Does every town in California have to be named after a saint? Hawkins had one more child, and gave up farming to establish the Bank of Hollister. Eventually, his five children had eleven children among them, and all but one thrived. She was my constant companion, and we loved each other with a devotion I had never known before. He named it the Hazel Hawkins Memorial Hospital. I stood on its white stone steps, wondering what had happened.
But first I had to wait. She was a new arrival, and a talkative one, having high expectations for the Scouts of Hollister. While I waited, I flipped through the brochures on a table in the office. When I got a chance to talk to Taylor, I asked about the golden hills, commending the city for preserving them. Taylor was not so sure she agreed. It might not have been the official chamber-of-commerce line, but Taylor implied that the town would not mind anyone building on the hills.
The recession had been tough, Taylor said, and they were looking for any bright spots. There were too many tattoo parlors, she told me, and she lamented the karate studio that had recently closed under suspicious circumstances.
But, she said, the town would soon have a Walgreens, and everyone was excited about that—no one more so than Debbie Taylor. She asked me what brought me to Hollister, and I told her about T.
Hawkins and my connection to him. I had no idea what she was talking about. She gave me the address—it was far from the site of the original building—and I left, the two of us marvelling at the lucky timing of my visit. They seemed baffled to see me. Then I saw a mother and her middle-school-aged son sitting on a couch, waiting their turn. Loud hip-hop overwhelmed the room. It had been done with a confident hand, and the boy was thrilled.
He and his mother left, and I sat down. He was looking at the back of my head, and his two friends were looking at me. He turned his head side to side, revealing an intricate design that would require regular upkeep. It was the work of an artist. I told the barber to just take an inch off anywhere he saw the need, and he got started.
Another man entered, athletic and tanned, with an array of tattoos on his arms. Then the barber turned to me. It was the question his two friends had been waiting for.
Even the guy on the couch turned around. I told them the story about T. Hawkins coming to this land, about how he built the former hospital where we were sitting, that the structure was dedicated to his granddaughter who had died young. All four men nodded respectfully. Then something happened. The TV was on loud, and there was the stereo, too, so I heard nothing new, but the two friends were suddenly wondering what a certain sound was.
His friend laughed and patted himself down briefly, running his hands over his chest and ample stomach. Now they were looking at me again, and it finally dawned on me that they thought I was a narc. I suddenly remembered the sign in front of the building, indicating that trespassers would be shot, sent to Heaven, etc. The atmosphere was still lighthearted, but the three friends around me were uncomfortable.
It was odd: they continued to be polite to me, and my hair was being cut with great care, all while they were talking about the possible narc in the room as if he were some other person—not me.
Trying to change the subject, I asked Family First and his friend where they were from. Only then did I realize it was the kind of awkward question that a normal person would not ask but that a narc would find brilliant.
One of the guys said he was from Visalia. The barber tilted my head down to work on the back of my neck. When I tilted my head up again, the two friends had gone. He said he was from Gilroy, and he liked it much better there.
The rent was cheap enough, he said. I asked how he stayed in business when there was no sign facing the street. Except for the doormat, there was no sign at all, come to think of it. He said that he had enough customers through word of mouth.
With the utmost professionalism, he trimmed around my ears and brushed the hair from my neck. He removed the bib. The haircut was fifteen dollars, and I paid him and thanked him—the haircut was flawless—but we were both very confused about all that had just transpired.
Hollister, like many towns of its size and socioeconomics, has been affected by gang activity and by the related spike in meth and heroin use. The town had been discussing the possibility of adding police officers to address the drug trade and the gang presence. Gang activity, real and imagined, has a historical echo in Hollister.
In the early part of the twentieth century, the American Motorcyclist Association started the Gypsy Tours, for which bikers were encouraged to hold races, rallies, shows, and picnics. During the Second World War, the rallies were suspended, but afterward they were revived.
The atmosphere, though, was different. Many of the young men returning from Europe and the Pacific were shattered, disillusioned. Men who otherwise would have expected to stay in their rural homes or work in urban factories had now seen the world, had seen unnameable horrors, and were no longer beholden to pedestrian life paths. Motorcycling became more popular than ever, and the rallies became bigger and wilder. The members rode through town, making noise, drinking beer, breaking bottles, and generally causing low-level mayhem.
Police struggled to control the crowds. Rumors of the unruly bikers morphed into rumors of rioting, and six years later Marlon Brando was playing a confused and misunderstood leather-clad young man, caught up in a riot in Hollister.
Soon enough, the Hells Angels took note, and they began to attend yearly gatherings, although the locals were divided on the advantages of their patronage. The celebrations have continued over the years, only occasionally called off owing to lack of interest or the fluctuating tolerance of the town.
There was indeed a rally the following year. After I left the chamber of commerce, I meandered through the town, passing Hazel Street and Hawkins Street and Steinbeck Street, and the middle school and the high school, the students, most of them Latino, finishing the day and heading home. Dune Lower Mall dunelondon. Morphe Lower Mall uk. Pret A Manger Lower Mall pret. Starbucks Lower Mall starbucks. Sports Direct Lower Mall sportsdirect. Shopmobility Lower Mall View store. Superdry Lower Mall superdry.
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