“Holy shit,” he said, spinning around and pulling off his earphones. “The Bay Bridge collapsed.”
Someone farther up the line confirmed it. “The Bay Bridge collapsed.”
That’s when it got serious. The crowd became quiet, and I’m sure most were thinking what I was thinking: there would be no game this night and what was the fastest way out of the concrete mausoleum threatening to squash us? The newscaster on the TV continued to mime. Pictures of the bridge appeared over his right shoulder. The bridge had not completely collapsed, but a section of the upper span had collapsed, and a car dangled precariously close to the edge.
The guy with the earphones issued another report. “There are fires in the Marina District. They’re saying a lot of homes have collapsed, and there are gas leaks. They’re evacuating.”
Looking north, I saw plumes of black smoke rising and hovering in the stale, stagnant air. The guy with the radio began to voice reports of more damage throughout the stadium and the city. The vendors behind the concession stands closed the rolling metal screens. Beer sales had been suspended.
Ernie looked at me and said what we both knew. “I have to get home.”
With the electricity out, the escalators were not working. We took the stadium stairs two at a time, twisting and weaving, trying to beat the logjam that would surely ensue on the lone exit road from the ballpark. Others in the stadium had made the same decision, and now it was a footrace to the parking lot. I was no match for Ernie under normal circumstances, but with the gauze on the backs of my legs tugging and pulling with each step, rubbing the welts raw, I was even slower. I could feel Ernie’s urgency, his primal instinct to protect his wife and kids, and so I pushed through the pain.
Inside Ernie’s Mercedes I tuned the radio dial in search of news as Ernie wove between cars. The mayor had ordered bars throughout the city closed. Police officers had been called to service, and the governor was calling for the National Guard. Many parts of the city were without electricity. Phone service had either also been severed or the system was so overwhelmed you could not place calls. The black clouds to the north had grown and darkened in color. They looked like mushroom clouds from a dropped bomb. The City by the Bay was burning.
An hour later, when Ernie finally pulled into his driveway, Michelle raced out the front door with tears of worry streaming down her cheeks. Ernie barely got out of the car before she wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug. The boys followed, each grabbing one of their father’s legs, holding him tight, looking scared.
I stood alone.
5
1975
San Mateo, California
My senior year in high school, Mr. Shubb named me editor of the Friar newspaper. I’d like to tell you this was a great honor, but in truth no one else wanted the job. Being editor in chief was a lot of work, and it necessitated that I give up the sports beat, which allowed me to go to Ernie’s games as a spectator and sit in a raucous student section where most of my classmates were so drunk a lit match would have caused an explosion. On one of those Friday nights, as I was leaving the journalism trailer, I ran into Michael Lark, the middle linebacker of the football team.
“Where are you going, Hell?”
I don’t think Lark had ever spoken ten words to me when I didn’t have a notepad and pen in hand, but that was true of many of the jocks. “I was going to get a sandwich and go to the game,” I said.
“Fuck that,” Lark said. “You’re going to Vista Point with me.”
Vista Point was a stop along the freeway with views overlooking Crystal Springs Reservoir and secluded enough that many in the cheering section went there to drink before just about every school function. Ernie refused to put a drop of alcohol into his well-sculpted and smooth-running body, and for three years I had followed his lead when he dragged me to parties, dances, and sporting events. I’d never been to Vista Point, though I was curious as hell to see it for myself. I didn’t even care about Lark’s motive, though that soon crystallized. Lark explained that he’d lost his driving privileges and had been serving detention, what Saint Joe’s called “jug,” and he had missed his ride to Vista Point. Okay, so I was his chauffeur, and at least for one night I was his best friend. I couldn’t go anywhere without him handing me a beer, or a shot from some bottle, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. The first beer made it easier to say yes to a second, and next thing I knew he and I were in a beer-chugging contest, and Lark was shouting to anyone who would listen that I was “all right for a red-eyed little bastard.”