I was living in Point Richmond at the time. I had a very nice one-bedroom apartment with a bonus room that could be closed off for a second bedroom. It was perched near the top of one of the highest hills in the area. The view from the unit wasn’t much, but a short walk outside brought you to a vacant lot with a stunning panorama of the Bay.
It was my third apartment in Point Richmond. This one even had a pool—a small one, maybe three strokes to a lap. Maybe less. But I never used it. It didn’t matter. I had a custom apartment on a hill, and it had a pool.
At this point in my life, I was recovering from an odd marriage and an even odder divorce. I was working hard, staying late. I don’t remember much of a social life. Or weekends. I was buried in books and journals, deep in research on the California Trail.
My work life was… interesting. I supported all the evening faculty—most of whom were part-time, teaching a single class once a week, often driving to two or three campuses to cobble together enough hours. We called them “freeway flyers.” Tough life.
In addition to my regular graphic design duties, I supervised a team of student workers who delivered equipment and media to classrooms. And I operated the only accessible copy machine on campus—essential for last-minute handouts.
Some faculty had taken to using my backdoor as a shortcut from the mailroom to their classrooms. For a few of them, I was the only connection they had to the daytime college. I started each day around 2:00 p.m., but Friday was a full shift. If something important happened on campus, chances are I knew—and passed it along. I was, unofficially, the conduit.
