Liars in Love

by Ian Bull

  “Keep the change,” Sam says.

  Hiram pockets the bill and points at the unit again. “I suggest you read the warning,” Hiram Valosek says, and he and his handyman leave.

  Sam moves close and peers at the white warning label with bold red lettering: Tampering with this unit is a criminal offense and anyone vandalizing it will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. 25 cents for five minutes.

  Sam digs in his pocket and finds a quarter, drops it in the slot and lies down on a pink cotton bedspread so soft and old, that little lint particles come off and stick to your clothes. A loud humming fills the room. A man in the next room bangs on the wall.

  “You turn that on again and I’ll bust it again! You hear me?” the man screams.

  The bed stops shaking after only forty-five seconds. So much for five minutes. Sam sighs, gets up and opens the curtain. He’s got a big window which lets in a lot of light, but the noise of Muni buses pours in too. Sam glances across the street and sees that the Lincoln Town Car that’s been following him all day is now parked across the street and he can see the two large beefy men inside. The driver is a big blond guy with a crew cut and two thick folds of skin on the back of his neck. The other is an even bigger dark-skinned guy with curly hair, a Samoan probably. Both wear red and gold San Francisco 49er football jerseys, in support of a team that, in 1980, has yet to win a Super Bowl. The stocky Midwestern guy looks up and sees Sam in the window and waves.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  T he next morning, Sam hangs his suit on the shower rod and runs hot water into the tub until the steam takes out the wrinkles. It’s still damp when he puts it on, along with being a size too small, but it will have to do. Sam walks down to the lobby with Hal’s list, drops quarters into the payphone and starts dialing. Mr. Pavel glances at him and smirks.

  “Hello, yeah, my name is Sam Webb, and I got your name from Hal Weinstein and I'm looking for a job and heard you might be hiring," Sam says, then listens to the man talk on the other end about tarring roofs and gluing sheetrock to walls. "I can do that," Sam says.

  Sam pauses and listens to the man again, while trading nods with the three old Merchant Marines from last night, still in their pea coats and sitting in their same spots on the two ratty sofas that face the window. Have they moved at all since last night?

  “Experience?” Sam asks. “Yes, when I was beholden to the government, I helped tar the roof of San Quentin prison. Hello?” The man hung up.

  After working the phones all morning, Sam manages to get a job interview for a brand-new company south of Market Street doing “recycling,” which involves separating aluminum cans, glass bottles, and clean newspapers from trash bins at businesses and apartment buildings. Sam goes down to the China Basin building and fills out an application, but he leaves the question blank about whether he’s ever been convicted of a crime. Sam assumes the man knows about his record since he got the man’s name from Hal, but it turned out it was an honesty test, and the fact that Sam left it blank was proof that Sam was still not honest, and he lost the job.

  Refusing to give up or feel bad for himself, Sam spends the evening hours wandering the Tenderloin looking for Help Wanted signs, until he spots one in the window of a McDonald’s on Van Ness Avenue.

  He fills out the application, gets the job, puts on a hairnet and an apron and stands by the fryer ready to be trained by Billy, his pimply faced nineteen-year-old manager. A mist of vegetable grease and beef fat hangs in the air and coats the walls, making everything glisten under the green fluorescent lights.

  “You open the bag of frozen fries and dump a bunch in the basket, hit the red button, and lower the basket into the oil. As you’re waiting for the bell to ring, you fill the basket next to it with more frozen fries. When the bell rings, you lift the basket out, and dump the cooked fries onto that metal tray, then hit the button again, and lower the second basket into the oil, and then fill the first basket with frozen fries again. You think you can do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it,” says Billy, irritated.

  Sam demonstrates that he can follow instructions and is soon sizzling frozen fries and dumping them onto metal trays, ready for scooping into red cardboard fry containers that will help fatten up America.

  “So, you were in prison?” Billy asks.

  “Yup,” Sam says dumping out fries. “I was released three days ago.”

  “Let me guess. Burglary.”

  “Commercial burglary. There’s a difference,” Sam says, lowering more fries into oil.

  “What’s the difference? A thief is a thief,” Billy says.

  “I never broke into anyone's home. Only businesses, where I never saw anyone. No one was ever in danger and no one ever got hurt. Insurance paid for everything I stole. Half the time I was hired by people on the inside," Sam says. The bell dings and Sam lifts out another basket and dumps the fries on the metal tray under the orange heat lamp.

  Billy moves a step closer and lowers his voice. “I got some friends who work at the warehouse and we’ve got our eye on some kitchen machines. Big ones. We could use a guy with your savvy.”

  “Did you just say ‘savvy?’” Sam asks. “You want me to clip for you?”

  “It’s easy money. They won’t notice anything missing.”

  “I’m thirty-two. It’s hard enough making fries for you. Stealing for you is just too weird.”

  “That’s the deal. It’s the only reason I took you on as a trainee.”

  Sam stares at the basket of sizzling fries and ponders his situation. Is this his only option? Billy grins and raises his eyebrows, sensing Sam’s vulnerability.

  The bell rings, bringing Sam back to reality. He takes off his apron and throws it at Billy and walks out. He strides down Turk Street back toward the Taj Mahal, and engages himself in an angry mental conversation with every person who has slighted him in the past three days.

  “Nice hat,” a Vietnam Vet in a wheelchair says as he walks past.

  Sam rips the hairnet off his head and with all his fury tears it into tiny pieces, then throws them as hard as he can. They flutter into the street three feet from him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  T he next morning Sam picks up copies of The Chronicle, and The City’s two free newspapers, The Bay Guardian and the Tenderloin Times, and walks a few blocks to Original Joe’s on Taylor Street and sits at the counter so he can read the ads while sipping coffee. The chatty hum of the professional men and women around him makes him feel almost normal. He tries to trade glances with some of the well-dressed women, but no one looks his way. That’s okay, he thinks, he still feels part of the world, and all it took was a place to go, a chair in which to sit, and a cup of coffee to sip.

  He would pay extra for this feeling, he realizes, which leads to a vision. He should open a chain of coffee shops that sell baked goods too, with a few kinds of expensive coffee in different sizes, with some chairs so people can hang out, just to provide this feeling of belonging that he’s having. He ponders it, then figures it’s too far-fetched, people won’t pay extra for coffee just for convenience and the feeling of belonging, and he goes back to the want ads.

  He spots an ad he likes – an art gallery wants waiters and bartenders to work art openings, at an address south of Market Street in the warehouse district. That’s the job for him.

  He walks fifteen blocks south, enjoying the warm sun and blue sky. He finds the two-story brick warehouse on Bluxome Street. A sculptor’s studio fills the bottom floor. For the top floor, there’s just a steel door, a mailbox with a number and a doorbell. Sam stares at the ad in the paper and then looks up at the warehouse. He rings the bell.

  “Come on in!” a woman shouts from the open window above, and a buzzer sounds. Sam pushes the steel door open, steps through and climbs the steep wooden staircase.

  The gallery occupies the entire second floor of the building, with walls stripped to the bare red brick. Steel girders crisscross the vast room every ten
yards, reinforcing the place against earthquakes. A dozen white wall sections form a maze on the wooden floor, each featuring paintings for sale under track lighting. Couches and low and high tables dot the space, making it perfect for parties. Wide windows look out towards the San Francisco Bay, a southern exposure that lets in a stream of natural light.

  Sam tiptoes through the gallery, then stops at a huge painting of a naked purple woman with green nipples giving birth to a rainbow baby. He hears high heels behind him, and spins to meet a beautiful woman in her forties, with short dark hair and wearing a short pink silk dress and a long Hermes scarf around her neck.

  “You’re not Johnny,” she says, stopping short when she sees Sam’s face.

  Sam freezes like he’s been hit in the face with a bucket of ice water. This is the first attractive woman who has spoken to him since he got out of prison, and it’s a shock to the system. She smiles as he blinks his eyes back inside his head and finds his footing again.

  Sam holds up the paper. “I’m here about the job? Waiter and bartending?”

  “That ad is old. I use a catering company for all my party needs now.”

  “I could work part-time. Do odd jobs, run errands."

  “I’m hosting a new art opening next month. Come back on the first.”

  “I do repair work as well. I’m a great handyman. And an even better bartender.”

  “Bartender?” She smiles and twirls the edge of her scarf, wrapping it up on her finger. “All right, make me a Manhattan,” she says, and nods at the bar in the corner.

  It’s not even noon yet, but he won’t judge. Sam hasn’t made a drink in two years, much less sipped one. He goes behind the low bar and finds all the fixings. Sam mixes rye bourbon with sweet vermouth, adds bitters and some maraschino until it turns red, then drops in a thin slice of orange rind. Sam brings it back to her with napkin.

  She sizes him up, head to toe as she takes the drink, undressing him with her eyes.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asks, narrowing her eyes at him. Sam figures she’s ten years older than him, maybe fifteen.

  “Sam.”

  “I’m Marjorie. You are persistent. I like that in a man,” she says, then sips and burns him with her gaze, until the heat makes his eyes water. “Plus, you make a good Manhattan.”

  It’s happening, he thinks. She may be the one, and it’s terrifying. Sam slides his hands in his pockets to hide his growing erection, then slides them in his jacket pockets instead, but the pockets are too small, so he puts them in front of him, all while rocking on his feet trying to figure out what to do next. He decides to ask the obvious.

  “So, you’re an art dealer?”

  “You could say that. I ran a lot of galleries in New York,” Marjorie says.

  “Is this stuff any good?” Sam asks, gesturing at the purple woman with the green nipples.

  “Not really. But I convince rich people in San Francisco that it’s great, and they think my East Coast sophistication will rub off on them if they buy it,” says Marjorie.

  “People always need something,” Sam says, looking at the art. “Even rich people.”

  Marjorie laughs, sips her Manhattan, and touches her hair. “So, you’re a philosopher.”

  “I sometimes contemplate the universe,” Sam answers, and raises his eyebrow at her. She winks at him. He made the drink strong and it’s working on her, but he’s not sure he remembers how to handle a woman a decade older than him who’s tipsy before noon.

  She steps close. “Maybe I do have work for you. Do you enjoy physical labor?”

  “I do,” Sam says, and steps closer.

  “Are you good at it?” she asks. “At being physical, I mean.”

  “No one has complained yet.”

  She tilts her head up as he leans down, and they kiss. It’s tender, just like Sam was hoping for… and then she bites his lower lip. He gasps and she pulls away.

  “You bit me.”

  She laughs and kicks off her high heels. She moves closer and they kiss again, this time softer, and Sam relaxes into it and puts his arms around her. She probes with her tongue against his teeth, like knocking on a door, and their mouths open and they touch tongues. Marjorie’s sucks on his tongue like a vacuum, which excites but scares him. She pulls away and laughs when Sam touches his mouth.

  “Whoa. My lips and tongue are aching,” he says.

  “You’re going to ache everywhere after the workout I’m going to put you through,” Marjorie says, pulling his belt so that her crotch is against his. “I expect a lot from younger men. I expect stamina from every muscle, you got that, Sean?”

  “Sam.”

  “Whatever,” Marjorie says, and pulls him by the belt. He follows her through a maze of white standing wall sections and finds a sofa in an open zone. She pushes him down on it and goes for his pants, but before she can even unbuckle his belt, he grabs at his crotch and groans. She unzips his trousers and sees a spreading stain on his underwear.

  “What are you, in eighth grade?” she asks.

  Sam spots the napkin he gave her with her drink, and he scuttles over like a crab, picks it up and jams it into his trousers before the stain can spread. He scuttles back to the couch.

  “I’ve been in prison for two years and my only friend has been the widow and her four kids,” Sam says, and holds up his thumb and then four fingers.

  Marjorie creeps close to him on the couch. “Hmm, prison. That’s sexy. Maybe I can help that poor widow of yours,” she says. She grabs his right hand and sucks on his thumb, which is neither sexy nor painful. It’s just odd.

  “Do you have a bed in a smaller room? I don’t do well with open spaces,” Sam says.

  Marjorie yanks Sam to his feet by his lapels then leads him through the maze to the back corner of the vast loft, then through a metal door into a small dark room. Inside is a queen-size bed with a headboard made of thick wood slats of white ash. The bed has black satin sheets and a black comforter. A black and white painting hangs on one brick wall and a large floor to ceiling mirror hangs on the other. There’s an open window with a fire escape down to Bluxome Street below, and Sam thinks for a moment of running away.

  “That's my bed," Marjorie says, and moves closer.

  “A big mirror in the bedroom? That’s going to be bad in an earthquake,” Sam says.

  “Let’s make our own earthquake then and make it shatter,” she whispers into his ear, and then bites his earlobe. She bites too hard, but Sam can’t pull away. They fall onto the bed.

  He yanks off his pants while kicking off his shoes and socks. She pulls her dress over her head and tosses all their clothes across the room. All that’s left is his dress shirt, and she yanks it open, which sends the buttons flying. They’re naked. He is fit and muscular, thick across the chest like a halfback. She is thin with long legs and small breasts, also in great shape. She rolls under him, their mouths meet, they kiss, she opens her legs and waits…

  …and nothing.

  She rolls on top of him and grinds herself into his pelvis, and dangles her breasts in his face, but still, there is nothing. She reaches down between his legs, but she yanks him too hard and he recoils. “You need the widow and her four kids? See if they can help?” she asks.

  “I don’t think it’ll make a difference,” Sam says. He rolls out from under her and sits on the edge of the bed and holds his head in his hands.

  “You said you never had any complaints? Consider this your first,” Marjorie says. She grabs her dress and underwear and walks out.

  Sam stares at his reflection in the mirror. He winces, not liking what he sees.

  He steps into the bathroom wanting to take a shower, but he feels too much pressure to leave. Instead, he moistens a hand towel with water from the sink and splashes some rubbing alcohol from a plastic bottle onto it and mops down his neck, chest, armpits, and crotch. It’s a “whoore’s shower,” as his Gaelic grandmother would call it, which is the best he can do under the circumsta
nces.

  He puts his clothes back on, but can't find a sock, so he gets down on all fours and sees that it slid under the closet door. He pulls it open and freezes. Inside the closet is a large steel safe, with a big spinning combination ring and a twist handle. Sam stares at it for a long time. He reaches out to touch it – then pulls his hand away as if it might burn him. He closes the closet door so he doesn't have to see it anymore.

  Sam finds her in the open kitchen area, dressed in her silk dress and long scarf again, drinking orange juice and blasting Blondie’s Call Me at full volume while writing in a ledger.

  “Can I work your art opening next month?” he asks. “I need the work.”

  She sighs and hands him her business card. “Call me in a few weeks,” she says.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  S am goes to Macy’s on Union Square and heads past the perfume counters to the men’s clothing department. When he was a kid, the big Union Square stores always made him feel good, especially during the holidays, when people were happy and had money to spend, even if they didn’t. The January credit card bill always brought that truth home to his family, but it was nice when they lied to themselves and indulged when they shouldn’t have.

  He touches the grey pants on a mannequin. They have a slight pinstripe and are cool and light. These would feel good to wear, he thinks. The jacket has padded shoulders, which he doesn’t like; he’s already thick enough across the chest. He touches a black leather jacket instead. He looks good in black leather.

  Then he catches sight of himself in the mirror. His blue suit is even more crumpled than it was yesterday, with a slight stain on his crotch area that’s noticeable in the light. He feels like a kid again, dressed for church on Sunday wearing a lousy suit two sizes too small, wrinkled and stained from playing in the street. He needs a new look.

  Should he spend his money on new clothes? He adds up the money he has left, and then adds up the karmic debt he’s incurred. He stole money from Garrett, so he owes the universe, but Garrett punched him first, so his karma is even there. Hal Weinstein did him a favor, which is a plus. Losing a Ben Franklin to that Magic Massage guy is a minus, he’s equal there. Marjorie was both bad and good, so he’s still even. On his fourth day out of prison, his win/loss record is 3 and 3. New clothes might make the difference.