But I cannot. . . . Fielding’s first hitch got him as far as Ventura, and his second, with a jukebox repairman, landed him in San Félice at the corner of State Street and Highway 101. From there it was only a short walk up to the Velada Café, sandwiched between a pawnshop (we buy and sell anything) and a hotel for transients (rooms without bath, $2.00), modestly called the Ritz. Fielding registered at the hotel and was given a room on the second floor. He had stayed in a hundred rooms like it in his life, but he liked this one better than most, partly because he was feeling excited and partly because he could see through the dirty window the shimmer of sun on the ocean and some fishing boats lying at anchor beyond the wharf. They looked so tranquil and at ease that Fielding had a brief notion of going down and applying for a job as deckhand. Then he remembered that he’d even got seasick on the Staten Island ferry. And there was Muriel now, too. He was a married man with responsibilities; he couldn’t go dashing off on a boat with Muriel expecting him home….
