#78, Ms. Donohue.

My 7th grade French teacher. i was new at this school, and late to start, so i had a helluva time. French was the only language class with any space left, otherwise i would have been in Spanish and who knows how my life would have turned out? i certainly wouldn't have been able to enter that shop and ask for a parapluie that time i was walking around the streets of Paris and it suddenly began to rain cats and dogs. (Chats et chiens.)
Where were we? Right, Ms. Donohue- lots of big, horsey teeth and a short crop of dark silver hair. A winning smile and a sweet, pretty face. For some reason i always thought that she didn't have very many friends among the other teachers at my school. My name in class was "Françine", which i absolutely loathed, but there was no translation of "Heather" and all the cool feminine names were already taken. i used to sit at the back of the class and tie rubber bands around my fingertips just to watch them change colors and become cold, bloodless. (Did you know that each finger on your hand turns a different color? It's true.) i remember once winning an art contest in class, and always thought it was because she felt sorry for me. On special days we would watch movies (La Boum!), and once a week or so we'd watch Téléfrançais, when i swear Ms. Donohue would stand in the back and smile and sing along with the opening song. Adorable. i think she worried about me being so strange, and tried to befriend me by talking to me about rock music, although her references were usually a tad old; we once had a halting conversation about Golden Earring's "Radar Love". And when she found out i drank coffee (no idea how that happened, by the way), she became quite concerned and cited a study that linked caffeine consumption in women with higher breast cancer rates. So mothering. i hope she's still there, still teaching, and still caring about the next crop of troubled kids.

#77, Brian from H's.

An adorable young chappie who used to work at the market where my flower shop is located. With a mop of curly hair, skin-tight jeans, and pea coats on colder days, Brian was amazed that i had Muslim Gauze on my iPod, and got me hooked on the song "Blind" by Hercules and Love Affair. We were constantly talking about music; old and new, live and recorded. B was still figuring out his sexual identity and was almost always hung over when i would see him walking to work in the early afternoons. He finally moved to a cooler area of the city, and i never realized how much i would miss him spending his break at the flower shop: changing the music we were listening to without asking and using our microwave to heat up his food, always bitching about his managers and sitting on our (only) stool. Brian! You cad. Where are you these days? It's lonely here without you.

#76, "John Poet".

He comes in every week, usually on Tuesdays. Quiet, slim, soft-spoken, greying hair and jeans with boots. Always a satchel. Buys one stem of alstroemeria, one piece of fern, and a pinch of bear grass (for the cat, he explains). Likes to have long chats with a certain co-worker of mine, which used to make me weirdly jealous, because i had never spoken a single word to him. One day he brought in a miniature crystal blue rose in a vase, because the week before she had convinced him to finally read The Glass Menagerie. He'd asked me if i'd read it, and because i said no he brought me a copy of the play today. He was transporting it in the bubble mailer, still, and the name on the label? John Poet.
And we've discussed this. We don't think it's his real name, but all the same– it really should be.

#75, Jeanelle.

We worked together at the stained glass store. You were tall and boyish, with a mischievous grin and short black hair. When we "helped out" with the night classes, we'd sit in the front of the store watching Sifl and Olly videos while everyone diligently worked on their lamps. We drove around in your Impala blasting "Slim Shady" when Eminem first appeared on the scene. Often we would end up walking along the train tracks, drinking Heinekens, ogling graffiti in complete silence. Once, we clambered atop a defunct locomotive car and threw our empty bottles through the nearby (also defunct) warehouse windows. Filled with thrill, we clambered back down to the car, laughing as we screeched away because our clothes were covered with soot.

#74, Suzy.

You were Z's best friend (such unlikely companions!). Tall and full of snark, you painted your nails and constantly sported new kicks. You smoked way too much and loved owls intensely. Your cat's name was Tortuga, and you had comfort in Busta Rhymes and Missy Elliott. Anxiety was your middle name, before anyone even knew what Prozac was. i often felt we were kindred spirits, even though you were so judgmental it was, at times, profoundly caustic. The last time i saw you was at the Fire Festival, where you told me that you'd gotten married. That was years ago... my sis and i really miss you, too.

#73, Zebra.

Zed. Gregory. You helped Nat spin fire for the first time (in your backyard), with some rags, a can of gasoline, and a couple of lengths of chain. You painted the walls of your living room blood red, and for a short while seemed to subsist entirely on chocolate-covered orange jellies... You taped down the tumor in your chest with duct tape, and even when angry you always wore a Cheshire grin. You stomped around in boots, competed in the Puke Olympics, and traded Siouxsie videos with me. One day you moved away. Me and my sis miss you so.

#72, Matthew V.

Matthew. My sister and i fondly referred to you as "the gay white aborigine". You worked at the art store, and smelled like patchouli and the strong smoke of smudged sage. You were tallish, and way skinny, and seemed to acquire an extra few pounds just from all of the metal accessories you wore, which clanked in announcement of your arrival before you even got near anyone. You wore jean jackets or vests, with tattered band shirts, and always boots. Your long, dark, wiry beard was the subject of much wonder. i had never seen anyone with the kind of tattoos that you had: green, swampy, spirally art covered much of your exposed flesh. You wore horn in your ears and bone in your nose, and the inside of your van was covered with feathers and animal skulls. Originally from Louisiana, you had become a vegan while living in the Bay Area but still sometimes secretly snacked on the fried pork skins your mom would send you. Wherever you were to be found, there was always Jack Daniels and death metal. Once i was coming back from a bank run and saw you leaning casually against the front wall of the store, eating a mango.
want some? you asked me, and sliced off a piece with your buck knife. We stood there, and ate, smiling in the sun, delicious yellow juice dripping from our fingers. i miss you, man!

#71, Alexandria.

Ah, Alexandria. My childhood partner-in-crime. You were so pretty and mischievous, with long, wavy, dark golden hair. i remember playing Atari (Donkey Kong!) and eating deliciously sweet lemon-flavored yogurt (through a straw) at your house, which was one of the nicer ones i'd ever seen. It had rosebushes and a white-picket fence, not to mention a secret door in one of the upstairs hallways that lead to the attic. Super exciting. You and i were obsessed with Richie Valens for awhile; we'd sit on the light-blue carpet of your bedroom floor belting out "Oh Donna" and "Boney Maronie". We knew all of the lyrics to every song, and we must have watched La Bamba like eighty times. i used to steal tubs of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting and eat it at your house. i kept it hidden underneath your bed, along with a spoon. You had rose-scented Play-Doh, a Corgi who was constantly trying to hump my leg, and a cute older brother whom i had a crush on. Once, in your backyard, he flicked my leg with a wet towel and it left a huge welt.

One afternoon, we decided to pull off The Great Candy Heist. Dressed up in various costumey-accessories (a flashy gold lamé purse among them), we headed to the nearby drug store. Once in the candy aisle, i stuffed bar after bar of the good stuff into my purse, and into the giant rolled-up cuffs of my pants. You had your shirt bottom pulled up and then back down through the neck hole, bra-style, and were busily shoving bags of M&Ms in there. i believe there were also some Abba Zabbas crammed into your cowboy boots. i had Butterfingers in my jacket sleeves. We bought a Caramello each, for authenticity, and headed toward the sliding doors with our score.

An old security guard caught us (Your mother let you buy that much candy?) before we even got to the parking lot. We were marched back down the candy aisle (i sobbed: we'll put it baaaaack!) to the office at the rear of the store. Mug shots were taken of us both, each with a mat placed on our knees containing the heap of candy we'd stolen. Our parents were phoned, and arrived shortly to drag us to the car by our wrists. We were forbidden to see each other after that, and (i don't know about you but) i was grounded for weeks. We lost touch sometime after that. You went to Costa Rica? That's all i knew. Hope to get back in touch with you some day.

#70, Troy.

Troy was a very small man with sad eyes and a troubled affect, who used to come into the bakery when i first started there. He would always show up around 6:00 for a cup of coffee and offer up some (extremely quiet and hard to understand) small talk. Eventually i realized he was hitting on me, in a very roundabout way, and had to sort of... let him down, gently. He seemed very sensitive, and eventually it came out that out he was a jockey at Golden Gate Fields. One day he just stopped coming in. Today i watched a video of this year's Kentucky Derby final (wow!), and remembered Troy. Hope you're happy out there, buddy.

#69, Jesse Melnyk

Jesse. You were a couple of years behind me in high school. A cute, shy boy with intense brown eyes, always wearing a Nirvana t-shirt. i know if i had been your age i would have fallen for you, hard. Recently i found out that you committed suicide in late 2005. From what i can tell, you jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. And recently i was talking to a friend about how i don't think they should put that safety net up. Do i still think that? i don't know. i'm sorry you were so unsure about life... It goes without saying, you are missed. You are a strong presence permanently in the endless rambling closet of my brain. i don't think i'll ever forget your face.

#68, Katie H.

Katie,
You let me use your dad's film processing equipment one night when i had a photography assignment (a photo essay of a pool game) due the next day. i barely knew you, but a mutual friend made it happen, and you were so sweet about it. i remember having to blow-dry the negatives because i didn't leave enough time to dry them out, which actually ended up making the prints a little scratchier and more interesting (note to future self). You were just like a real-life pixie, and once i ran into you on an outdoor BART platform, and you were wearing low-top Converse and smoking a cigarette, which was against the rules. i decided then and there that i wanted to be more like you. One Halloween you dressed up like Charlie Chaplin. Just so you know? That was the coolest. costume. ever. In conclusion: thank you for helping me finish my assignment! i got an A, even though i totally didn't deserve it.

#67, Ben Sundance.

Ben, i barely knew you before you died. You were Suzanna's (half-?) brother, and an all-around Great Guy. Everyone wanted to know you. You were a few years older than us, and always knew where the party was. You listened to the Beastie Boys, and all the girls had crushes on ya. One year, you had a new year's eve party, which Suzanna was allowed to bring me to (!). i remember there were lots of cute, older boys, and a giant bowl of plain M&Ms on the table, which to me at the time seemed like the height of Party Fun. i impressed one of you with my joint-rolling skills (hey, what can i say?), and then someone put on "Mellow Yellow" by Donovan. It totally blew my mind, and i remember thinking the next day that you and your friends were the coolest people ever.
One night after an argument with your girlfriend, you hung yourself. No one had any idea it was going to happen. Suzanna was a shell of her former self. Your memorial was held at the Berkeley Marina, on the day of my high school graduation. All of my friends wanted to get drunk before their graduation ceremony instead of going, which is something i am still mad about sometimes. i showed up near the water with my cap and gown in hand, wearing my only black dress (it was velvet), because i had never done this before. Everyone else was dressed for the cold, windy weather. i followed the kites that were tied to the picnic tables. We all cried and laughed, while the wind blew and blew. i hardly knew you, but it felt good to be there, and to be there for Suzanna. i was still crying as i slipped into the line of new graduates a couple of hours later, trying to pin on that stupid graduation cap. Hope you are watching over Suzanna, if that sort of thing is at all possible, and that whatever it was no longer hurts.

#66, Suzanna K.

Suzanna. i can't remember if it was an "S" or a "Z", but you were a character, indeed. The oldest picture i have of you from middle school was you kissing my best girl friend J____ in the living room of my mom's old house. Such a shocker! You had short (almost shaved, most of the time) dark hair and gorgeous eyes, often heavy-lidded due to recent marijuana use. Long eyelashes, a dreamy way of talking. Your mom was a harsh woman, and your dad lived in a vaaaaaaaaan, down by the marina! He was Native American, and had a huge drinking problem. You and i used to ride our bikes down there to visit him. He smoked Camel non-filters ("bullets"), which i thought was so impressive that i started to smoke them myself, for about a month, until i thought i would literally hack up a lung. One night, while drunk, you fell from Indian Rock (not terribly far, but enough to cut your head), where we were all hanging out in the middle of the night. A few of us ran down the path and found someone with a phone, and an ambulance was called. Your mom was furious. She made you go to AA, and since no one else would go with you, i did. It was not so bad; we were definitely the youngest ones in the room. Later you ran away from home and stayed at a friend's house in Berkeley. i visited you there, and your room smelled like pot and sounded like Jimi Hendrix. There was a huge tie-died sheet as a curtain, and you were mad when i said we were worried about you. Where are you now? i miss you, Suzanna.

#65, Ahi(msa)

Ahi! We worked together at Amsterdam Art. You were a cashier, and the most hippied-out girl i had ever met. You were so freakin' adorable; you made your own clothes, and had the saddest eyes but were always, always smiling. Long straight brown hair, not a trace of make-up. We used to argue over the band Air: i couldn't see why anyone would listen to such boring music. You thought i was completely off my rocker. It was hilarious. (i have since seen the light, by the way.)
Eventually, i heard, you had a lovely little daughter. i hope life is treating you well, and that you are still smiling and walking around in cute, baggy, hemp pants.

#64, Wana Chiu.

Wana, you were my best (and only?) friend in fourth grade. We had just moved to Alameda (in the middle of the night, after my mom left my dad) that year and i was jumping in to a new school. You were so quiet, even more than me. You had long black hair and mumbled when you talked, but you were just the sweetest thing. Your family lived across town from mine, and whenever i was at your house we were always eating Peeps.
Once, during lunchtime, we sat against the wall of the school, at the edge of the playground, and some boys threw a basketball at the wall in between us as we ate our sandwiched, just for kicks, but there was one missed throw and your nose was bleeding. You ran inside.
You were also there when i jumped from the swings at the park near my house and my shirtsleeve got caught in the chain; i was flung awkwardly to and fro while gravity did the rest of its job. The swing dragged me backwards through the sand, which ground into my gums and went up my nose. Where are you these days? Do you look out from behind your curtain of hair?

#63, Focaccia Guy.

Focaccia Guy was a strange, quiet Asian man in his early 40s that used to come into the bakery. He always had a plastic grocery bag hanging from his wrist (what was in there?), and sported an odd wispy growth of facial hair around his mouth and chin. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, khaki pants, and an old blue windbreaker. That was it. Every time i saw him, same thing– grocery bag and all. (Even once outside of work, when i spied him on a BART train: all exactly the same.)

He used to come in every couple of months, sometime in the early afternoon, and check out the pastry case.
(A small bit of background info, highly pertinent to our story: We made four plain focaccias, every day, and then something like ten each of the two topping-laden varieties. But only four of the plain.)
One of two things would happen next, depending on our available supply of small, round, tasty Italian bread rolls:

1) Upon seeing that we had sold even one of the plain focaccias, Focaccia Guy would simply turn around and amble out the front door without a word or a glance. Later, man.
2) If we had all four plain focaccias left, though, it was on. He would order all four. We would place them into a paper bag for him, whereupon he would take them over to the table, carefully lay his plastic grocery bag down on one of the chairs, and stand by the window eating each and every one of his four plain focaccias, slowly and methodically, out of the bag, one at a time.

This was always such a hoot to witness, for some reason. There was something so... mysteriously necessary about this man's need for flour, olive oil, and rosemary... As my co-worker used to say, "i guess he's just deficient in focaccia!"
i have adopted this phrase today for any time i am craving something, like salt, or chocolate, or the occasional impulse purchase of something gross, like Pop-Tarts. Or you know, when you ingest something and you can tell it is going straight to work in your body? Like you actually needed it at that moment in time? Yeah. You were just deficient!

The weird thing was: why would he not perform the same ritual with even three of them? Why did it have to be four? i guess i just answered my own question, actually, by using the word "ritual".
Hope you're still heading in to the bakery, Focaccia Guy!

#62, Spider.

Spider was a cop whose beat included the high school where half of my friends went, as well as the "continuation school" where myself and a few of my closest friends went. He was The Coolest Cop Ever, that any of us had ever met... he would roll his patrol car up to where a bunch of us were loitering, but instead of telling us to Move Along, we would all have a friendly chat instead. Often these conversations included his informing us of rights we didn't know we even had, such as asking an officer's name and writing down their badge number. i hope there are more out there like him.

#61, Darcy.

Hahahaha Darcy, you were the dark-haired heartbreaker who worked with my sister at SeaBreeze market near the Berkeley marina... you were so wry, and rockabilly. Once, we drove out to Crockett just to sit and have drinks at the bar where you worked. She had such a crush on you! i had one too many and played "And it Stoned Me" by Van Morrison on the jukebox like three times in a row: i think the bikers wanted to kick my ass. But i was feelin' it man, feelin' it. Where are you these days? Keep on keepin' on.

#60, Melissa.

We worked together at the Meadows. you were almost ten years my senior, with a warm, inviting smile, skin that had seen lots of (but not too much!) sun, lots of laugh lines. You were sort of a down-to-earth, bicycle-riding dog lover (Greta!) who knew how to work hard. Very even, pleasant personality, and we discovered that we had a lot in common musically, one day when we started talking about Patti Smith. You burned me a couple of her albums, and months later we found ourselves driving down to Santa Cruz (with another girl from work, more your friend than mine) to see a PJ Harvey concert. That night was so, so much fun... your boyfriend was smaller than you and always seemed cranky when i would see him at the bike shop, until he found out that i knew you, and soon we were chattin' it up all the time. Eventually it turned out that you had developed breast cancer, at a very very young age (mid thirties). i moved away shortly after that, and looked you up online to make sure that you had made it through.. and you had... Best of luck to you, Melissa. Hope you are still riding your bike.

#59, Simona.

Simona, you were a small thing, but with a certain ferocity that simply could not be argued with. How old were we (thirteen?) when we barfed (on purpose) in the school bathroom together? You had been in ballet at some point, and looked almost Native American, with your brown skin and long, black hair. Your family was a mystery and you lived in a house unlike the rest at the top of a hill. You always wore leggings and i could sense that you were somewhat desperate for someone to talk to, but i couldn't totally click with you. also, you had perfect teeth. hope things are good.

#58, Vanessa.

In 7th (and some of 8th) grade, Vanessa was one of my best (and only!) friends. Her main character trait was hilariousness. She had squinty eyes, brown hair with long bangs, a huge smile, and a big nose. i used to sneak out of my house at night (sorry, mom) and walk the two miles up to her street, which had a sneaky little back alley behind it, much unlike the rest of the streets in our town. i would sneak into her room through the window. Looking back, i honestly can't even remember what we did in those wee hours, except play dress-up and go for late night walks. Once she and i did a class project together, and she taught me how to soak a piece of paper in tea and then bake it in the oven until it was all warped and singed, which made it look like an absolutely authentic old document. She gave me a crinkly, flowery babydoll dress that was one of her prized possessions, because i loved it so much. Her house had hardwood floors and always smelled like potpourri. Her mom was French and had a beautiful sexy accent. They had a Welsh Corgi that they spoiled to all hell, and Vanessa taught me how to play the piano (they had one in their living room, of course). i wanted to have their life. Once she and i were at a park in Berkeley on a summer afternoon, and she made me laugh so hard that i actually peed my pants. i had to walk all the way home (instead of taking the bus) with a sweater tied around my waist. Wow, admitting that is both more and less embarrassing than i thought it would be.