I was downtown collecting my paycheck that day. My employers' office was on Market Street around Second Avenue on the fifth floor of an old brick building. Let me emphasize that: upstairs in a brick building on landfill. Just about the least stable combination you want to be dealing with in a serious quake. I had my Walkman with me, and was listening to the World Series game being played at Candlestick while I waited for the paychecks to be disbursed. There were about a dozen other temp workers picking up their checks. Suddenly, the floor started shaking and I heard a low rumble.

"Earthquake!" a few people said cheerfully, obviously long time residents. No one bothered moving, veterans of the constant earth movements in this part of the country. A few seconds later we all realized it wasn't just a quick thump or two. "Into the doorways!" several of us yelled, and the majority got under the strong door beams. The rumbling was getting louder. My worry ramped up into cold fear. I looked over at the windows and noted dispassionately that they were bowing in and out as the building torqued. A woman from the midwest would not get herself to safety and ran around the office yelling panicky curses. Someone finally grabbed her and pushed her under a desk. The rolling movement went on, and on, and on. We heard glass breaking, cars honking, and screaming from the street.

"Goddamn it," I thought, offended and angry, "I don't want to die like this!" I had no doubt it was a good possibility, though, as the quake lengthened: 7 seconds, 10, 15. It was going on too long, and I knew I was in a very bad situation because of the building's placement in the city. The woman from the midwest was volubly freaking out under the desk. The rest of us held on to one another, or prayed, or watched the windows in dread fascination. Then the lights went out, and the earthquake stopped.

"No one move just yet!" I yelled, knowing there would be a second temblor which might be just as bad as the first. People were sensible, waited, talked about getting down the stairs. A couple minutes later (or so it seemed, but I really don't know how long it was) the second one hit, rattling the windows and everyone's nerves. It was short, so we decided to move out after that. Someone formed us up into a chain going down the five flights of stairs in the dark as carefully and as quickly as possible. I repeated the information from the radio as reports came in. Sirens were wailing as we poured out of the doorway onto Market.

All the lights were out. The city was without power. I saw the sunset's glow extend far above the horizon for the first time ever in San Francisco. I was in shock but calm, as always, in an emergency. I walked up Market Street for a ways, then cut over to a street that didn't have overhead streetcar lines, wanting to avoid possible electrocution from live wires. "I'll have to walk home," I thought numbly. "I can't cash my check, the ATMs aren't working. I don't have any money, and I couldn't find a cab in this mess anyway." I lived in the far corner of the city out by Lake Merced. It was probably a five mile walk home, maybe more, and the sun was down. I had no way of reaching John who was at Stanford. I didn't know if the phones were working anyway.

It was dreamlike, that walk home. It was like the aftermath of every alien invasion movie you've ever seen, and something like Depression era movies, too. Crowds huddling on the corners, wild rumors going around ("Hundreds dead! Bay Bridge collapsed!"), cars speeding recklessly through the streets, and night coming on. I stared mutely at the shattered windows of the Opera House, passed on what information I had to strangers who stopped me seeing I had a radio, saw citizens directing traffic at major intersections and everyone obeying them. I was fascinated to see the stars coming out behind the black silhouettes of buildings.

Somewhere near the Haight an old friend, Murph, spotted me and bundled me into his car to drive me home. He dropped me off just as John arrived home, frantic with worry. We rushed into our apartment and gathered a few things. Every tremor set my nerves on edge as my shock subsided and the reality of the situation sank in. Did you ever wonder what you would grab if you only had ten minutes to get something and get out? Here's what I took, in the dark, hoping the building wouldn't come down around my head: my winter coat, clean underwear, a bottle of wine, and my brand new, very expensive wedding shoes. Remember, I was getting married in four days.

We spent the night down the peninsula at Allen Baum and Donya White's house in Palo Alto on nice, safe bedrock. They took in several other refugees from the city. The bottle of wine came in very handy; everyone was so badly upset that even the minor tremors caused panic throughout that very long night. I made two phone calls: to my parents for obvious reasons, and to the Nielsen Haydens to say we were okay. I wanted someone to get the word to the fannish network.

In the next couple of days everything settled down, and the wedding went forward. We were married by Denise Rehse, newly minted as a Universal Life Church minister, at the San Leandro home of Pam Davis and Terry Floyd in front of 50 family members and friends. Everyone wore Hawaiian shirts at our request, and the minister wore a genuine Tahitian pareu. Our vows were very short, non-traditional, and heartfelt. Everyone ate shrimp, and chicken satay, and sweet and sour pork, washing it down with sodas and beer. Our chocolate wedding cake had two plastic elephants on it instead of a bride and groom. Our friends surprised us by presenting us with a computer, the amazing FrankenLisaSE. It was the best party I've ever been to in my life.

Then we moved to Nashville, because that's where John got a job, and you know how the rest of the story goes if you've read this diary's archives. Eventually we came back, and we're going to buy a home down here on bedrock, even though I miss living in the City. The little quakes we've had in the last two years haven't bothered me at all. And I still have my wedding shoes, as beautiful as the day we wed.

Happy anniversary, John. It doesn't seem like ten years. Here's to many more.

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