Читать книгу South of the Pumphouse - Les Claypool - Страница 14
ОглавлениеEd dug through his ashtray as he drove down the boulevard and pulled out a fat roach. Looking at himself in the rearview mirror, he lit it and took a hit, then popped in a cassette. “Armageddon Time” by The Clash blared out of the speakers as he headed down University Avenue.
Ed loved Berkeley, but he rarely got to see it in the early light. The oldest house in the neighborhood where he grew up was built in the ’50s. He marveled at the range and diversity of Berkeley’s architecture. Pulling onto the freeway, Ed headed northbound on Interstate 80 toward Sacramento.
The passing of his father had led Ed to reflect for the past few weeks on people, places, and events that he hadn’t thought of in a long time. The funeral itself was a nonstop cavalcade of faces from his childhood. Everyone there had asked him how he was and what he was up to. Everyone was as gracious as could be, but the sight of Ed’s dark-skinned wife and child made for a few awkward moments.
Ed’s relatives were as white as they come. His paternal grandparents had migrated from Missouri during the Depression. His grandfather eventually went to work in Richmond for Standard Oil. His mom’s father was a second-generation Italian who ran a service station with his brothers on Twenty-Third Avenue in the same city. Besides one rogue uncle on his mother’s side who had a passion for Latina wives—he was on his third—no one from the family had ever brought anyone of color into the fold.
For the most part, everyone thought Tasha was charming, and she was treated with respect and interest. Ed’s grandmother was particularly affectionate. She wasn’t his real grandmother, however. His grandfather had remarried long ago to a woman fifteen years his junior, causing quite a commotion at the time. She was a short, busty lady who, though she was a Catholic, liked to speak with a Jewish-grandmother accent that she had acquired from years of watching Joan Rivers. The family called her Nana, and she was one of the most loving people Ed had ever met. Upon meeting Tasha, Nana threw her arms around her and gave her a big kiss on the lips. She insisted that Tasha sit next to her the entire ceremony while their little son Walty sat on Nana’s lap.
As Ed rolled down the freeway toward his brother’s place, he thought of the recent past and the day ahead. Seeing his brother Earl at the funeral had felt a bit stiff at first. Earl had been there with his father during his illness. He had watched a mountain of a man whither away to frailty and die. At the funeral, Ed could see the pain in his brother’s face but could also sense his relief.
Earl, on the other hand, knew that his younger brother couldn’t have endured the drawn-out and painful process of their father’s death, and he held no contempt for his absence. He could see the feeling of guilt in Ed’s eyes, and he did his best to ease his little brother’s conscience. They spoke of grand old times and common experiences, eventually agreeing to plan a fishing trip together.
It had been a long time since Ed had even thought about fishing, and as he drove onward, he was beginning to get excited. When they were boys, fishing had been a family passion, and sturgeon fishing was the ultimate experience. Ed remembered the buzz around the neighborhood when he returned home with his father, brother, and a family friend after landing his first “keeper” sturgeon. He could still see it in his mind, like some old super-8 movie footage from the ’70s.
