home of the 1960s love-in turned semicommercial zone for hawkers of tie-dyed T-shirts. Cole Valley, by contrast, owns up to its yuppiedom. There are more than a few Audi A4s owned by holders of Pottery Barn credit cards.
It was also home to Andy’s apartment, a mélange of milk crates used as bookshelves, mismatched and multicolored furniture, and a hammock. On the wall above a television from 1970 was a poster of Einstein. Garage-sale chic. Fashion du Math Professor. Erin served us tea in plastic drinking glasses with logos from the annual Bay to Breakers 10K run.
Erin explained that she had a key to Andy’s place and that she was getting the time and courage to clean it out.
She held out a photograph. He sat at a campsite. The sun seemed brilliant overhead, but it was almost outshone by Andy’s goofy grin. He had scruffy blond hair, and his clothes looked like quick pickups from the Salvation Army. Andy was easygoing.
“I’m not a doctor,” I said, repeating my earlier admonitions.
“You finished medical school. And you’re obviously smart. I just want to understand what happened. Listen to my story.”
I suddenly didn’t have the heart, or the patience.
I fumbled in my breast pocket. I felt the picture. I put it on the table. It was 3-by-5, the way they used to make them, with a white border. Annie was standing on a rock, with Lake Tahoe behind her.
“She’s beautiful,” Erin said. “Is that the woman who handed you the note?”
I told her I didn’t know. She picked up the photo.
“I’ve never seen her.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Sorry.”
Our eyes briefly met but Erin looked quickly away. I picked up Annie’s picture and slipped it into my pocket. I felt the need to escape the memory. I turned my gaze to the Bic pen.
“It’s not that tough to chew through a pen.”
I regretted it the moment I said it. I sounded sarcastic. What did I mean? It wasn’t tough to chew through a pen, but why would anyone do so—stress or an aggressive oral fixation?
“Andy rarely had a bad mood. He was the kind of guy who could fall asleep on the floor watching TV and not get up until morning. But about two months ago, he came into the café saying he’d had a sleepless night. He talked about watching infomercials. He was hyper. He did a pretty funny impression of a guy selling mood-improvement tapes for dogs.”
Then it stopped being funny. He didn’t sleep the next few nights.
“Was he doing anything differently? Was he drinking more caffeine? Was he stressed out about something? Did he change his exercise regimen?” I asked.
“No. He got pretty scientific about it too. We were reading the nutrition labels on everything he ate.”
“What about his daily routine?”
“He did seem more intense.”
“Intense? Like agitated—from lack of sleep?”
Erin took a sip of her tea. “I guess he was really focused on his research.”
I noticed Erin had a way of not answering some of my questions directly.
Andy was finishing a master’s project about the habits of kids who are in joint custody of divorced or separated parents. He was looking at the impact on kids of moving between homes each week. He wound up amassing a decent group of students he corresponded with over the Internet.
“You’re telling me that a grown man was corresponding via e-mail with kids? Did Andy tick some parent off? Could he have been threatened?”
Nope, Erin said. She said Andy had asked for and received permission from every family he worked with, under the auspices of the university.
Besides, she asked, how could that possibly explain the headaches?
I considered her question. Why Andy had been sleepless was not clear. The fact that he was agitated and had headaches was easier to understand. It was simple physiology. When a body doesn’t get enough rest, its systems don’t regenerate. To function, it relies increasingly on adrenaline. A kind of fight-or-flight mechanism kicks in. The body loses rhythm,
It was also home to Andy’s apartment, a mélange of milk crates used as bookshelves, mismatched and multicolored furniture, and a hammock. On the wall above a television from 1970 was a poster of Einstein. Garage-sale chic. Fashion du Math Professor. Erin served us tea in plastic drinking glasses with logos from the annual Bay to Breakers 10K run.
Erin explained that she had a key to Andy’s place and that she was getting the time and courage to clean it out.
She held out a photograph. He sat at a campsite. The sun seemed brilliant overhead, but it was almost outshone by Andy’s goofy grin. He had scruffy blond hair, and his clothes looked like quick pickups from the Salvation Army. Andy was easygoing.
“I’m not a doctor,” I said, repeating my earlier admonitions.
“You finished medical school. And you’re obviously smart. I just want to understand what happened. Listen to my story.”
I suddenly didn’t have the heart, or the patience.
I fumbled in my breast pocket. I felt the picture. I put it on the table. It was 3-by-5, the way they used to make them, with a white border. Annie was standing on a rock, with Lake Tahoe behind her.
“She’s beautiful,” Erin said. “Is that the woman who handed you the note?”
I told her I didn’t know. She picked up the photo.
“I’ve never seen her.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Sorry.”
Our eyes briefly met but Erin looked quickly away. I picked up Annie’s picture and slipped it into my pocket. I felt the need to escape the memory. I turned my gaze to the Bic pen.
“It’s not that tough to chew through a pen.”
I regretted it the moment I said it. I sounded sarcastic. What did I mean? It wasn’t tough to chew through a pen, but why would anyone do so—stress or an aggressive oral fixation?
“Andy rarely had a bad mood. He was the kind of guy who could fall asleep on the floor watching TV and not get up until morning. But about two months ago, he came into the café saying he’d had a sleepless night. He talked about watching infomercials. He was hyper. He did a pretty funny impression of a guy selling mood-improvement tapes for dogs.”
Then it stopped being funny. He didn’t sleep the next few nights.
“Was he doing anything differently? Was he drinking more caffeine? Was he stressed out about something? Did he change his exercise regimen?” I asked.
“No. He got pretty scientific about it too. We were reading the nutrition labels on everything he ate.”
“What about his daily routine?”
“He did seem more intense.”
“Intense? Like agitated—from lack of sleep?”
Erin took a sip of her tea. “I guess he was really focused on his research.”
I noticed Erin had a way of not answering some of my questions directly.
Andy was finishing a master’s project about the habits of kids who are in joint custody of divorced or separated parents. He was looking at the impact on kids of moving between homes each week. He wound up amassing a decent group of students he corresponded with over the Internet.
“You’re telling me that a grown man was corresponding via e-mail with kids? Did Andy tick some parent off? Could he have been threatened?”
Nope, Erin said. She said Andy had asked for and received permission from every family he worked with, under the auspices of the university.
Besides, she asked, how could that possibly explain the headaches?
I considered her question. Why Andy had been sleepless was not clear. The fact that he was agitated and had headaches was easier to understand. It was simple physiology. When a body doesn’t get enough rest, its systems don’t regenerate. To function, it relies increasingly on adrenaline. A kind of fight-or-flight mechanism kicks in. The body loses rhythm,
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