I was driving through Berkeley after dumping the overflow of our storage bin at the Goodwill store on San Pablo for a tax deduction.

In the pile were these four old pillows. I looked at them after I tossed them into the car. Should I toss them? What if we had company? Maybe we could cover them in a pleasingly colorful fabric and throw them about our already cluttered living room. I considered these options for nearly 10 seconds before I decided they were out the door never to return.

Goodwill wouldn’t take the pillows.

I figured that a traveler on Telegraph might rest his head on these seemingly worthless Memory Foams.

I found a parking place in front of Bongo Burger—something so rare I thought it might be an omen.

I scouted the street people to see who looked the most deserving and who I could talk to without having to breathe through my mouth.

I saw a couple of kids at Telegraph and Dwight, sitting on the sidewalk outside Shakespeare & Co. Books. They looked about 17 or 18, maybe 20 at most—but when you’ve got your “Sosh’ Security” and your Barcalounger, anyone not grayed-out is a kid.

With angelic faces. He had dirty blond hair, which was greasy and stringy, sort of what one would expect given the living arrangements. She had long black hair, very shiny, obviously recently shampooed, probably in the restroom sink of Caffe Mediterraneum. She was wearing a pair of shorts and a blouse, which showed that she was about six months pregnant.

These two waifs and their yellow Labrador smiled up at me from their sidewalk blanket encampment. Radiant, blissful smiles. About their baby-to-come? About their seeming freedom? From ingesting some happy-making substance?

I asked, “Could you kids use a couple of pillows?”

It was Christmas in their eyes. They jumped up with noises of gratitude.

We walked around the corner to the car. I opened with the obvious, “So, when are you due?” (My pregnant sister gets so tired of the question that she actually made a chic little name tag, updated monthly: “5 months along. Due late May. Yes, a Gemini; no, not twins.”)

The girl’s eyes sparked as if she’d never been asked before and was touched that I’d inquired. She had that sort of practiced diction and resonant voice that children of privilege absorb by osmosis, if not in finishing school. (Were there were still “finishing schools for young ladies?” Do they still teach how to use your charms to win the argument and floral arrangements?)

I asked the usual: Where were they from? (Seattle) What were their names? (Andrea and Bill) What would they name the baby? (Courtney or Kurt—of course) I was hip enough to recognize the names: that crazy blonde girl who was married to the kid that killed himself that was in that band, what’s-its-name. Courtney and Kurt. Typical baby names these days. (Unless, of course, she had boy-girl twins.)

Bill and the happy dog trailed behind with their pack and blankets under Bill’s thin arms.

I opened the hatchback and pulled out the pillows. One had a stain on it, so I’d left the faded cases on them.

“Oh, thank you! I’ll put one under my hips and one between my legs and one under my head. The pavement is so hard; I was worried about the baby.”

She surprised me with a hug. She smelled of fragrant shampoo, weed, and body odor like canned beef stew. Bill hugged her from behind as if to hug us both, and the dog put his paws up on me and barked.

“Come with us,” she beckoned. I hesitated. I didn’t want to be dragged into conversation or asked for money. But her pleas were so genuine, that I couldn’t refuse. If they were grifters, she had it down pat.

When we got to their nearby patch of sidewalk, it still had a blanket laid out with books and beads and trinkets and cassette tapes for sale. Bill said, “Man, everything is still here! It’s a good day.”

I’d sat on my butt on many sidewalks in my hippie days, but I’d never been homeless.

Andrea took my wrist. “Now hold out your hand,” she instructed in that mellifluous voice, which I don’t think she knew she had. “Close your eyes,” she told me. A red flag went up. I didn’t want to close my eyes. Not even out here on the street. I was not a trusting soul. But she had me. I took a chance.

She wound several pieces of different colored string around my wrist in a bracelet.

“Every time you look at it, you’ll think of us and our baby!” she bubbled.

“You two seem very blissful,” I asked—by which, of course, I meant, “How in the hell can you be so happy?” At their age I was reading Russian novels, going to too many Woody Allen movies, and rapping for hours about macro-plots and conspiracies, MK-Ultra, Area 51, grassy knolls, and Richard Milhous Nixon. Which didn’t make for happy. But at least then there was a safety net, potential employment, tuition was low and paid for, and I could always move back home if everything went sideways, heaven forbid.

“Life is short and precious . . . we’re having a baby . . . I love someone who loves me back,” she beamed in answer to my disguised question.

“And we don’t have to get up and go to work in the morning!” Bill grinned. Well, that was one thing we had in common.

I got up to go. When I shook Bill’s hand, I slipped him a $20. He shook my hand as if I’d given him a thousand. He showed the bill to Andrea. She started to cry.

I didn’t look back as I turned the corner. I was left speechless—with a lump in my throat.

————
John A. McMullen II is the producer of Piedmont Oakland Rep, and was a theater critic for the Berkeley Daily Planet for three years before starting his theater. He has lived in the Bay Area for 25 years. In the last century, he worked for The Monthly for nearly six weeks.