Johnny was waiting by the park.
He'd already pushed the dead leaves into neat piles on the sidewalk, resting against the rake under the trees. I could tell he needed to talk. The sun sent dapples of light across the ground, twinkling over our heads as the wind blew the shadows. He looked ready for something, but I wasn't sure what. As I approached he looked at my dog.
"So, are you the owner? The walker? The roommate?" He sees a lot of folks like me, I guess.
It wasn't a bad one as far as opening lines go. I planted my feet and smiled.
Johnny was easy to talk with. His weathered face shone grandfatherly and kind, and his greying curls reminded me of someone I knew.
With his voice he painted pictures for me. The houses around us faded away, replaced by a quieter time of dignity and grace. Suddenly we were in the old San Francisco with few structures. Rainbow Edwardians were no longer the magpie dens of slick millionaires. The painted ladies not jostled with bungalows like slatterns on the Muni. Rich green fields, slopes bursting with trees, and we were breathing the wind from the Bay. This was the San Francisco of his grandfather's time.
I'll never know if his stories were true but I was swept clean away by his message. His roots are etched deep into the hills as firmly as chaparral in the sunny south. He told me many things, not only the local histories of the Upper Market but of his own journey to Vietnam and, now, to Reno and back.
We all have a tale to tell, but truth or delusion, it matters little. They are real to those who listen. They are real enough to make unforgettable mornings of perfect strangers.
Johnny didn't need anything from me but a patient ear. I got the better end of the deal, by far.
