In honor of Jack Hirschman, may his soul roam the streets of San Francisco, as he makes a guest appearance in my unpublished novella Postcard from a Stranger

     

     

     After sitting in the park soaking in the morning heat, we decided to walk around the neighborhood and see if we ran into a beat poet or someone connected to the movement. We said it as a joke, but as we began walking, we’d spot people who fit our stereotype of the beat people, of hippies, their diluted versions, often with long and unkempt hair, a beret or a hat on top, their general attire scruffy and casual looking, a leather jacket or tweed coat with elbow patches. On spotting a person, men in this case, one of us would say, Hey, that’s Ginsberg! Then, as we crossed Columbus near the North Beach Public Library, Ambika elbowed me gently and drove my attention to an older man walking downhill on Chestnut and said, “Now, that’s Jack Hirschman. I can’t believe I recognized him!”

     “Is he a beat poet?” I asked.

     She called his name aloud, “Hi Jack!” waving. He looked across the street and without worrying who we are, waved back with a smile. He’s used to it, I told myself. But, then, he really noticed us, two young, attractive Indian looking women and he visibly cheered up. Good to see ya smilin’!  he hollered as he moved on Columbus Street. 

     “Jim Morrison was his student when he taught at UCLA,” Ambika filled me in.

     “Oh, wow!” I exaggerated my surprise. I had never like The Doors. Not really. Even though I had visited his grave in Paris.

     We crossed over and saw Jack’s diminishing back. He reminded me of a wandering poet in medieval India, like Kabir, his long hair like a mane, a thick rebellious moustache covering his lips, begging bowl in hand. 

     “He’s a poet of the streets and cafes. I used to see him occasionally at Adobe Bookstore on 16th Street. He was friends with the store’s owner Andrew . . .

(An excerpt from Postcard from a Stranger by Moazzam Sheikh)