The cold indifference became real

By Daryl Glen

Some years ago, after I left college and was temporarily unemployed, I lived in a San Francisco apartment, not far from Union Square, with an older man named Alan who suffered from Parkinson's disease. Each morning we would meet a friend of his at the coffee shop around the corner from his building, then head on down to the public library, Alan's "office," where we would read the paper and converse with a group of disenfranchised city dwellers for an hour or so.

After that, I would accompany Alan to the doctor or go shopping with him or just run and get his sodas from the local drugstore. Sometimes we would even traverse the city in search of lost souls and invite them over to his apartment for a bowl of soup or a shower, or simply give them a dollar or two for a cup of coffee or a slice of pizza. At the time it all seemed very romantic and somehow gratifying. I couldn't help but note that Alan's apartment was number 52, which in the I Ching, the Chinese system of numerology, is the hexagram for "keeping still"--which represents the mountain, or stability. (Carl Jung , I had learned previously, while studying at UC-Berkeley, would have called such a meaningful coincidence "synchronicity.")

Eventually a young man named Frank appeared on the scene. Frank was 20 or 21 and had been cast out by his family in Texas, who had insisted on dealing with what seemed to me to be his perfectly ordinary coming-of-age crisis by having him institutionalized.

Angelic-looking and unsophisticated, Frank lived for a while with Alan, whom he called Grandpa. Eventually he moved to a series of hotels, where he was watched over by a friend of Alan's named Geoff.

Frank was a handful, and on more than one occasion Geoff said, "I've had it up to here with that kid," although he never abandoned him. All I really learned about Frank was that he was a confirmed nudist who believed that if everybody went around sans vestments the world would be a better place. I laughed at his philosophy at the time, although years later, when I moved to Los Gatos, I received some literature from the Lupin Naturist Club in the hills above town, which more or less echoed Frank's philosophy. I couldn't help but smile at the irony.

The last time I visited San Francisco I was using the restroom at Ghirardelli Square, across the street from Aquatic Park, where I had spent many an afternoon listening to African drums or languidly watching the cruise vessels on the bay with Alan, when who should appear but Alan himself. I went to the bait shop on the corner and bought him a Diet Pepsi, as I had done innumerable times in the past, after which we sat on the concrete steps leading down to the bay and shared old memories.

"We had some good times," he said.

"Yes," I agreed, although it seemed like a long time ago.

I assured him that I was doing all right, and then I thought to ask about Frank.

"Frank committed suicide," he said, matter of factly. "He jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. He left a note in Geoff's apartment saying, 'By the time you read this, I'll be dead'--and he was."

I was momentarily stunned, the tragedies I have recently seen in the media suddenly hitting a somber home. I thought of Lupin. Would that I had encountered Frank, I said to myself. Perhaps I could have coaxed him out of the concrete jungle and into what surely would have been a utopia for him in the Santa Cruz Mountains. But, of course, I hadn't.

He had become another casualty of an indifferent family or an indifferent world or whatever. In his 20s, his whole life ahead of him--all the cliches came to mind.

The difference was that this time I had known him--and I understood.

---

Daryl Glen is a Los Gatos resident.

---

Police Report

The American love affair with the SUV

Obituaries

Picture From the Past

Sports Briefs

Los Gatos earns second football victory of season

LG frosh-soph team defeats Leigh

Los Gatos cross-country team could continue to dominate