“Frida Kahlo is for the Birds” by Dan Grossman

Frida Kahlo is for the Birds

In the early morning hours, after dropping my daughter off at the San Diego International airport, I go to Old Town. I’m walking past the Frida Kahlo mural on the wall of the Urban Market food hall. How rich I’d be, I think, if I had a dollar for every Frida mural I’ve seen in this city. I’m telling myself I’d better not fall asleep lest someone tattoo the Mexican painter on my arm. I’m looking for a place to piss, but everything is closed. Everything, that is, except the Best Western on the hill. I walk through the front doors of the hotel and no one is at the desk to greet me, so I figure I’ll save the staff time and use the toilet without their assistance. I also partake of the coffee, which is there for guests. Nobody’s there to tell me not to, or to tell me I’m not a guest, so I help myself. I walk out the door with my cup of  coffee and head back to the State Park. Old Town, which is the site of the first European settlement in California, is deserted. I sit down adjacent to a sign advertising “Old Town Ghost Tours.” At that moment, a straw blonde dude with straw sticking to his overalls—and rope burns on his neck—asks me “Do you work here?” I tell him no.  He nods and continues on.  Then he stops as I savor my first sip of watered down coffee, and turns around. “Some lad just busted the window of the school house and climbed in,” he says. “Can I use your cellphone to call 911?” Instead of saying yes or no, I ask him to lead me to the school house so I can see for myself. I get up and follow him. He starts babbling about the lack of police at this hour. But then I slow my pace and turn in the opposite direction. It takes a few seconds for him to notice my ruse. As I walk into the new part of Old Town (Eddie Vedder is said to have pumped gas somewhere near here in the late 1980s) he calls after me. “Hey you, mister, don’t you have an obligation to be civically responsible?” When I don’t answer, he calls after me again. “I know you hear me.” I turn around and yell back, “If you want to report a crime, go to the transit center.” Suddenly, I realize who I’m talking to. It’s “Yankee” Jim Robinson. The dude was hanged in the Old Town square in 1852 after being convicted of stealing a boat. He wasn’t hanged professionally, though. It took half an hour for him to die. He keeps following me and I take evasive action, turning west, and I pass the Urban Market once again. Eventually I make it to the transit center underpass. A pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses smile at me, and say good morning. I say good morning back. It’s a relief to see them. When I step back into the light, there’s bread crumbs spread on the ground near the sidewalk. The food has attracted both seagulls and pigeons. There’s a woman nearby who looks like an elderly version of Frida Kahlo. She’s tying up one of the many plastic bags of breadcrumbs in her shopping cart. Is this Frida’s ghost? I wonder. I ask her why she feeds the birds. “I like them,” she says.