Roads, Mills, Laps

I was down there working at Suba because my family had this tradition that started with my older brother, Ian. I think it was my mother who thought it up: Larkin boys were to work as janitors for a few good summers—proving to the town that nothing was below us. We could push that sawdust vacuum and wedge ourselves inside the plastic glue booth that brimmed with flecks of fuzzy purple stalactites like the best of them. Ian did it; then I did it; then Chris did it: A proud line of sawdust scoopers we were.

But I really was a horrible janitor. I pushed that sawdust vacuum around the circumference of that idle factory lazily–daydreaming about my 1963 Volkswagon with its Lincoln Log gas pedal and its giant rusted hole my father and I had recently slathered over with a healthy amount of Bondo. After the glue booth ceased its whooshing for the day, it was time for me to jump in there, reluctantly, and clean it. I weeded out back—out where the big wooden pallets faded from the sun; hacking away with a rusted scythe, lopping off only the white heads off those fecund foxtails that sprouted up between the splintered slats.

Were it not for that specific day and that specific time, I’m sure I’d bury this memory; I’d assuredly not surface it here in my first nostalgic column about Benicia. But that day was a memorable one—not just for me, but for the entire Bay Area. If you lived here then, you can probably recall exactly where you were.

I happened to be pushing that monstrous wheeled vacuum when the Loma Prieta earthquake struck. I was wearing big foamy earmuffs and think I was trying to stick the edge of that mummified machine into the smallest of spaces (to avoid having to sweep anything). I didn’t hear it at first: I felt it under my feet. I looked up and saw the factory’s wooden trusses swaying; working themselves out of perfect 45-45-90-degree triangles into obtuse, unstable, dangerous angles. Dust fell from the ceiling; machines rattled. Roger’s trusty welding helmet dropped to the floor and rolled towards me—looking like the decapitated head of Sir Gawain’s Green Knight.

I remembered thinking it was an earthquake and shutting off my vacuum. I panicked; I considered running under a doorjamb. (Mr. Turner, clad in his trademark boat bellbottoms, taught me that important lesson in BHS’ safety class.) But for some reason, I did the opposite of what I should have done: I ran outside.

Suba is very close to the Benicia-Martinez Bridge. The earthquake only lasted 15 seconds, but it may have been 15 minutes. I stared up at the bridge—it shook from side to side. In front of me, the old cobblestones in the parking lot rose and fell in perfect sine waves. I heard a loud roar and then everything became silent. This happened in the days before cell phones—when people actually fell out of communication with one another. The phones at the factory didn’t work so I decided to punch out and drive home.

As I recall, Benicia fared pretty well in that earthquake. I don’t think anyone was seriously hurt. Our freeways and bridges held. We didn’t lose power for that long; water flowed through our taps.