San Francisco Here I Come

It was September 1988. I had loaded up my truck and said goodbye to everyone, and gotten on the road. I-5 heading south to San Francisco, 550 miles. The drive was beautiful, through the Siskiyou Mountains, past Lake Shasta, then down the long stretch of foothills, dropping into the Bay Area. I hadn't really driven much in heavy traffic. In Oregon, there aren't that many people to make the roads feel crowded, but boy, once, you get onto I-80 near Vacaville, the amount of cars on the road exponentially increases. I wasn't worried through, I knew where I was going, and I had a place to stay. I was heading for the city that has been sung about in so many songs, and I was thrilled. It was getting darker by the time I found myself on the Bay Bridge, heading into San Francisco. I was so excited: the view was spectacular. I had directions to where I was supposed to be going, so I wasn't too concerned. I didn't anticipate the amount of cars on the road, and I certainly hadn't anticipated how fast people drive. I was coming down off the bridge, looking for my exit, which was Fell Street, that would take me to my new home. The other thing I hadn't anticipated was that traffic would come to a dead stop on a freeway. But that's exactly what happened. I was driving along at about 50 miles an hour, not fast, but not slow, looking for my exit, which was supposed to be posted on one of many signs all around me. I looked back at the road just in time to see all the cars in front of me at a dead stop. I slammed on my breaks, sure I could stop in time, but the entire bed of my pickup truck was filled with boxes of records, which are VERY heavy. They all slid forward, and the extra weight and momentum carried me forward right into the rear end of the car in front of me. There was a sickening crashing sound, metal, breaks squealing, then silence. I was stunned. I hadn't even made it into the city limits yet, and here I was, smoke pouring out the front of my poor little truck. I got out of the truck, mind you, this is on a FREEWAY bridge, so there was alot of traffic, and sort of stumbled towards where the people I had hit were also getting out of their car. No one was hurt thankfully. It was 3 nice guys in a small hatchback, and they were all fine. The car was ok too, except for the bumper being smooshed in. But my poor little truck, Amarillo was not so lucky. The weight of the records had caused the whole front end to be squished like an accordian, with the radiator being pushed back into the engine. There was no way I could drive it. I was shaking so badly I could barely talk. Of course, this was a time where there were no such thing as cell phones, so I couldn't just call up Triple A to help me. I don't even think I had Triple A!  I had no idea where I was, or what I was gonna do. I also hadn't realized how cold the Bay Area could get at night. The only time I had been in SF before, it was bright and sunny, and warm! So I'm shivering and freaked out and trying hard not to burst into tears, wondering what I was gonna do. So these nice boys offered to drive me into the city to a pay phone so I could call a tow truck. I left my poor little truck sitting on the side of the bridge with the flashers on, and got in the car with them. They dropped me off on Market Street, at the cross street of Van Ness, right in front of a Zimm's Restaruant. I opened a phone book, and called the first tow company I found and explained to them what had happened. They asked me where I was so they could come and get me, but I was shaking so bad, and so freaked out I couldnt' tell them. All I could do was describe where I was and they came and got me. Now, to get to my truck, which was yet another ordeal. If you've ever been on the Bay Bridge, you know that its two levels, the lower one leaving the city, and the upper deck going into the city, so getting back to my truck took a while. We finally got there, and got her all hooked up, and the drive wanted to know where to take me. I just gave him the address to the house I was supposed to be moving into on Ortega Street in the inner Sunset. At least I didn't have to worry about navigating my way around the city to find my new home! There was a bright side to this whole mess. It kept me amused in an otherwise horrible situation. He dropped me and my squished truck off in front of my new house, and I went in and just burst into tears. I was in a new city, with no money (I had given $ 80 of the $100 to the tow truck driver to rescue me), no friends, no one to call, and no idea what I was gonna do next. I unloaded all the records from my truck into the house, and went out to find a phone to call my parents to let them know I had arrived. I fell asleep exhausted, scared and feeling very alone. I'd figure out my next step in the morning. Welcome to my new life!