#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.