#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!