Dear Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Dear Lawrence Ferlinghetti,
I want to wish you a happy 100th birthday!
I doubt you remember me, but I was that 15-year old who wandered into City Lights Bookstore in 1992. I had a pair of purple Rollerblades slung over my shoulder, and you scrutinized them while I browsed the books in the poetry loft. Of course, you didn’t know that I stole my mom’s Subaru that morning and drove without a license from what was then backward-ass Napa to the big bad city of San Francisco — an invitation I’d received from reading your pal Kerouac’s On The Road.
Incidentally, I recall that you looked flustered when I first saw you. I remember that your office door blew open. You stepped out wearing a dark, long sleeve tee-shirt, black corduroy pants, and a skipper’s hat. The combo of the hat and your white beard reminded me of the Gorton’s Fisherman, my favorite brand of fish sticks at the time. Hands planted on your hips, I thought I heard you mutter, “That damn printer…”
Then you saw me seeing you. Your frustration faded, and you smiled at me like you knew who I was and appreciated my company — much like my grandfather, Pop-Pop, used to smile at me before he died. I couldn’t believe you gave me any attention. As a child of the Bay Area, with parents who were well-read, I knew you as an icon and organizer of San Francisco’s historic literary scene. A fighter for free speech. Publisher of Howl and Other Poems. An entrepreneur of paperback books. A believer in the curative powers of art.
Holding my Rollerblades by their laces, I heard myself say, “Are you, Mr. Ferlinghetti?”
Your blue eyes sparkled. Your smile bent the boundaries of your beard. “Yes, I am.” You seemed surprised and humbled that a lost, abrasive teenager knew who you were.
My fingers reached toward a nearby postcard rack. I felt the sweat on my hand stick to a few tiny portraits of your friends, my idols. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Yes.”
With my hand trembling, I passed a postcard of you to you. It was owned by you in your own store. Luckily, you had a black ballpoint pen — I never carried a pen while rollerblading — especially through the city, where I held on to moving cars for thrills.
When you handed me your autograph, I recall saying, “Thank you.”
You said, “You’re welcome.”
You made no effort to leave. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. It felt like we stood there together for years, encircled by books, many of them written by you. And you never stopped smiling. In those days, I rarely felt happy — none of the adults I knew seemed happy — and you continued to stand with me, happy.
My legs walked me down the wooden stairs, which creaked under each step. I remember that the postcard was still warm where you signed it. In the black and white photograph, your bald head was shining. Your baldness made you look strong, like steel, and I wondered why you choose to cover it under a hat that morning. I’m not sure that I said goodbye. I’ll remember that day forever.
I’m 42 now, and I apologize for not living up to your example. Literature became less important to me than paying bills and buying things. I became the cliche that you warned me about. I’m sorry that my generation didn’t listen to you, and that we let San Francisco become a casualty of commerce, just like everywhere else. I couldn’t hold down the fort. I didn’t even try, really. I’ve sought comfort in Colorado.
I’m not sure where that postcard is these days — my mom might have accidentally thrown it in the trash along with some of my old baseball cards and prom pictures. But please know that postcard lives in my heart, no matter how silly or sentimental that sounds. I’m overjoyed that I got to spend twenty seconds with you.
There will never be another Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I only wish that I would’ve stood with you a second longer. Especially on your 100th birthday.
Sincerely,
Gavin Austin
