The Golden Gate Bridge-Personal Narrative

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Around five, I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to meet Mark in San Francisco. Years ago, I walked with Mark and Vivian across this same bridge for a breast cancer charity event. When, a third of the way across, Mark and I got separated. My fear of heights kicked in and I froze with my hands glued to the guard rail unable to even speak. I’d have passed out unless a partially-blind woman with a service dog came to my rescue. Somehow, the woman saw that I was in trouble or perhaps suicidal. Either way, she touched my hand. “Just breathe and step away from the rail, she said.” I did as told. Then, without further talk, we walked to the other side. Later, I was furious with Mark. I told him how I was terrified on the bridge and feared that…show more content…
We park and browse the neighborhood. The area has changed in fifteen years. Hip restaurants and shops have settled in replacing the old. Yet, the bohemian nature Mark and I loved remains. I search for the tattoo shop, where I had flowers painted on my face with henna, for a Halloween party at Vivian’s. I ask Mark if the store is still there. “Yep, with the same owner, and business is booming,” he says, and holds me close. We walk past rows of colorful Victorian homes and stop at a cobalt blue, two story one. “Here we are.” We go up several stairs to a porch. He unlocks the front door and we walk into a foyer. Next, I follow him into the living room with fully restored oak floors, and bay windows. He shows me around the two bedrooms and marbled tiled bathrooms. We end up in the kitchen where I’m overcome with melancholy. This is the house we once envisioned one day for ourselves. Only, at the time, we were flat broke. I’m bewildered again. “Did you rob a bank or what? This place is gorgeous.” “Let’s just say, I saw the future.” I’m left clueless by his remark. So I let it go and scour the room for photographs of a wife or kids. There’s none, I have to ask. “Do you live here…show more content…
Mark had dropped out of college and worked as a bartender. He also drove a cab for a while until he got robbed at gunpoint. In the house, Mark was known as the angry musician who played loud music all hours of the day and night. And the dude with long curly hair, strung out on psychedelic mushrooms all too often. His behavior frightened the two elderly women who lived on the second floor. They told the owner that Mark took drugs and tried to get him evicted. Though, it never happened. Otherwise, we would not have met on that sunny, Saturday morning. I’d gone shopping at a local co-op where they sold organic fruits and vegetables. When I returned home, Mark was seated on the front steps of the house we lived in playing his guitar. I stopped to listen. His voice sounded mediocre. However, he had charisma and plenty of passion. He played and sang a couple of original songs for me. I applauded, and he asked my name. I told him, and pointed to the third floor. “I live up there.” “Cool,” he said, and strummed his

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