I don’t heart Santa Cruz

It’s interesting that Zora is in Santa Cruz. I don’t like Santa Cruz. In fact, in all my travels in the whole wide world, there’s only one place that’s ever bothered me enough to write bad things about it. I wrote this, to no one in particular, around 1996 after spending 2 or 3 days in Santa Cruz.

I just hope Zora gets out before it’s too late. But I fear. I fear.

The Body Snatchers Invade California

Aliens have taken over Santa Cruz

Some people suspect there might be a few aliens living among us. Given all the billions of “people” in the world, wouldn’t it be surprising if there weren’t any aliens? And a few aliens can surely add to the rich cultural diversity of a neighborhood: a new-age store here, a health-food grocery co-op there.

Now aliens aren’t bad people. But there aren’t a whole lot in most big cities and small towns. And where there are many—in places like Madison, Wisconsin, or Austin, Texas—they tend to be good neighbors: low crime rate, active in volunteer associations, politically liberal, and they desperately want to get along with the rest of us. But it’s a plot. And it’s too late for Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz has fallen.

Santa Cruz appears to be a little utopia. As the “people” who live there are quick to tell you. In some ways it was everything: ocean, beach, water, mountains, nature, a downtown, bike paths, public transportation. There is even a choice in movie theaters and you can buy the New York Times.

To get to Santa Cruz, you have to cross a small mountain range from San Jose, South of San Francisco, California. For two days in February, I went “over the hill.” Alien are everywhere. But even in Santa Cruz there are a few real humans left—the crazy man begging for beer money must be human; so is the punk with his dog, guitar, and natty girl-friend—most are homeless on the street. The earthquake a few years back gave human employment a boost. Humans seem willing to take jobs—construction, garbage pick-up—that aliens don’t want.

Signs of the aliens are everywhere: the streets are garbage free, there is no graffiti, the people are clean, healthy, too healthy, too skinny, too white.

I walk into a store and a pleasant kid with a well-scrubbed face greets me. A little head tilt and the face piercing gleam seductively. “How are you today,” she asks slowly, caringly. Does she care? How much are they paying her? Maybe she does. She is cute. I wonder how old she is? Why is she staring at me? “Uh, fine. Thanks,” I say, trying to play it cool.

Her eyes haven’t moved, haven’t blinked. “If you need anything, or have any questions, just let me know. O.K.?” I pause, unsure. She looks so inviting. I’m sweating. I imagine when under stress, she gently exudes lavender essence.

Her eyes haven’t moved. It’s not easy, but I look down. That was close. I browse quickly, upset there’s no one else in the store. I don’t even know what they sell; I don’t care. It’s too obvious I’m not one of them. The cute girl pretends to ignore me, humming a seductive lullaby.

I leave, a bit too quickly, and stumble into the street. A few well-placed cars glide to a safe stop and wait. I’m not far from the cross-walk. I cut a diagonal, making things worse.

I’m on the sidewalk and the sun is bright. Why don’t I have my sunglasses? People look at me and smile as I pass. Why are they smiling? Why do they always make eye-contact? Flyers on the designated posting area advertise new-age therapy, massage, used furniture, music lessons, neutered animals. Good things all. Someone asks me for change.

Then I see the Bud Lite sign. Why didn’t I see it before? Aliens don’t drink Bud Lite. I run in, past the kids lawfully smoking outside. The beer sign buzzes a bit too loudly. It’s a greasy pizza joint. Why aren’t there more of them? I feel safe. I get a burger, fries, and a beer, then two. It goes down well. I sit far from the window.

There are mostly humans here. Aliens don’t eat deep-fried; they don’t eat flesh; they don’t drink beer. These are real people here! But they don’t see the danger. They’ve been here too long. I think of telling them. But I notice the crazy man talking to himself, or the ketchup. I don’t want to end up like him.

At night I return to my friend’s place. Oil lamps are lit and we eat vegetarian Szechuan food with chopsticks (no MSG, of course). Mineral water from the bottle. It’s time to go to bed and I can’t refuse. We’ve slept together before. But never in Santa Cruz.

It’s like “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I crawl into her comfy little loft and she gently touches me. It feels wonderful. Of course it does. I face the other way. Rain is falling outside. I don’t sleep. It is warm in bed. I don’t dare fall asleep.

In the morning I’m tired and drink coffee. Good coffee. Brown sugar “in the raw.” There are muffins of grains. Many, many grains. The weather is pleasant and un-noteworthy. So is the conversation. I taste nothing.

During the day, I am briefly left alone. I head for the highway, for “the hill.” It can’t be far. Cars zoom around me and I start running. Faster, running tired, very very tired.