Wreck Of The Day

The first time I lived in California was when I was four. My father's career was with the coast guard, before he retired from it, and he was stationed on Treasure Island. We lived there for four years when he decided to put in for his retirement and move us to Rochester, New York.

But I always loved it here in California. I loved how I was able to go right outside and play with my new toys every Christmas morning, wearing a T-shirt and a light windbreaker, instead of a snowsuit.

I loved the elementary school friends I had on the base and the little tree that was planted outside my bedroom window.

I named it Norbert.

I loved when my mother took us kids into the city and when we rode the trolleys up and down the hilly streets.

It felt like this magic kingdom amongst the clouds whenever the day started with a massive fog covering the city and the bay. And I deducted I must be its princess.

But then, as I mentioned, we moved back to New York. Leaving behind a world I'd never forget and promised myself to return to one day.

And here I was, at the age of twenty-five, fulfilling that promise.

It was December 2001, nearly Christmas, and I stood at the end of Pier 39, looking out across the bay, with many shops and restaurants at my back, while I took sight of Treasure Island across the way.

The wind nipped a little at my back, but I had a thin jacket and, frankly, it didn't bother me any.

I've always had this theory that everyone has two homes. The home where you come from and were raised, obviously. But, your true home is where your heart is.

And when we moved to Rochester when I was eight, I left my heart in San Francisco.

It took me about a week of living out of my car and out of a motel, across the bridge, in Oakland before I found a small apartment to share with this grad student from whatever nearby university. My new roommate was really sweet, and I'm glad I had no problems with her, but I admittedly loved it when she wasn't home and off at school or working, because then I could just sit at the window and stare out with peace in my head.

I began my job hunt, armed with my eclectic resume and my unwavering hope. I would find a decent job that I could see myself at for at least a year because, let's be honest, more than a year and I'd go stir crazy.

Having moved so much when I was a kid, instilled the desire to always be on the move. Never stop. Keep going. On to the next destination.

I applied to work as an assistant at a local Top 40 radio station but never heard back from them, the bastards. I took a part-time job at a restaurant down the street, waitressing, but not giving up on finding something better.

And I did.

After the first of the year in 2002, I came across an ad in the Help Wanted section of the local paper. It was an ad for a 'gopher' on some photo shoot set.

Gopher? Going and getting things for a photographer and whoever? I could do that. And it paid good for just one day.

So I called, set up an interview and perhaps by the grace of God or by my charms, I got hired. And it was a great day. So great that the photographer asked if I'd want to be his assistant, given that I had a background in that.

And, fuck yeah, I said yes.

There I was, personal assistant to a respectable photographer in the City By The Bay.

Things could only get better.

Unfortunately, just the opposite happened for me.

After only two months as personal assistant, I foolishly agreed to let Hans, the photographer -- Hans isn't his real name, he just thought it made him more mysterious -- take me out for a few drinks one night after a shoot.

We hit up a nightclub where he was welcomed to the VIP section where, after the alcohol went through my system and hit me like a Mack truck, I proceeded in allowing Hans to get the better of me.

We ended up doing things in the VIP section that we could've been arrested for anywhere else on the grounds of public indecency, and then we ended up at his apartment, lying on my back, spread eagle, with him working inside of me.

And, sure, the drunk part of me thought it was a great time, but the sober half that was buried so deep in my subconscious was screaming at myself to stop. This is your boss!

The next morning, I woke up alone. He was gone and left me a note to help myself to some cereal. And that there was milk in the fridge. So, I did just that after getting dressed. I walked home that day with my mind reeling.

I knew I wasn't attracted sexually to Hans, but alcohol has a funny way of bringing out the sexual prowess in me I suppose, or making men look better than they really are.

I'm gonna settle on both.

When I got home later that evening, for I didn't go home right away, there was a message on my answering machine from Hans.

He was letting me know that he didn't think our professional chemistry was working out any more and that he was letting me go, but would give me a good recommendation for whatever job I pursued next.

The fuckwit!

I spent the coming weeks looking really hard for something close to what I was doing with Hans, but I couldn't get over how he used me and threw me away like that, that I kinda sorta fucked up some interviews.

Long story.

In April, I turned twenty-six, and my roomie, Kate, threw me a party with some of her friends. And it was then that I realized, I'd been in California four months and hadn't made any friends yet.

Damn, I was sad.

They welcomed me into their fold and introduced me to one of their male friends, a gay guy named Irwin. He was this little Phillipino guy who reminded me of a crush I had on Treasure Island when I was five. And I learned that Irwin was the same guy!

Small fucking world, huh?

Now I think I know why he never returned my affections way back when. At five years old he already liked boys.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah. The fold. So here I was welcomed into their fold with Kate, Irwin and the others, who gave me the much need boost of confidence that I could go out there and get any job I wanted.

And how can anyone not love an empowering boost like that?

So, there I was. Wondering how I could better my life yet again. Where would I go from here?

Well, I was waitressing again while I was in-between jobs but given my semi-lucky streak it was only a matter of time before something came up.

Two months later, I received a call by a photographer who knew Hans, but hated Hans, and he was interested in making Hans look like the loser, in retrospect, he was. He had been referred to me by, well, Hans and when I met with this guy -- Stewart -- he read me like an open book.

He saw my ambition and asked if I was interested in learning photography. And when I said yes, he hired me as his assistant and taught me all he knew on the side, without the funny business that followed suit after working with Hans after only so long.

The first stunt as a 'photographer' he had me join him on, was taking photographs of several bands playing in an indoor arena venue. It was two major bands, with an opening act, Jimmy Eat World. And the main acts were Blink-182 and Green Day.

All of whom I'd, of course, heard of before.

And the night of the show, when I was introduced to all the bands, it was meeting Billie Joe Armstrong that I should've realized what my eventual downfall would be.