The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (8 page)

Then
the panic struck America in ’93. Banks failed, and capital dried up in a
financial drought the like of which no one had see in a decade. Businesses
collapsed. Angry gangs of unemployed men roamed towns and cities with sticks
and knives and guns. Needless to say, property values plummeted, especially in
the West where the economy was still so fragile.

By
1895, the eminent Jonathan D. Watkins found himself holding twelve million
dollars of his own outstanding debt, debtors who could not or would not make
payments, and property securing all that debt worth next to nothing.

What
could he do? Father declared bankruptcy and recalled his son from Europe. How
well Daniel remembered the telegram. What excitement to receive a telegram,
quite the rage. Brand-new telegraph wires looped all over the streets of Paris.

DANIEL STOP WE’RE
DONE STOP

COME HOME AT ONCE
STOP FATHER

MOTHER
NEEDS YOU STOP

Daniel
hadn’t understood the full import of the message till he reluctantly returned
home, dragging a bag filled with scandalously decadent paintings and four
bottles of Pernod Fils.
We’re done?
What in hell did that mean? That Father
had decided upon a new strategy? A more lucrative way to become a millionaire
besides lending the money of strangers to other strangers?

No.
Jonathan D. Watkins had become a failure, just as surely as the old cowboy or
the porter with his gold teeth. Bankruptcy was, to Daniel, as evil as moral
turpitude and as far-reaching as an extramarital indiscretion. Sins of the
father? Oh, yes. Daniel was doomed.

He
kneads his brow. Refreshment. Indeed, sir, refreshment is just the thing he
needs.

He
quickens his pace along the waterfront. Sailors stare at him, poke each other
in the ribs, guffaw, or mutter half-heard obscenities. Daniel tips his bowler,
keeping his spine ramrod straight. He’s got the accoutrements any gentlemen
should possess when sojourning through the West--a Remington double-barreled
derringer stuck in his waistband and a jumbo Congress knife with a two-inch
blade. He’s strolled among dives and joints before. He can walk into any
accursed place he cares to.

The
sound of merriment loudens.

He
spies a tiny crude building of unfinished wood with two plain windows and a
strictly functional front door. A converted bunkhouse, perhaps, where oyster
fishermen once slept. The odor of many a previous drunk teases his olfactory
senses. Beneath the eaves, emblazoned in red letters across the weathered
boards, he reads:

HEINOLD’S

FIRST
AND LAST CHANCE SALOON

Daniel
steps into the smoky caucus. A potbellied stove glows red-hot in one corner. An
assortment of rickety chairs and tables, none of a matching set, are jammed
onto the sawdusted floor, together with retired packing barrels and tumbledown
stools. Men sit on these or stand at the bar, weaving on their feet. Ropes and
buoys are slung on the planked walls, and brass lanterns thick with the patina
of heavy salt air.

A
wizened beerslinger stands behind the bar, sucking on a stogie. Deep lines
crease his tanned forehead made high and wide by his receding hairline.
Elephantine ears protrude from his head as if Nature had specially equipped him
to better hear each customer’s request over the din of those previously served.

“Johnny,
hey Johnny,” calls out one of the patrons. “Got a’ aspirin?”

“Back
yerself up to the stove an’ you’ll get yerself an ass burn,” the beerslinger
says.

“How
much?” Daniel says.

“A
nickel for the beer, a deener for the whiskey,” says the beerslinger. “an’
nothin’ for the ass burn.”

Beer
is peasant’s fare, a heavy sour taste Daniel has never much cared for. But he
finds this beer fruity and clean and thick with malt. The beer chases a shot of
whiskey down his parched throat just fine and settles his stomach. The whiskey
is smooth and mellow, and eases the ache in his head admirably.

Daniel
throws coins on the bar and looks for a place to sit. A vacant stool set before
a barrel looks satisfactory except for the table crowded with rowdies seated
directly beside it. Two men and a tawdry lady barge in the front door. Daniel
seizes his opportunity. The stool it must be.

“Say
there, little brother, can you tell me what is a brick?” says a huge rowdy at
the table. He sports an enormous mustache, a bush of a beard, and long, wild
yellow hair beneath a Stetson hat. A cape of mangy fur that looks and stinks
like bearskin is draped around the shoulders of his bright blue Prince Albert
coat.

“What
is a brick?” Daniel says, playing along.

“Why,
there are gold bricks and silver bricks and bricks made without straw. There
are bricks to be hurled at mad dogs. Ergo, bricks!” The rowdy slaps his suede
chaps. One trouser leg is tucked into a fancy-stitched cowboy boot. The other leg
isn’t. He toasts Daniel and triumphantly tosses a shot of whiskey down his
throat, pleased at his own pronouncement.

“Joaquin,
you are living proof that American poets have yet to master the English
language,” says his gaunt companion. The companion smiles dreamily, sipping his
beer. He wears a sea captain’s cap over his mop of dark curls, though from his
pale aristocratic face, pale elegant hands, and foppish bowtie, he is clearly
no sailor. “Sir, may I introduce you to the great Californian poet, Joaquin Miller.
And a very fine poet he would be too, if only he could make a lick of sense.”

“Ergo,
bricks,” Daniel says. “Actually, sir, I think I am drunk enough to understand
Mr. Miller. Bricks made of stardust, bricks made of wormwood, bricks to be
juggled by a beautiful lady. Ergo, bricks!”

“Bravo!
Another boilermaker for the young gentleman,” roars Joaquin Miller. “And may I
introduce George Sterling, who might one day amount to a great Californian
writer if only he could give up carousing among the redwoods long enough to
write something. Carousing, I might add, with fair maidens clad in togas! Do
you comprehend what a toga is? A drapery in the Greek style, under which the
maidens in question wear nothing but their. . . .”

“Gifts
from God,” interjects George Sterling. His gaunt face remains expressionless,
but his eyes twinkle at Daniel. “I myself have been known to wear a toga, sir.”

“To
togas,” says Daniel, toasting Mr. Sterling with his boilermaker.

“Try
an alligator pear, sir,” says the third member of their party. He offers Daniel
a plate of thin slices of a pale green fruit sprinkled with salt and pepper.
He’s a handsome blond fellow dressed like a dandy in the height of European
fashion--a fitted burgundy topcoat, a canary yellow waistcoat, and spats.
Spats! “The greasers call them avocados. You must try a dish called guacamole
at Luna’s in North Beach.” He leans forward confidentially. “You’ve just come
from the Continent, I take it?”

“Indeed,
I have, sir,” Daniel says, trying the green fruit, which has a strange oily
taste and is not sweet at all. “Is it so obvious?”

“Verily,
Frank has been across the pond and back again himself, is that not so, Frank?”
says Joaquin Miller.

“Name’s
Frank Norris,” says the blond fellow and shakes Daniel’s hand. “Truthfully, I
haven’t been to Paris since college. Haven’t the time. The novels must come
first.”

“By
God, sir, you write novels?”

“Oh,
certainly. The first book is called
Blix
. A romance, with tequila. Got
another in mind, going to call it
McTeague
. A tragic one, that. Nasty fellow
beats his pretty wife to death.”

Everyone
guffaws, and Daniel is enchanted. Marvelous Californ’! Old cowboys and failed
prospectors and Holy Rollers; these he expected. But poets and novelists?
Dreamers like himself? Oh, hand of destiny! That merciless hand does not
oppress him now. Yes, a great fate awaits him, live or die. He raises his
glass. “To the First and Last Chance Saloon!”

“To
our dear, dear watering hole.” Joaquin Miller wipes a tear from his eye.

“To
the Fourth of July!”

“To
Johnny Heinold!”

“Hear,
hear!”

The
beerslinger grins and lights another stogie.

Now
a rough-looking kid charges in. Startlingly handsome, he’s got a broad sunburnt
face and hands to match. He finds a spare barrel and rolls it over to the
table, nodding to the assembled company and fetching himself a beer.

Daniel
nods to the newcomer and proclaims to his new friends, “I am Daniel J. Watkins
of Saint Louis, London, and Paris, and I’m looking for lodging in San
Francisco. Could anyone recommend a place?”

“Try
the Palace Hotel,” says the rough kid sarcastically. His quick eyes flick over
Daniel’s suit. Filthy fisherman’s togs, that’s what the kid is wearing. His
thick curly brown hair spills over his ears to his collar. “That’s the dive for
you, mister.”

Daniel
has heard of the Palace Hotel, the first luxury resort on the West Coast. They
say the Palace boasts eight hundred rooms and rivals the finest hotels in New
York or Paris.

“Can’t
afford that,” Daniel says mildly, sensing the kid’s antagonism. He offers the
kid a ciggie, which the kid seizes and lights. No, he cannot afford such
luxury. Not anymore.

“Yeah,
I see,” says the kid. “Only a rich capitalist can afford a fancy joint like the
Palace. I guess you’re no rich capitalist. Still, I guess you’re no tramp,
either, mister.”

“Leave
him alone, Jackie,” says Frank Norris. “He’s all right.”

“Yeah?”
says the kid, eyeing Daniel’s bowler. “When the revolution comes, the property-owning
class will be stamped out. Stamped out, I say, by the working classes. The working
classes are the vanguard of the future. Without ‘em, the rich capitalists
couldn’t survive. And with ‘em, the rich capitalists won’t survive. Get me,
mister? Because the working classes will have a revolution. Oh, yessir, it
won’t be long. Won’t be long at all before the revolution comes. Even as we
speak, the United States of America is embroiled in a class struggle between
those with property and those who labor in the service of those with property.
A class struggle, and there’s no denying it. What do you say to that, mister?”

For
once in his life, Daniel doesn’t know what to say. He has certainly heard such
rabble-rousing in plenty of Paris cafés.

“I
say drink your beer, Jack,” says Joaquin Miller. “Studying books all day has fevered
your poor young brain.”

“Even
as we speak, mister,” the kid says, continuing to fix Daniel with a baleful
stare as he gulps his beer.

“Only
time will tell,” says George Sterling. “This fiery young fellow is Jack London,
Mr. Watkins. Jackie’s studying at the University of California over yonder in
that cow pasture we call Berkeley. He may amount to some kind of writer one
day, don’t you think, Frank?”

“If
he doesn’t get thrown in the calaboose first,” Frank Norris says.

“I
fear no jail,” Jack London says contemptuously. “I’ve seen the inside of plenty
of jails.”

“What
sort of lodgings are you looking for, Mr. Watkins?” Joaquin Miller says. “You a
churchgoin’ man?”

“Hardly,”
Daniel says, thankful to be off the subject of revolution.

“Ah.
You’re wanting a quiet sort of place to rest your weary head?”

“Mr.
Miller, I have journeyed many miles from Saint Louis, which is as deadly quiet
a place as you can imagine.”

“Ah
ha. You like the theater, then? The opera, perhaps? The Tivoli is the place for
you.”

“The
opera is all right,” Daniel says. “I can take it or leave it.”

“Leave
the opera to the dogs,” Jack London advises.

“What’s
your preference, then, Mr. Watkins?”

Daniel
considers the question. “Sir, I have spent many months imbibing the Green Fairy
at La Nouvelle-Athenes while whores danced the cancan and poets as fine as
yourselves labored to express their desire to achieve ecstasy or die. I suppose
you could say I’m lonely.”

The
company guffaws. Jack London snorts, but Joaquin Miller slaps Daniel on the
back.

“Then
you must try Number Two Sixty-three Dupont Street, Mr. Watkins. Tell the lady
there, a fine proprietress name of Miss Jessie Malone, that Joaquin Miller sent
you. You’ll be in the thick of things, Mr. Watkins. The very thick of things, I
assure you.”

“Sir,
sir!” The stringy porter pokes his head in the door of the First and Last
Chance Saloon. “The ferry to San Francisco, sir. She’s about to depart. Hurry!”

“Thanks!”
Daniel says to his new friends, much refreshed by the boilermakers. “By the
way,” he points to the sign above Johnny Heinold’s head. “Last Chance for
what?”

“Last
chance for a taste if you’re going to Alameda,” Frank Norris says, pointing
south. “They’re dry as a bone over there.”

“And
the First Chance?”

“Why,
if you’re going to San Francisco, this is your first chance to get pickled,
dipsy, pie-eyed, dead blue, and, dare I say it, loaded, Mr. Watkins,” shouts
Joaquin Miller. “Verily, and lackaday, tell her Joaquin sent you, sir!”