On February 19, 2021, when Mike would have turned 50. I took the day off work and set off for Mt. Diablo in an attempt to re-create his 2010 birthday.
The weather was exactly the same as it had been on that day eleven years ago: foggy, misty, on-and-off gentle rain. Near zero visibility. I could not have been happier about this.
I was full of pancakes from the Coffee Mill in Oakland. I’d walked in to the café like it was no big deal — asked for a table, submitted to the temperature screening, was seated on the patio under the awning. Before today, I could barely walk past this place.
As I ate, the memories pummeled me — all the times Mike and I had come here to chow down, back when he was healthy and loved to eat. Which breakfast combo he would order, the way he would take just one sip of my coffee (it did a number on his tinnitus). How he’d make a slithering snake out of the accordioned straw wrapper by releasing a drop of water onto it from the straw.
I recognized the woman who greeted me and sat me on the patio. She had been our server many times, but I think she’s a manager or maybe one of the owners of the Mill. Mike would make her laugh every time. She would ask, “What kind of eggs do you want?” and he’d look at me with a cheesy smile as he said, “Chicken eggs.” And we would crack up.
The first time he greeted her in Vietnamese, a huge smile lit up her face and they totally bonded, sharing stories of Saigon and the part of the city they’d each been born in.
The last time I ate here was the weekend in April 2018 when Sheila and Nick drove up to help us move Mike out of his apartment, just a couple blocks up the hill. I could tell Mike was so proud to introduce his sister to the woman.
The four of us sat on the sunny patio and talked and laughed, as if it was just a normal sunny Sunday. As if Mike’s arms weren’t paralyzed and he wasn’t terminally ill, and the reason he was moving out of his place and in with me was simply that we were starting a new life together.
But, as hard as it was to be here again, it also felt good. It felt good. I wanted to pull out my phone and show the woman pictures of Mike and tell her what happened and how much it meant to him to come here for breakfast and talk with her. But she was busy, and I knew I’d never be able to get the words out without breaking down.
I finished eating and walked back up the hill to my car, where we would always park, then drove to 24 east toward Danville and Mt. Diablo.
As I went up the winding mountain road, I cracked the car windows, and the smell of rain and earth and bay laurel drifted in as New Order and Sisters of Mercy blasted. Fog swirled all around me, just as it had done on that day in 2010 when Mike drove us up the mountain in his white Ford Contour.
We had planned to watch the sunrise from the summit, having dragged our non-morning-people asses out of bed at 5:30 a.m., arriving at the gates of Mt. Diablo State Park at 6:30, only to find that the park didn’t open until 8:00. We laughed at ourselves — how did we not think to look up the hours? Like they’re going to let people drive up the narrow mountain road in the dark with no guardrails.
To kill time, Mike parked the car off the side of the road and in the gathering light we hiked around on a narrow trail nearby, through wet mustard and fennel, lush and green from the rain. He hammed it up for the digital camera and bent over, pretending to be a four-legged animal, his pants intentionally pulled low to reveal a half moon, a huge grin on his face. I can see it so clearly (if only I knew where that photo went…).
When the gates finally opened, we drove to the top, snaking up through the mist. The wet road hissed under the tires, and I strained to see into the white abyss out the passenger side window. I felt tired, but happy and safe.
When we reached the summit, we were the only ones there. He parked the car facing north, trees dripping rain onto the front of the car. With his trance mix CD playing, we cracked the windows, smoked some weed, and took a nap.
I think I found the spot, or close to it.
Alone, I got out and walked around to the passenger side. Sat shotgun to his ghost in the driver’s seat. Put on some trance, closed my eyes, leaned my head back while the rain gently drummed on the windshield.
I swear, for just a moment I felt like it was 2010 and he was next to me.
At the time, we’d been bummed by the weather and the lack of views, but after the nap we felt refreshed and headed down the mountain to the San Ramon Denny’s to get Mike his free Grand Slam breakfast. You can see he wasn’t at all excited about it. 🙂
My original plan was to relive everything from that day, including going to Denny’s, but this time I did do my research ahead of time and saw that the San Ramon Denny’s is no more (plus I knew I’d be too hungry to wait).
Instead, after a good cathartic blubbering in the car, I collected myself and wandered around the empty parking lot before dipping onto a trail or two then hiking up to the historic stone visitor’s center (closed for the pandemic) and overlook.
By this point the clouds were starting to dissipate. As gorgeous as it was, part of me wanted the gray 2010-like weather to remain.
If I were to truly relive that entire day, it would mean driving two hours down the mountain and across the bridge to the Outer Sunset of SF then down to Pacifica, where I could pretend he was one of the distant surfers out among the waves.
Then on my way home I’d drive past the former site of Tiki Tom’s, which burned down later in 2010 and is now a bunch of townhomes next to the Park Street Bridge in Oakland, across the estuary from Alameda. We had met my sister and her family there, and Mike put up with our singing when they brought the cake with the candle.
But today, in 2021, it was already 2:30 and traffic would be worsening. It would take me forever to get to the ocean and back, and I felt drained.
Instead, I drove down the other, less-familiar side of Mt. Diablo into Walnut Creek and headed home to call Sheila as the sun burned the remaining clouds away.
