the banister.

— Tell your friends to move their shoes, Ruth said. Someone will break a neck.

— They aren’t my friends.

— You have the room with them.

— That is not the same thing.

Ruth looked over her glasses. She was fifty-two, a longtime tenant, and the only person in the house with a proper winter coat. “A distinction invented by people who do not pay the rent.”

From the kitchen doorway, a thin young man in a wool cap called, “Celia, hear of a room opening anywhere?”

— No.

— You know everybody.

— I work in a clothing shop. That is not the same as knowing everybody.

He smiled without humor. “It is this month.”

Celia had no answer. Her room depended on the wages she earned at Mnasidika. Her wages depended on arriving on time, making clean alterations, and surviving the summer crowds. If she lost the room, she could not afford another one alone. If she lost the job, she would join the people asking strangers about empty mattresses.

Haight Street was already awake. A woman in a housecoat carried groceries past two boys on the curb. A delivery truck blocked half the road. Young people moved in groups or alone, some in altered jeans and boots, others in sandals, thin dresses, or ordinary shirts from ordinary stores. Beads and bells hung from several necks. A girl in a long patterned skirt was shivering.

The neighborhood was still full of apartments, hardware shops, cafés, laundries, boutiques, and old residents running errands. It was also a destination. Since the Human Be-In in January, and after months of newspaper, music, and television attention, people had come from everywhere to see what the Haight was supposed to be. Everyone agreed that tens of thousands would pass through that summer.

At Haight and Ashbury, a sightseeing group stood beside a parked bus. A man lifted his camera toward three young women on a stoop.

— Look natural, he told them.

One woman raised her middle finger. The tourists laughed.

Across the street, a police officer watched with his hands on his belt. He did not stop anyone. He did not need to. His presence made a boy sleeping against a wall sit up.

A girl stepped into Celia’s path.

— Excuse me. Is the park this way?

She was about nineteen, perhaps younger. Her blond hair was tied with a blue ribbon. She wore a pale cotton dress and carried a small canvas bag. Her arms were bare, and she had no coat.

— The Panhandle is that way, Celia said. Follow Haight, then cut north.

— The park with the music?

— Sometimes there is music.

— And people let you stay there?

— People do many things. Staying there all night is not something I recommend.

The girl glanced toward the houses above the shops. “I thought there were places. Communes.”

— There are places. They are full.

— Full of what?

— People.

The girl seemed to think this was a joke. Celia did not smile.

— I’m June.

— Celia.

— Are you going to the park?

— I’m going to work.

June followed her for half a block. “I came from Oregon. My friend said San Francisco was open. Nobody asking where you came from or what you believe.”

— Your friend lives here?

— She was supposed to meet me.

— Supposed to?

June tightened her grip on the bag. “She didn’t.”

Celia stopped outside Mnasidika at 1510 Haight Street. The window displayed altered denim, embroidered shirts, sandals, and bells. A paper flower sat beside a price card.

— You can ask around for your friend, Celia said. There are coffeehouses. The Drogstore stays open all night. But don’t sleep in a doorway because someone tells you the Haight takes care of its own.

June flushed. “I didn’t say I was stupid.”

— I didn’t say you were.

— You talk like my father.

— Then he must have been occasionally correct.

That earned a reluctant smile. Celia opened the door, and the bell rang.

Peggy Caserta stood behind the counter in a dark dress and silver earrings. She had opened Mnasidika in 1965, when the neighborhood’s clothing business was smaller. Her sharp eyes made every garment seem to have disappointed her.

— You’re three minutes late, Peggy said.

— The street was blocked.

— The street is always blocked now.

She handed Celia a pair of jeans with a badly resewn leg. “Fix the hem. Then put the new denim out front. Tourists are asking for the patched pair in the window.”

— They want the patched pair?

— They want to look as if they found it.

Celia carried the jeans to the worktable. The shop was filled with a life meant to look unplanned: imported fabrics, beads, bells, paisley cloth, leather belts, and handmade-looking shirts. Every piece had been selected, altered, priced, and placed beneath good light.

A young man asked if a shirt was “authentic.”

Peggy said, “It was authentic at nine this morning. Now it is twelve dollars.”

The customer laughed and bought it.

By ten, the shop was crowded. A woman from Los Angeles wanted a maxi dress but asked Peggy to make it look less expensive. Two college boys examined boots. A couple from Ohio photographed each other beside the flower display.

June appeared at the door. She still had no coat. Wind had reddened her hands.

— Do you need a seamstress? she asked Peggy.

Peggy looked at her dress. “We need people who can sew.”

— I can sew.

— Then bring references.

— I just got here.

— Then you have time to get them.

June looked at Celia. “You said people helped.”

— I said there were places to ask.

— I need a job now. Or a coat. Anything.

Celia went to the back rack. A green wool sweater hung there with a torn cuff. It was not for sale. Peggy had set it aside for repair, though it might never be worth the labor.

— Peggy—

— No.

— You haven’t heard what I was going to say.

— I have heard every version this week.

June’s expression hardened. “I’m not asking for charity.”

Peggy came around the counter. Her voice softened, but her answer did not. “This shop is not a Free Store. I pay rent, cloth, and her.” She nodded toward Celia. “If I give away the stock, none of us has a business by Friday.”

— Then what is this place? June asked.

— A clothing shop.

The words landed harder than Celia expected.

Peggy picked up the damaged jeans. “Come back this afternoon. If you can sew a straight seam and someone can vouch for you, I may have paid work. Not much. But work.”

June looked at the priced garments, then at her thin dress. “So I can belong if I have money.”

— No, Celia said. You can buy clothes if you have money.

— That sounds like the same thing.

Outside, a bus groaned past, carrying people toward the park and away from it.

June took the directions Celia had written on a scrap of paper. “I’ll find the Panhandle.”

— Stay near other people, Celia said. Not just the loudest people.

June left. The bell rang again.

Celia watched her disappear into the crowd. Beside the cash register, the paper flower trembled in the draft. It was bright, cheap, and carefully made to look careless.

Peggy returned to the jeans. “If you keep bringing strangers in here, you’ll have to start charging admission.”

Celia threaded her needle.

— How much?

Peggy almost smiled. “For you? Full price.”