S. Pellegrino
—
Wilson Koewing
I NEVER GOT HIS NAME, BUT I’D see him on the first ferry out of Larkspur heading into San Francisco. I was the bartender on the boat, though in the mornings more like a barista. He ordered a medium coffee and sometimes an “S. Pellegrino.” I assumed he thought, since the packaging read “S. Pellegrino,” that it was called “S. Pellegrino.” I assumed this mostly because of the confidence with which he said, “S. Pellegrino;” The belied confidence of a man who believed himself more cosmopolitan than he was by virtue of ordering sparkling water on occasion.
He was light skinned with a manicured beard and tattoo covered arms. His voice was deep and velvety and while he was very friendly, he never lingered. He had numerous piercings, but none were garish. He always wore a black beanie and black jeans. A black leather jacket. Black Chuck Taylors. Everything black.
I didn’t know how far North he lived, but he took the Smart Train south from somewhere between central Marin County and Santa Rosa. Then the ferry into SF for work. I imagined at a clothing boutique, a record store or maybe a trendy coffee shop or restaurant. Not a position where he earned enough to justify the commute, but where his access to a sort of cultural caché explained the effort.
It was in that way that he interested me. One of those people who live in, probably, in his case, a small town, out in wine country, or maybe Petaluma, the suburbs of Santa Rosa. Almost certainly close to, or where he grew up, and even though he had become larger than that place, barely able to be contained by it, more comfortable in the big city, a train and a ferry ride and who knows how many other trams or cable cars or buses away, he remained tethered to it for some reason, unable to fully escape.
We rarely spoke more than was necessary for him to order and for me to fulfill it, but on occasion I’d offer him a free coffee, or we’d discuss the weather or the challenges of the morning, and while we did not know each other well, we shared an unspoken kinship and as a result I could make the stretch that we were friends.
After all, I wasn’t so different than what I suspected of him. I chose to work on the ferry because it created the illusion that I was going somewhere. Meeting and engaging with diverse and interesting people from all walks. Not stuck inside a place, not stuck inside a life.
And then one weekend, just like any other, he wasn’t there waiting for and boarding the ferry, ordering his coffee and sometimes an “S. Pellegrino.” Taking them to the main deck where there wasn’t even a good view to sit and watch videos on his phone as if he wanted to make it known to whoever might be watching that he was commuting and the ferry ride, the view, however beautiful it might have been, was a normal occurrence for him.
As the weeks passed, I realized more and more that I missed him. And though I won’t see him again, how fondly I remember him. Which is saying something in these days of endless connectivity without connection. That he had something in his makeup, in these parts of us, a spark of life, which left a lasting impression through all that distance. The bay glimpsed through so many windows and changes in the weather. Back and forth we travel to end up always in these same places. As it were. Or. As it is. Perfectly brush-stroked like the early afternoon fog wrapping around the Golden Gate or the sunset painting the city a glistening white. San or S. Pellegrino for short. The friend I might have or could have had. Where have you gone? •
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Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His books JADED and QUASI are available from Main Street Rag/Mint Hill Books and Anxiety Press, respectively. His newest short story collection ROLLING ON THE BOTTOM is available from Cowboy Jamboree Press. His fiction and essays have appeared in Wigleaf, Pembroke Magazine, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gargoyle and New World Writing. He lives and writes in Marin County, California.
Website | @jadedwriter_
He was light skinned with a manicured beard and tattoo covered arms. His voice was deep and velvety and while he was very friendly, he never lingered. He had numerous piercings, but none were garish. He always wore a black beanie and black jeans. A black leather jacket. Black Chuck Taylors. Everything black.
I didn’t know how far North he lived, but he took the Smart Train south from somewhere between central Marin County and Santa Rosa. Then the ferry into SF for work. I imagined at a clothing boutique, a record store or maybe a trendy coffee shop or restaurant. Not a position where he earned enough to justify the commute, but where his access to a sort of cultural caché explained the effort.
It was in that way that he interested me. One of those people who live in, probably, in his case, a small town, out in wine country, or maybe Petaluma, the suburbs of Santa Rosa. Almost certainly close to, or where he grew up, and even though he had become larger than that place, barely able to be contained by it, more comfortable in the big city, a train and a ferry ride and who knows how many other trams or cable cars or buses away, he remained tethered to it for some reason, unable to fully escape.
We rarely spoke more than was necessary for him to order and for me to fulfill it, but on occasion I’d offer him a free coffee, or we’d discuss the weather or the challenges of the morning, and while we did not know each other well, we shared an unspoken kinship and as a result I could make the stretch that we were friends.
After all, I wasn’t so different than what I suspected of him. I chose to work on the ferry because it created the illusion that I was going somewhere. Meeting and engaging with diverse and interesting people from all walks. Not stuck inside a place, not stuck inside a life.
And then one weekend, just like any other, he wasn’t there waiting for and boarding the ferry, ordering his coffee and sometimes an “S. Pellegrino.” Taking them to the main deck where there wasn’t even a good view to sit and watch videos on his phone as if he wanted to make it known to whoever might be watching that he was commuting and the ferry ride, the view, however beautiful it might have been, was a normal occurrence for him.
As the weeks passed, I realized more and more that I missed him. And though I won’t see him again, how fondly I remember him. Which is saying something in these days of endless connectivity without connection. That he had something in his makeup, in these parts of us, a spark of life, which left a lasting impression through all that distance. The bay glimpsed through so many windows and changes in the weather. Back and forth we travel to end up always in these same places. As it were. Or. As it is. Perfectly brush-stroked like the early afternoon fog wrapping around the Golden Gate or the sunset painting the city a glistening white. San or S. Pellegrino for short. The friend I might have or could have had. Where have you gone? •
Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His books JADED and QUASI are available from Main Street Rag/Mint Hill Books and Anxiety Press, respectively. His newest short story collection ROLLING ON THE BOTTOM is available from Cowboy Jamboree Press. His fiction and essays have appeared in Wigleaf, Pembroke Magazine, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gargoyle and New World Writing. He lives and writes in Marin County, California.
Website | @jadedwriter_