Hank Rydall: In the street

Hank plodded up the steepest section of Lombard Street, right before that windy street all the Ohio tourists always came to see.

He’d had no idea any city street could be so steep, and so arduous to climb. Ever since he’d escaped from that Getty Station on Route 99, after clubbing that guy with his shotgun, his leg had felt like jelly – numb, weak, and somehow detached from his body. He’d made it as far as Modesto and had even snatched the purse of a forgetful lady with pink lipstick and a black bun of hair on the back of her head. For all his effort, he’d only gotten $87 in her wallet.

But then the transmission died on his ’76 Plymouth Valiant and he left it on the side of the road. He hitchhiked up to ‘Frisco with an overweight trucker who had a black mole on the side of his face. Two hairs grew out of that mole. Hank wanted to throw up, looking at it.

The police wouldn’t find him here. No way, not in San Francisco. It was a beautiful city, Hank had to admit – everywhere up and out was blue, everywhere down was green. And he could just breathe the clean air from the bay … he wanted to hide here forever, no one from his past – not Mama or Daddy, not Uncle Harry or Aunt Ruth. No one from Akron would ever come out here.

He topped the hill and looked down the windy street at all the rented Four Tauruses and Oldsmobile Aleros, practically stopped on the hill to look at the houses and window baskets. Who was that, half way down the hill? No, it couldn’t be – yes, it was – it was Horace Matthews, his high school swim coach, the one with the hairy crotch that always peaked out the top of his bathing suit. Tight jeans and a black t-shirt – this was the first time Hank had ever seen Coach Matthews wearing street clothes. What was he doing in San Francisco?