In the Shape of a Man

by Paul Clayton

  Now what the hell had happened to them? He put the van in gear and slowly edged its nose out into the street. He wished he could go back in time to that day. A horn blared as a beat-up old Toyota passed. The driver, a young man about twenty who was the same brown color as Reynaldo, yelled something in Spanish. His muscled chest was bared aggressively as he flipped Allen the bird. Allen clenched his jaw as he stomped on the gas and sped down the street after him. His pulse raced. It seemed like everybody in the whole goddamned fucking world was on his case or in his face, ‘dissin’ him, as the kids said. He had to fight back. He wanted to catch this guy and hit him—hard.

  Allen held the accelerator to the floor and the van shot forward. The kid was only two cars ahead. The car in front of Allen slowed for a couple that had started to walk across the street. Allen cursed and beeped the horn, going around them, ignoring their looks of angry incredulity. His breathing was rapid, his heart thumping as he attempted to close the gap. The Toyota was about five car lengths ahead. It glided through the light at Grand Avenue just before it turned red. The car disappeared around the bend.

  “Christ,” said Allen, braking hard for the light. The pursuit at an end, his senses began returning to him and he saw an old Hispanic man on the curb glaring at him angrily. On the sidewalk, a couple of teens were laughing as they discussed something excitedly, probably his failed pursuit.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said under his breath. “What the fuck am I doing?”

  He drove slowly back toward home.

  Chapter 16

  Rad got off the SamTrans bus on El Camino and started up the hill to Wayne Spencer’s apartment on F Street. Wayne was about twenty years older than Rad and lived in Colma next to the Woodlawn Cemetery. Wayne drove a limousine for a living and wrote novels in his spare time. He had driven Rad and his date and one other couple to their El Camino High School senior graduation party eight years earlier. As Rad walked up the hill, he remembered that night, some of it anyway, the parts before he and the others had started drinking heavily. In the early part of the evening he hadn’t paid much attention to Wayne. He was just a pair of uninterested eyes occasionally noticed in the limo’s rearview mirror as they passed the bottle around in the back and laughed and talked. On the way back from the party they stopped at a bar in Daly City. Rad had been mildly drunk by then and didn’t remember some of what happened next. They were sitting at a table when Jim, the male half of the other couple, got into an altercation with some Mexican gang banger. Jim probably would have gotten his ass kicked if Wayne hadn’t come in and smoothed things out. They left the bar and drove to a stretch of beach over in Pescadero, hanging out till dawn.

  After the cold and damp of the sea air and sand began to wear on them, Rad and his date slowly walked back up from the beach. After she fell asleep in the back, Rad got out of the limo. Wayne was sitting with the door open, writing in a notepad. Rad assumed at the time that it was some kind of log or report that Wayne was required to keep, but Wayne told him it was a novel he’d been working on for a long time. That intrigued Rad. Not that he wanted to write anything himself, but he had never known anyone with any such inclination. And he’d always assumed that writers worked in more professional settings—puffing on a pipe meditatively in a quiet office, reference books open on a polished mahogany desk. Certainly not dressed in a black tux with ruffled shirt front and loosened bow tie, sitting in the front seat of a limo with the overhead light on, writing in a legal notepad while babysitting four high school seniors who were drinking and screwing in the sand in the dim light of an early summer morning.

  Rad met Wayne the second time at a filling station about five years later. The years had taken a toll on Wayne. He and his wife were divorced and he’d lost his house and most of his hair, managing only to retain half custody of his young son. He’d finally published the book he’d been working on that night on the beach, a novel about early contact between the Chinese and the Indians along the West Coast. But the book had not sold well and now he was working sixty hour weeks with the limo company. As Wayne put the hose back on the pump, he told Rad he was going off duty and invited him to have a beer with him. They went to a bar in Daly City and drank beer and shot pool, talking for a couple of hours.

  Rad was breathing heavily from the climb and he felt apprehensive. He thought about the fact that the reason he was visiting Wayne was to get something from him. He used to stop by just to bullshit with him, maybe every couple of months, but he hadn’t seen him in almost a year. And now Rad was on a mission. He remembered trying to sell chocolate bars as a kid for his football team uniform. Discouraged, he had eaten them all instead. He remembered his dad yelling at him. The experience had soured him on selling. Still, this was for a good cause.

  Rad looked at his clipboard. He’d collected only a half-dozen signatures. But Wayne would sign. Then Rad would force himself to walk down to the El Camino near the Kmart and try and get some of the people going in there to sign. Rad wondered vaguely if Wayne knew about the effort to save the mountain from the developers. Probably not. He worked a lot of hours driving and more than likely spent his spare time working on his writing.

  Rad heard a noise from the cemetery across the street. A Mexican groundskeeper wearing a broad sombrero hat to keep the sun off himself, trimmed the weeds around the monuments with a gas powered weed whacker. The noisy machine spat out a succession of tiny puffs of oily blue smoke as the man swept it back and forth.

  Rad rang the bell to number 7.

  Wayne’s voice rattled out of the little metallic speaker. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Rad.”

  The door lock buzzed and Rad pushed it open. He walked down the hall to number 7 and Wayne let him in. Wayne sat in a chrome and leather swivel chair before his computer. The TV was off. The little apartment was furnished with old and worn furniture, the kind of stuff you’d buy at the Salvation Army. But, Rad noted, it was clean, cleaner than his and Tawny’s place.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” said Wayne. “I just want to close this out.” Wayne turned back to his computer.

  Rad nodded and sat on the couch. He looked at his reflection in the darkened TV. That was another thing about Wayne, he realized. Any other guy would have the TV on to a game or something. But Wayne hardly ever had it on. He was one hella serious guy.

  “Nice day, huh?” said Rad.

  “Yeah,” said Wayne absently.

  “Tight,” said Rad. “That something you’re writing?”

  “Yeah.” Wayne closed the program on his computer and pulled the floppy disc out of the drive. He swiveled around in his chair. “So, long time no see! How’s everything going with you and your girlfriend?”

  “Tight,” said Rad. The muted sound of the weed whacker came through the window glass. “We’re getting along. How do you like living in Colma?”

  “It’s the greatest. You know there are a lot of people dying to get in here.”

  Rad laughed with Wayne at his little joke. “How’s the writing going?” he said.

  “You know who else resides here?” said Wayne, ignoring the question.

  “No.”

  “Wyatt Earp and Ishi.”

  “I know who Wyatt Earp is. Who’s Ishi?”

  “He was the last wild Yahi Indian in California.”

  “Awesome,” said Rad. “You writing a book about him?” Rad felt a little guilty. He had meant to buy Wayne’s first book and have him sign it, but he had never gotten around to it.

  “Nah! I don’t know what this is. I’m just writing, that’s all.” Wayne got up and walked into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator, taking out a can of Bud. “Want one?”

  Rad nodded. “Sure.”

  “You know,” said Wayne, “about eight or nine years ago they had the big funeral for Harry the Horse right over there.” He pointed to his front window.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Some Hells Angel biker. Supposedly they buried him sitting on his Harley.�
�

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Wayne grew serious. “There must’ve been a thousand bikers on the road out there. You couldn’t get anywhere for hours… and the fuckin’ noise…”

  Wayne brought a beer over to Rad, going back to get himself one. “Writing doesn’t pay. I’m still messing around with it because I can’t stop. It’s an obsession. But I really should be figuring out how to make money, maybe learning web page construction or TV repair, real estate, dental technician and auto body repairer.” Wayne laughed and sat down across from Rad. “So, what brings you by, stud?”

  Rad laughed nervously. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.” Rad was nervous about the petition. He hoped that Wayne wouldn’t look down on him the way people did the zealots who stopped you at the airport to ask you if you wanted to be saved or if you wanted to find out about Hari Krishna. “You hear about San Bruno Mountain? You know, the development?”

  Wayne nodded solemnly. “Yeah. The City Council seems really hot to do it. Someone must have offered them a lot of money.”

  Rad knew that if he didn’t ask now he never would. “Maybe so,” he said quickly, “but, I mean, we might be able to stop them.”

  “Oh yeah?” Wayne looked genuinely interested. “How?”

  “Well, there’s this petition. If they get enough signatures we can get something put on the ballot. And I’m collecting money too, for the outfit that’s trying to save the mountain. They’re working with lawyers, you know, environmentalist types, and that costs money.”

  Wayne nodded. “You’re becoming quite the crusader, huh?”

  Rad smiled and shrugged. “I’m just trying to help. I wrote three letters to the San Francisco Chronicle but they didn’t print them.” Rad shook his head. “Maybe I should’ve had you look at them first. I haven’t written a letter in years.”

  Wayne shook his head. “It probably wouldn’t have mattered. They don’t care about South City. This is just a place that people drive through on their way to...” Wayne made quote marks with his fingers, “‘The City,’ after they land at SFO. We’re too blue collar for them. They could give a shit about what happens in South Screwdriver, The Industrial City.”

  Rad smiled and Wayne shrugged and took a pull at his beer. “You want me to sign it?”

  Rad nodded, glad Wayne hadn’t asked him any more questions. Rad realized that he could never run for political office or anything. He just wasn’t comfortable asking people questions and trying to get them to do things. He took the petition out of his back pocket.

  Holding his beer can in his fist, Wayne pointed a finger out the window at the cemetery. “That is the only open space that’s going to be left on this peninsula in twenty years. And then they’ll change the City charter and move all the graves out. Then it’s going to be wall-to-wall condos, from bay to shining sea.”

  Rad frowned. “I don’t know. If people get organized and fight back, maybe not.”

  “Whatever floats your boat. Give me the petition.” Wayne signed the petition and handed it back. He opened his wallet and handed Rad a five. “That’s all I can spare, stud.” Wayne sat back down.

  “Well, you’re young, Rad,” he continued. “You got the natural optimism of youth going for you.”

  Rad noted with a little sadness that Wayne looked older and was slowly going to fat. Wayne started talking about how he had briefly interned with Greenpeace in his younger days, but Rad wasn’t listening. His mind was already moving on, going through the phone book, figuring out who else he could call and visit to get to sign. He thought of a friendly teacher who lived in South San Francisco, Mister Campbell. He decided to visit him next.

  Wayne finished talking and Rad realized guiltily that he hadn’t heard anything Wayne had said. “So,” said Rad, trying to bluster his way through, “tell me more about this Ishi dude.”

  “Well,” Wayne said, smiling slightly, “Ishi, the last wild Yahi Indian wandered out of the forests up by Mount Lassen. He was almost naked and half starved and hid in a barn. When the farmer found him, they took him to San Francisco where he ended up at the University of California. The academics there took care of him and nursed him back to health. He became almost a walking exhibit until he died. It’s a sad, but fascinating story.”

  Rad nodded. “So,” he said, pointing out the window, “next you’re gonna tell me he’s right out there, fourth plot from the curb.”

  Wayne frowned, imparting an air of seriousness to the discussion. “No. I think his ashes are in the Olivet Columbarium.”

  “Columbarium?” said Rad.

  “That’s the faux Greek Temple style building where they have these beautiful urns full of the ashes of deceased people. It’s down El Camino Real a half mile. You know where Kmart is?”

  “Well,” said Rad, “one of these days I’ll get over there.”

  “Yeah,” said Wayne.

  They lapsed into silence for a minute or so and then Wayne said, “You still got that snake in the garage?”

  “Yeah. When Gabriel split, he just abandoned it.”

  “That the guy that’s into black candles and Wicca, stuff like that, right?”

  Rad frowned. “Yeah. Who knows what he’s into now, probably Buddha or Jesus.”

  Wayne chuckled. “That snake must be pretty big by now.”

  Rad shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe fifteen feet. Maybe longer.”

  “Don’t you want to know? I mean, how big can those things get?”

  “Twenty feet max, I think, maybe a couple hundred pounds. But Gabriel never feeds it enough for that. He just comes by once in a while. He was supposed to have taken it by now, but he still hasn’t.”

  Wayne shook his head in wonder. “And your girlfriend’s okay with it in the house?”

  “Not really. She wants me to give it to the zoo. But I’m not sure they’d take it. Anyway, I just want Gabriel to come and get it. It’s his responsibility.”

  Wayne nodded. “If I had ever brought something like that home my wife would have freaked.”

  “Really?” Rad smiled. “Well you don’t have to worry about that now. If Gabriel doesn’t come and get it would you like to buy it? I’ll give you a good price.”

  Wayne laughed. “Yeah, right. By the way, I’m putting together a new business on the side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna start giving tours of the cemeteries of Colma.”

  “I thought they already had a cemetery tour out of the Colma museum,” said Rad.

  Wayne nodded. “Yeah, but this is different. It’s going to be a private luxury tour, starting this Halloween. I’m going to dress in costume, like Dracula maybe, and provide a couple bottles of Champagne and hors d’oeuvres. I’ll charge about forty or fifty bucks a head. I could knock that in half if you wanted to take your girl.”

  Rad smiled. “Wow. Sounds cool, but money’s a little tight right now. Let me think about it.”

  Chapter 17

  1015 Skyview Drive. Reynaldo sat at his desk looking over at the poster of the Power Rangers. He looked back down at the paper before him. He was tired of copying the words and definitions from the dictionary. He had filled up a whole page like Mommy wanted, but she had found some mistakes. She yelled at him, ripped up his paper, and told him that he had to do it all over again. He thought about the time she had gotten so mad at him that she broke the ruler on his hand. And when he had cried she had screamed at him to stop crying.

  Reynaldo chewed on the pencil eraser absently, listening to the sounds of the TV coming from the living room where Christine was watching cartoons. He had been in his room a long, long time now. His face darkened into a frown. He couldn’t wait until next year when Christine would go to first grade. Then Mommy would make her sit in her room and do work all day too. Reynaldo drilled a hole into the soft wood of his desk with his pencil point. He wished he were in the park with Daddy or at the toy store. He heard Mommy coming and began writing on the piece of lined paper.<
br />
  Mommy ducked her head into the room. “How much have you done?”

  Reynaldo held up the paper.

  “Why is it taking you so long?”

  “Sorry, Mommy.”

  Mommy scowled at him. She shook her head. “No break for you today!” She went out and he heard her talking softly with Christine.

  Tears filled Reynaldo’s eyes and he went back to work copying the definitions. After a while he forgot Mommy and the sun grew faint on the curtains. His backside started to hurt from sitting on the hard wooden chair. Finally Mommy came in and told him to go out and play with his sister. He knew that this meant that Daddy would soon come home. Sure enough, a little while later the key turned scratchily in the lock. Daddy winked playfully at Reynaldo and Christine as he came in the door and set his briefcase down.

  “Hello, Christine.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hello, Reynaldo.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Were you a good boy today?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Mommy said something from the kitchen but Reynaldo couldn’t hear it. Daddy went into the kitchen and closed the door. Mommy’s and Daddy’s voices grew loud and Reynaldo and Christine stopped playing and watched the TV quietly.

  At dinner Daddy tried to be happy, but Mommy was angry and didn’t talk. After Reynaldo finished eating, Mommy told him to return to his room, put on his pajamas, and continue writing down the words and their definitions. As Reynaldo went into his room, Christine went back into the living room to watch TV. Mommy and Daddy started fighting in the kitchen. Reynaldo heard their voices rising. He heard Christine turn off the TV. She went into her room to play with her Barbie doll.

  “You care more about him than you do me!” Mommy shouted.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Daddy said. “If you treated him better I wouldn’t always have to take his side.”

  Mommy broke into sobs. “Take him back!” she screamed. “Take him back!”

  “Five years, Tina,” said Daddy. “That’s how long it’s been. You can’t just take him back like some puppy to the pound!”