Mr. Berzerkeley: The Naked Mayor of Berkeley

By Jack McLaughlin

Ask anyone: Jim Sain is a pompous, naked, free thinker. Hes also the mayor of Berkeley.

One of his high school chums has moved back to renovate Hamilton House, one wacky adventure at a time, and who knows whats coming next? The mayor has been dubbed mR. bERZERKELEY by a cartoonist who is determined to embarrass him (and undermine his bid for reelection). His personal life is as colorful as his political life. He gives his detractors plenty of fodder to fuel his demise (but in his eyes, these are not signs of moral weakness).

In this spoof that cheerfully brings the sixties into the twenty-?rst century, Jims bu?oonery as he interacts with boarding-house residents creates a wild smorgasbord of political, mysterious, sexual, and otherwise edgy adventures. A cartoonist, a nave freshman, a reformed prostitute, lesbian lovers, a sarcastic cook, the deformed son of a university bigwig, and a Kansas politician are some of the characters who spark energy back into the old house and bring classic Berkeley lore back to life.

mR. bERZERKELEY is Jack McLaughlins love song to a city like no other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469751627

Jack McLaughlin

Jack McLaughlin had a distinguished career as a California school district superintendent and Nevada state superintendent. He has won numerous awards in many literary genres as well as Writer of the Year. Harold Lea Brown is an award-winning screenwriter, playwright, producer, and author. He has won several Writer of the Year awards and gives back to the storytelling community by sponsoring awards for young writers. The two authors were named Co-Writers of the Year at the 2019 Action on Film MegaFest in Las Vegas.

Book preview

PART ONE

REELECTION

Chapter 1

Business as Usual

The smells of diesel mix with those of fish near the San Francisco wharf as salmon and crab boats get ready to make their move in the early morning. The fragrance of baking bread breaks through the wharf smells from time to time, announcing the arrival of another day, another good meal, and another great glass of wine in the romantic, rebellious, and left-leaning jewel of the West.

While the Bay Bridge begins to fill and cars and trucks creep through the MacArthur Maze and the toll plaza coming into the city, a double-decker tour bus moves slowly across the lower deck, heading toward the East Bay at a slow, steady pace.

Inside the bus, a female African American tour guide with a Bay Tours logo on her sweater holds a microphone. Everyone have coffee or hot chocolate? Love this beautiful San Francisco morning? Nothing like this in the Midwest, where you all come from, is there? By noon, that wonderful, warm sun you see rising in the east will chase the fog away.

Groans from the tourists are coupled with their low chatter as they peer from the windows.

That’s Alcatraz over there, the guide says, bending down and looking north across the water through bridge trusses. And coming up is Treasure Island, site of the 1940 World’s Fair, built on landfill dredged up from the bay. Until recently, it has been used exclusively by our armed forces. Only in the last couple of years has housing been opened for low-income families and college students.

I ended my WWII service there, an elderly man yells. It looked like heaven to me.

Yes, you and thousands of others, the guide says. Treasure Island still is a special place.

The bus passes through the Yerba Buena tunnel.

Sit back and relax, she says. We are going to the East Bay, Berkeley, Alameda, and Oakland. Don’t worry, the bridge has been fixed since the earthquake and the new bridge is almost ready. How many were watching the World Series when the bridge collapsed?

A few hands go up.

Scared the living you-know-what out of me! the guide jokes. Anyway, we will visit Berkeley first where the residents were probably so involved in mind-altering activities—if you know what I mean—they probably never felt the quake! Then we’ll see the university, the Lawrence Hall of Science, Telegraph Avenue, and the infamous People’s Park, where the Peace Movement started.

The bus moves past the toll plaza, follows Highway 80 east, and works its way to Ashby. To the bus’s left, a retreating tide exposes the mud and several driftwood structures leading toward the open bay and San Francisco. To the right, the controversial People’s Republic of Berkeley looms with the Campanile and its large clock in the middle of the university standing tall in front of rising, tree-covered Berkeley Hills.

The bus turns on Ashby. There are almost no big chains or wholesale stores in the city limits, the guide says. Berkeley likes its independence and its small businesses, and its residents fight tooth and nail when a large conglomerate tries to move in.

The bus passes a school on the right. That’s Malcolm X Elementary School. It’s one of the highest achieving schools in the Bay Area, known for teaching Shakespeare, music, drama. I had two cousins who went there, she says proudly.

An elderly white woman asks, Malcolm X? Is he the one …?

Yes, the guide answers. Malcolm X was a controversial individual and highly valued by Berkeley citizens.

The tour bus turns left on Martin Luther King Jr. Way. And this street used to be ‘Grove’ in the old days before being changed to honor Martin Luther King Jr.

What is the population of Berkeley, anyhow? a second elderly man says. Isn’t it all college kids and professors?

Hardly! the tour guide exclaims. The flatlands, or flats, have folks that look like me, and the hills are generally white. But the way things are these days, especially in Berkeley, there’s a lot of mixing going on."

The bus moves north on MLK. On the right you see the famous Berkeley High. A lot of very famous people graduated from here, including me, the guide says. I am a Yellowjacket and will be one forever. When I went here most of my teachers were college professors on strike from the university.

The tour bus waits for several backpack-wearing African American and white students to cross the street, then turns east on Allston Way. This is the north side of the high school, and we are approaching the Community Theater, the largest stage west of the Mississippi and the place where top entertainment brings the whole bay together. I saw Bette Midler there a few months ago, the guide says. She was fantastic!

An elderly lady looking out the bus window opposite the Community Theater yells, There’s a naked man … walking!

A gasp hits the tourists as all eyes glance through bus windows. A female tourist covers her young daughter’s eyes with a hand, which the daughter pulls down after a few seconds.

That is the Mayor of Berkeley, Jim Sain, heading to City Hall for another day leading Berkeley, the guide says with a sigh.

His nakedness, Mayor Jim Sain—born, bred, and schooled in Berkeley— shows no signs of his fifty years as his fully tanned six-foot frame strides athletically on the sidewalk. The sounds his Birkenstocks make are in sync with the sounds of the city. A backpack moves only slightly on his bare back and square shoulders. The full head of black curly hair and the warm smile on his face hides the Jagermeister binge and several joints he smoked last night at People’s Park and in his beer and pizza place, The Hole, just off the university campus. This is definitely not the Midwest, an elderly woman says as she stares.

He is not breaking any laws or city ordinances, the guide says. He probably has his clothes in his backpack, so he technically is ‘wearing’ clothes.

Are there … others like him here? an older female adjusting her scarf asks.

Oh, yes, the guides answers. He is the leader of the ‘naked people,’ and they are always looking for recruits. You want to volunteer?

Heavens no! He must be crazy. It’s too cold, the now blushing elderly woman says.

She won’t even look at herself naked in the mirror, an elderly man sitting next to her says.

The tour bus turns left on Milvia. Mayor Sain waves at the double-decker as it passes him, all faces pressed up to windows. He approaches two Pendleton-shirt-wearing lesbians holding hands walking the other way.

Good morning, Mayor Sain says with a smile.

Beautiful morning, Mayor Sain, and thank you for singing and performing at our wedding.

Have a nice day, Mrs. and Mrs. It was a beautiful ceremony, he says, smiling.

Mayor Sain passes three backpack-wearing students heading to high school who walk on as if nothing were unusual. As cars pass, no one ogles him. It is no big deal for them or him—business as usual.

The tour bus has stopped. Several continue to stare back at the Mayor as he heads up the steps of City Hall. Does he always walk … that way? a middle-age woman asks.

He’s been mayor for three terms and is running for a fourth this November, the guide answers. Yes, he does walk that way often. He believes that clothes keep him from being free.

This place is crazy, an elderly man says.

As the tour bus moves on, naked Mayor Sain grabs the handle of a tall glass door, pulls it open, and disappears inside City Hall.

Chapter 2

Going Home

It’s a gorgeous late summer afternoon on manmade Lake Quivira, Kansas. Pontoon boats dot the lake surrounded by estate-style homes. Only two square acres, the exquisite community offers upscale living, great fishing and water skiing, and an escape from urban Kansas City, a few miles away.

Winston and Babe Churchill moved to Lake Quivira from Kansas City when their children, Billy and Katrina, were teenagers, using a portion of Babe’s inheritance. Their impressive tree-lined estate has a year-round boathouse on the water, a two-story sprawling main residence with large double-paned windows, and a two-bedroom guest house accented by a circular, curving driveway off the two-lane access road that follows the lake’s shoreline.

Winston—Winnie to everyone except his political enemies—was born in Berkeley and attended Berkeley schools with his chums Jim Sain and Willie Williams. Following the sudden death of his parents and a period of homelessness, he was taken in by Jim Sain’s mother, Bessie, the cook and general shit-disturber at Hamilton House, a boarding establishment a block from the university campus. After finishing high school, he was admitted conditionally to the university, where he graduated with honors and was admitted to Boalt Hall to study law. Before starting a job with a San Francisco firm, Winnie decided to see America. On his road trip, he stopped for gas in Kansas City. After meeting Babe, also fueling her car at the same station, he never returned west, joining her father’s law firm and eventually becoming a political star after switching parties. First he was elected to the City Council, then to the Legislature, then the Senate, and finally appointed as the Governor’s Chief of Staff. As he reached his fiftieth birthday, he took a look at his future and decided to take a break and fulfill his dream of returning to his birthplace.

Babe, who always loved him unconditionally agreed to give him his dream—for a little while. She would not give up her dream of someday moving into the White House with her ruggedly handsome, politically savvy husband. An only child born into Kansas City wealth, Barbara Coleman, or Babe, had the best of everything: intelligence, beauty, and confidence. But what set her apart from the snobbish upper class surrounding her in school and society was the ability to enjoy folks from all walks of life. When Winnie showed up at the gas station and asked for directions, it was as if a lightning bolt struck her between the eyes. The nonassuming, self-effacing young man from Berkeley had no choice but to buy her a cup of coffee and agree to sleep overnight in Babe’s family guesthouse. Winnie could not resist her magnetic charms and she his forthright attitude. After that night, no one would ever be able to get them apart.

Winston Churchill’s Yellowjacket pontoon craft moves slowly in the middle of the lake, followed by a rented pontoon boat carrying a two-member camera crew. Winnie and Babe sit at one end with a young white female reporter holding a microphone and a white male cameraman at the other. Winnie guides the Yellowjacket cleanly through the water while they conduct the interview.

This is KNKC coming to you from Lake Quivira, home of Winston Churchill, Kansas lawyer, former legislator, Governor’s former Chief of Staff, and possible candidate for Governor. Yesterday afternoon he made the startling announcement that he is taking a leave of absence to return to his native Berkeley. Isn’t that right, Mr. Churchill?

Winnie, call me Winnie. I’ve got to get used to that, because I’m going back to where that was the only name people knew me by.

So, you are actually going to leave all this behind and go back to Berkeley? the reporter asks.

Yes, for a little break, Winnie says. I can smell the garlic and sea breeze already. I have been thinking of going back for a while. Now seems like a good time, before I must decide on running for Governor.

He wants to get it out of his system, Babe interrupts, rolling her eyes. I’m tired of him always moaning and groaning about old times and Berkeley. Maybe we can both get it out of our systems. I can hardly wait.

You don’t sound as thrilled about leaving, the reporter says, pushing the microphone toward her. Are you having second thoughts?

She is making a big sacrifice. That’s why I love her, Winnie says, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek.

What makes you so worried about Berkeley, Mrs. Churchill? the reporter asks. I mean, there’s San Francisco, no snow, and you have the West Coast.

I am just thinking about the stories, the ones he tells and the ones I read.

Such as?

You know, the protesters, pot-smoking druggies, naked people, the do-anything-we-want attitude, the left of the lefties, Babe says. Here in my home state we live an orderly, happy life. I don’t know if I can adjust.

Have you ever been there? the reporter says, pushing the microphone closer.

No, I haven’t. I guess I shouldn’t judge the place before I give it a chance. All he thinks about is Berkeley, Berkeley, Berkeley. Even our boat, the Yellowjacket, is named after Berkeley High School’s mascot. I’m not giving up this lake and the home we have lived in for years for who-knows-what in Berkeley. I am not giving up Kansas. And if he does decide to run for Governor …

Are you ready to announce? the reporter says, thrusting the microphone back toward Winnie. That would make my day.

I have no plans to run at the moment. I want to take this time off so we can consider the rest of our lives.

What are you going to do there, in Berkeley? I mean, after your long political career and the controversies with your archrival, Bertha Potts. I hear she’s from Berkeley too. Is that true?

Yes. We were in the third grade together—Columbus Elementary.

It’ll be a relief to get away from her, won’t it? She criticizes everything you do.

Bertha is entitled to say anything she wants. It’s her right.

So, no politics for a while? the reporter says.

I may help an old friend with his reelection while I’m there—that’s all.

Mrs. Churchill, what are you going to do?

He bought the old boarding house he lived in after his parents died. Babe says crossing her arms.

I lived in there through high school and Cal, Winnie says enthusiastically. It’s a great old three-story Victorian, a block from the university, with lots of rooms for boarders. After we fix it up we’re going to be house parents.

From State Senator, Governor’s Chief of Staff, and possible candidate for Governor to housedad and housemom. That is quite a story.

The housemom part is questionable, Babe says.

I also bought Babe an art store. It was supposed to be a surprise.

An art store? Babe says, sitting up straight and staring at Winnie. Why, you old fox!

You always wanted one, didn’t you? Winnie says, smiling sheepishly.

Sounds like you’re going to stay more than just a little while, you two.

Winnie’s cell rings. He listens, then folds it. That was the Governor’s staff reminding us not to be late for the farewell roast, Winnie says, leaning back. I’m sure he can’t wait to spin a few stories. Can you imagine the Berkeley jokes?

Can we check in with you from time to time in Berkeley? the reporter asks.

My life has always been an open book, Winnie says looking straight at the cameraman.

Reporting from Lake Quivira, this is KNKC with an exclusive interview with Winston Churchill, perhaps the next Kansas Governor and the newest resident of Berkeley, California.

*   *   *

In a downtown Kansas City business suite with dark-paneled walls, a wet bar, and munchies on a glass topped table, Bertha Potts, wearing a black two-piece outfit with three-inch black heels, watches the television interview with men wearing dark suits. All are in their sixties and older, paunchy, and smell of money.

Bertha’s elongated neck is accentuated by piling her brunette hair on top of her head in a bun. A natural smirk formed by the downward arc of her lips projects an anti-everyone-who-doesn’t-want-what-she-wants attitude. Her hatred of anything Winnie does also comes naturally, having been born in Berkeley and attending elementary school with him, Jim Sain, and Willie Williams. The experience was so traumatic that her parents moved to Kansas City, where she blossomed into one of the state’s leading conservative political advocates. When Winnie arrived in Kansas the need for revenge became her lifelong calling and she has gone to all ends throughout her adult life to bring him down. To date, she has been unsuccessful.

He’s going back to Berkeley to help his commie son-of-a-bitch school chum Jim Sain, get reelected, Bertha snarls. Two of a kind. It’ll be third grade all over again.

Isn’t his friend already the Mayor, the one who walks around naked, smoking pot?

His friend has complete control of the City Council by one vote, Bertha growls. He is Berkeley and everything left of the lefties. Winston turns my stomach. Jim Sain gives me the runs.

I hear he taxes the hell out of businesses to finance abortions, feed worthless street people, and keep major retail out, an aging, beer-bellied, balding man says, moving from side to side in a soft chair.

I know Jim Sain like the back of my hand, Bertha says, holding up both hands. He represents everything we conservatives oppose. If we could take him out it would be a signal to the rest of the nation—and the world—that our way is the best way.

And the most profitable, a slight, wiry, gray-haired man says, rubbing his chin.

To us, says a third man, sucking on an unlighted cigar and smiling.

We take him out and we could severely taint Winston Churchill by association, Bertha says, rubbing her chin in thought. Brilliant. Knock out two weirdos with one stone. I like it!

Don’t you still own a home there? one of the men asks.

I’ve been paying Berkeley the taxes that bastard keeps raising, Bertha says, looking at the television.

The Central Committee will give you all the money you need to take over Berkeley, the cigar-sucking man says. Imagine, the liberals’ poster child. What a triumph.

I know we can get some national money too, the balding man says, wiping sweat from his brow.

I would have to be mayor to make the changes we want, you know, Bertha says, looking at the men.

Bertha Potts for Mayor! the slight man says. Glasses filled with whiskey are picked up, raised in a toast, and emptied as Bertha turns her stare back to the television.

Mr. Naked and Winnie the Pooh! Bertha growls You pot-smoking, commie bastards. You are mine. Bertha downs her drink and reaches for a crystal decanter to pour another round.

Chapter 3

Welcome Back!

The six-story Berkeley City Hall sits on Milvia, one long block west of Shattuck Avenue and across Allston Way from Berkeley High School. The tall rectangular structure with few architectural features is one block east of Martin Luther King Jr. Way, separated by a park and an ornamental water fountain. The seismically unsafe old City Hall, with a Pergola atop and architectural features of an early-twentieth-century building, sits on the west side of Martin Luther King Jr. Way. The old building is the meeting place for the multitude of televised Berkeley committees and commissions.

As the naked Mayor Sain enters Berkeley City Hall, the first-floor is buzzing with the usual complainants, homeless people, parking meter violators, and local politicians. Uniformed African American police officers greet them all and answer questions. Still wearing his backpack, Mayor Sain stops at a desk.

Good morning, Mr. Mayor, Alice says, a broad smile across her face.

Good morning, Alice. I hope everyone is well at home.

Everyone except James, Alice says, waving one hand at the Mayor as if pushing off. He coughed all night and kept me awake. My man’s got the flu or something.

Get him to Alta Bates and put it on my tab, Mayor Sain says, reaching out and touching her shoulder. And you, take some time off and get some sleep.

Thank you, Mr. Mayor, Alice says, holding her stacked black hair with one hand. You have a great day, and stay out of trouble.

I don’t know if that’s possible in Berkeley, my dear Alice, the Mayor says. Say hello to James and the children for me.

I will, I certainly will, Alice says.

Your tan is getting almost as dark as mine, she says.

Just got back from windsurfing Hawaii, Mayor Sain says. Scorched my butt!

Naked Mayor Sain walks toward the elevator. He presses a button, watches the pointed dial over the doors stop at one, walks inside the open door, and stands next to two African American women his genitals flopping around as he turns to greet them.

Is everything going well in the traffic division, young ladies? he says, looking at the lighted buttons.

Yes, Mr. Mayor, one of the ladies says. We had a great day yesterday, almost set a record for violations.

Super! Must have been a lot of out-of-towners here for the play. I told the City Council that raising the time limit on the parking meters to eight at night would bring in the loot and save jobs.

You were right again, Mr. Mayor, the second young lady says. You are always right.

Ha! Tell that to some of the Council members. My little johnny hasn’t hung to the right on any issue in a long time.

You sure are a joker, Mr. Mayor, the first young lady says. You got us on that one.

The elevator opens, and the two women walk out, leaving the Mayor alone to ride up one floor to the top of City Hall. The Mayor exits the elevator and walks down a hallway toward his office. He passes a well-dressed African American female who doesn’t look up. He continues to walk and opens a door with Mayor Jim Sain in the middle of a cut glass window. He shuts the door behind him and walks past Queen, his secretary. African American, in her forties, well-dressed and shapely, Queen’s sole objective is to keep her boss on track and electable in spite of himself. Mayor Sain passes through another closed door into his office with windows on two sides overlooking downtown Berkeley. Queen has followed him into his office and hands him a steaming cup of coffee once he sits down behind his glass-topped wooden desk.

Thank you, Queen. Mayor Sain sighs. What would I do without you?

Probably be homeless like your friends, I suppose, Queen says sarcastically. And me, I’d get a good night’s sleep and not worry about how you have offended most everybody in town at one time or another.

I can always count on your honesty. What do we have today? Any of the blogs interesting?

The count for you installing parking meters in front of the Emergency Clinic is forty-five for and forty-four against, she says.

See, the Mayor says, and laughs. I knew I would win that one.

After you lost meters in front of the coffee houses you are one out of two, Queen says.

Five hundred is a great batting average in any league, Mayor Sain says. My schedule?

The Berkeley Advocates Association in an hour, a Chinese delegation in an hour and a half, University Chancellor Lim at noon, and Mr. Jefferson will be here about stirring up a protest at three, Queen says.

Any time to visit the tree sitters up at the stadium? Mayor Sain asks.

You might be able to fit them in before the Chancellor, Queen says. Those old trees … gives me nothing but hay fever thinking about them. If it were me I’da cut ’em all down yesterday.

They are living things, Queen, Mayor Sain says. They are alive—just like you and me—free and alive. What do the right-winger sheep want?

Mr. Coolidge says it is a surprise, Queen says, crossing her arms. And you got to stop calling the Berkeley Advocates Association ‘the sheep.’ That really pisses them off!

A surprise? the Mayor laughs. Everything the sheep do is a surprise—trying to turn Berkeley into a conservative sanctuary. Imagine, Berkeley …

You’d better put on some clothes, Queen says, arms crossed. I don’t know about Mr. Coolidge, but the Chinese might decide to take their business to Oakland or Richmond gawking at your privates. And if you go visit the sitters, the reporters are sure to be there and won’t take any pictures of you ‘free and alive.’ And don’t forget, your old friend Winston Churchill and his wife arrive tonight.

Pooh! Mayor Sain yells. Who could forget the Pooh?

Queen walks to a closed door and opens it, displaying a pair of white boxer shorts covered with hearts, khaki pants, a dark blue Cal sweatshirt, and a white T-shirt imprinted with CUBA, all on hangers.

Next time I’m at the park those shorts are in the free box, Mayor Sain says.

They are a Valentine’s present from your old girl friend, aren’t they?

You mean burned-out Sylvia? the Mayor says. I’m sure she forgot already. Thank God Jefferson takes care of her.

The phone on the Mayor’s desk rings. Queen reaches across in front of him. Send him in. Queen hangs up the phone. Mr. Coolidge is here early.

Great! Let’s hear what surprise the leader of the sheep has for me today, Mayor Sain says, slapping both hands on the desk top.

Coolidge, Executive Director of the Berkeley Advocates Association, has good reason to meet with Mayor Sain. His three hundred members pay his salary and set his agenda. Not wanting to pay additional taxes—or any taxes at all—would suit them. Mayor Sain believes that it is a Berkeley responsibility to meet the needs of those who cannot help themselves and that usually takes money. Queen opens the Mayor’s door and motions Coolidge inside. After he passes, Queen shuts the door behind her, but not before looking back at naked Mayor Sain and shaking her head in disgust. Mayor Sain stands to shake hands. After shaking, the Mayor sits down and leans back in a soft fabric swivel chair. Coolidge sits opposite him in a stiff, hard wooden chair.

You’re not here to protest the nonorganic tax again, are you? Mayor Sain says with a smile.

Mayor Sain, I’ve given up. The BAA has given up. You and your four friends on the council are draining all the profits from our businesses, and we have nothing we can do but raise our prices or move to another city.

I have reports showing no slowdown in any of your businesses as a result of any of the necessary taxes we have imposed.

We can debate your methods of collecting data another day. I just know what my three hundred members say. But that’s not why I’m here. We took a vote last night at our meeting and unanimously decided to unseat you at the next election. We have never been this organized or motivated. I am here to forewarn you and give you a chance to pull out before we embarrass you.

Embarrass me? The Mayor laughs. I sit here naked in front of the world and you think you can embarrass me?

We are going all out and have an unlimited supply of money behind us, Coolidge says, crossing his arms. We will beat you.

And who are you going to put in the Mayor’s seat? I ran unopposed the last two times. I know everyone in town, and almost all your BAA members live in rich Piedmont homes.

An old friend of yours is returning to bring order to Berkeley once and for all, Coolidge says coldly. Someone who will reestablish the core values most Americans outside of Berkeley live by. Someone with honor, integrity, and a burning desire to see you off the throne—naked or not.

I give up, the Mayor says, throwing his hands in the air. Who is this saint, this miracle worker?

Your old classmate, Bertha Potts, Coolidge says slowly.

Bertha? Fat Bertha? the Mayor says, laughing. You and the BAA are going to run fat Bertha against me, against what Berkeley stands for? The sheep think Bertha can beat Jim Sain?

I said I was here to offer you the chance to pull out as a courtesy, Coolidge says sternly.

Fat Bertha? Fat Chance! This will be good.

Coolidge stands up and pushes the chair back. They all told me coming here was a bad idea, he says, but I did give you a chance.

With a great belly laugh, Mayor Sain starts to stand up. Coolidge holds out his hands. Please! Seeing you naked once is enough. I just ate breakfast. Another look might just make me dirty up your office and your clean desktop.

Whatever, Mayor Sain says, still laughing as Coolidge quickly departs. He presses his intercom. Queen? Do you have a number where I can reach Pooh? He must be getting on an airplane about now. Baaaaa!

*   *   *

Street lights shine on a long black limousine as it makes its way north on Martin Luther King Jr. Way in heavy traffic. Uniformed Berkeley police officers wearing heavy plastic masks and riot gear and holding night sticks stand on the sidewalk lining Berkeley High. In the distance, a crowd of men and women holding flickering candles walk slowly across the street at the corner of Allston Way and MLK. In the back of the limousine, a window opens and Winnie, wearing his tattered old dark-blue Cal sweatshirt, sticks his head out.

Stop and let me out, Winnie yells. Jim said there was going to be a protest.

Protest what? Babe says, contorting her yellow jumpsuit to get a look. Close the window and get back in here. It’s cold, and I’m tired from the flight. I want to go to this Hamilton House of yours, get a warm cup of coffee or something stronger, and crawl up with a good book.

Come on, Babe, Winnie yells, head still out the window. You’re here now. Come with me and see the real Berkeley. The protest could be over anything, maybe even Bertha Potts now.

I can’t believe the report about her following you back here, Babe says. What did you do to make her hate you so much?

It’s a long story, Winnie says, pulling his head back inside. But I beat her in Kansas and I’ll help Jim beat her here too.

We were supposed to unwind, restore an old house, watch a friend’s daughter, and help her start her freshman year, Babe says, throwing herself back against a leather seat. You’ll be gone like you have been the last thirty years.

I promise things will be different. Would you please unlock my door! Winnie yells at the African American driver.

You sure you want out? the driver questions. It’s Berkeley crazy out there. Anything can happen and usually does. I know. I grew up here. There was a time folks with my suntan weren’t allowed on the east side of Grove.

I grew up here too, in the flats, Winnie says, looking out the window again. I remember. Times have changed.

Berkeley is still Berkeley, the driver says and sighs. Nothing much has changed. Let me pull to the curb.

Naw, Winnie says, half standing. The protesters have stopped the traffic. Let me out.

The door lock makes a loud click. Please take my wife to Hamilton House.

Winnie leans over and pecks Babe on the cheek and grabs her right breast at the same time. See you later. I love you.

My God! Get out of here, you little kid! Babe shoves Winnie through the door, shutting it quickly behind him. Winnie watches the limousine move slowly away and sees Babe’s worried glance in the window as he stands between two Berkeley police officers in full riot gear.

Did either of you see where the Mayor is?

You mean His Nakedness? one officer says with a smirk.

The one and only.

Around by the Community Theater door, I suppose, the other officer says.

What’s the occasion?

Who knows? an officer says. We get prepared for anything around here.

Why the riot gear and long sticks?

We got bomb dogs, snipers, all kinds of weapons too—just in case, one officer says, bringing one elbow to his side. This is just another night in good old Berkeley.

And goddamn good overtime, the other officer says.

Winnie works his way up MLK toward Allston Way, where the candle holding protesters are now singing and chanting. He is handed a lighted candle and joins in moving slowly around the corner, up Allston Way toward the Community Theater and a large crowd that has spilled onto the street and into the park. He spots the tall, naked, backpack-wearing Mayor Sain and nudges protesters aside, working his way toward him. Mayor Sain, who is chanting and singing loudly, turns and spots Winnie.

Shit! Pooh, it’s you! the Mayor says. Take off your clothes and it’ll be like old times.

Winnie grabs the Mayor and hugs him. Pretty fuckin’ cold to be wearing your birthday suit, you commie bastard, Winnie yells.

After a couple of juicy ones and a lot of cognac I don’t feel anything.

What’s going on?

The sheep are sponsoring a forum to welcome Bertha back to Berkeley. I and a few of my friends are reminding her what Berkeley is really like and how it’s going to stay. Imagine, fat Mayor Bertha Potts.

I’ve got news for you, Winnie says. Bertha isn’t fat anymore. In fact, she’s a looker.

I do seem to recall you had a crush on her in third grade, Mayor Sain yells. She was as fat as one of mom’s dumplings.

She has been my worst nightmare, Winnie yells. If I had known she was moving to Berkeley, I would have run for Governor.

And leave your old friend Jim hanging? Mayor Sain yells. No way. You got me started on all this by making me moon her in front of the third-grade class.

For a toasted peanut butter sandwich, as I recall, Winnie yells.

Best sandwich I ever had, the Mayor yells with a smile. I came out of my shell. I was the ugliest and dopiest boy in school, and look at me now—the Mayor of Berkeley.

Better known as the naked Mayor of Berkeley, and she and her conservative friends are out to get you, Winnie yells.

With me out they can control the Council and change Berkeley, Mayor Sain says. The Berkeley we know is in danger of extinction. You have to help me fight Bertha and the sheep, old friend.

I promised Babe I wouldn’t spend all my time politicking, Winnie yells.

A bottle is in the air, street light bouncing off as it spins, heading toward the Mayor’s head. Winnie sees it coming. Hey, look out! Winnie yells as he pushes the Mayor out of the way. The bottle hits him in the head, knocking him to the sidewalk with a thud.

Shit, the Mayor says, bending over cradling Winnie’s bleeding head in his hands. Need some help here! Man down!

*   *   *

It is late, and one-way tree lined Durant Street has the traffic moving toward Telegraph Avenue and the fraternity and sorority houses on Piedmont. A Berkeley Police car stops at the curb of the large three-story Victorian Hamilton House, set back behind a small lawn and a row of thick bushes. A boarding house since its glory days at the turn of the century, Hamilton House had seen its share of students, singles, partners, and newcomers to Berkeley. Scaffolding and a large trash bin out front in the street signal remodeling is finally happening.

Police Sergeant Willie Williams, born in Berkeley and a schoolmate of Winnie, Jim Sain, and Bertha Potts, has taken his own path as an adult with far different results. After sustaining a knee injury ending his university football career, he chose his childhood sweetheart, Esmeralda, over finishing college and became a Berkeley cop instead of a physical education teacher. Five children and a divorce later, Willie finds himself constantly walking a fine line between his police duties and supervisors and his old friends, especially the Mayor.

Mayor Sain, dressed in khakis and a dark-blue Cal sweatshirt, steps from the back seat of the squad car. Willie, in full uniform, steps from the driver’s seat. Both reach inside and grab Winnie, his head heavily bandaged, from the back seat and lift him out holding him up. Babe opens