Morning Thoughts: December 29, 2017

I knew this fellow once. His name was Ralph, and he was of a melancholy nature. We were in the Navy. Neither of us particularly wanted to be. But we were stationed in Monterey, California on temporary duty whether it pleased us or not. He was from Berkeley and had a car, so we spent weekends in the bay area, or exploring Highway One. I enjoyed his company a good bit.

He looked like one of those dark Italian actors, say a young Andy Garcia. He had a girlfriend in Berkeley who seemed to love him dearly. She was beautiful, resembling a petite Joan Baez with hints of freckles about her nose. She was attending UC Berkeley. He had a master’s degree from there.

That wasn’t unusual in those days: enlisted men with college degrees or even advanced degrees. Unless one was rich, sickly, prone to criminal behavior, or all three, you had to serve your country somewhere. A stint in the Navy seemed to offer a safer berth than a platoon leader in Vietnam. Ralph had enlisted and was waiting his time in Monterey, making the best of it, as we all were. I was in my “lost and wandering” phase, glad for any show of friendship. Ralph was a good shipmate and a fine companion. He was generous and kind, never passing up a hitchhiker, of whom there were many along the coast in those days.

He was also slowly going insane.

The world sort of did that to a person in those days. He explained his viewpoint as follows. “You see, when you are born, they give you a bucket. From than day forward, you have to carry it with you at all times. As you go through life, they fill it with shit. It never goes away and the bucket never gets full, just heavier. Finished school? Here’s a spoonful. No jobs? Here’s another. A nice little war? Have one on us. It goes on and on. And we carry our buckets without complaint.”

I didn’t agree, at least  not fully. Nonetheless, in those days it made a little sense. To me, it was a cautionary tale. To Ralph, it was as true and inevitable as the sun going down each evening over Monterey Bay.

During successive trips to Berkeley, I watched Ralph’s girlfriend trying her best to free him from his demons. Nothing worked. I was only an observer, but would have given up everything to sail into a Pacific sunset with someone like her. Ralph looked through her and saw nothing but the walls of his self-made prison beyond. It was my first introduction to mental illness.

He got worse. We would take walks through Cannery Row, then a deserted avenue of empty buildings covered with every imaginable material. We would sit on the curb in front of the very building that had housed the “Pacific Biological Laboratories,” once operated by Ed Ricketts, John Steinbeck’s friend and inspiration for the character “Doc” in Cannery Row.

Contemplating Cannery Row only strengthened Ralph’s belief in the fickle cruelties of life. “This place once roared with life,” he said. Thousands of people lived or worked here, each— whether whore, boss, worker, or bum—carrying his own bucket, with it getting heavier each day.”

His moods became tiresome to me and debilitating to himself. Our excursions became rare, then stopped. We changed barracks and I saw him less and less.

My orders came for security duty in, of all places, the I-Corps area of Vietnam. That occupied my thoughts until one day I received a phone call in the graphics lab where I was temporarily assigned. I assumed it was some directive, maybe news that a horrible mistake had been made and that I would stay in Monterey for my entire enlistment, or maybe spend it at a small base in Key West.

Instead, I heard a voice that I recognized immediately. Yes, It was Ralph, sounding happier than I had heard him in ages. After mutual recognitions, I asked where he was. The answer shocked, but didn’t surprise me.

I’m in the ‘nut-ward’ at Treasure Island,” he said. “It’s great.”

“What did you do to get there?” I asked with some haste when I saw my supervisor giving me “the look” for taking a personal phone call on government time.”

“It was easy,” he said. “I just gave my bucket of shit to the Navy and said I didn’t want to carry it anymore.” I heard agitated voices and he was gone.

I never heard from him again. A lot of water has flowed back and forth through the Golden Gate since then, and many of life's tides have risen and fallen. Life has gone on. I have survived, but I still think of Ralph from time to time.

Happier days in front of "Doc's Lab"