Jody
Why in the hell was she being so mysterious? He opened the envelope and took out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, counted them, then put them back in the envelope. Four thousand dollars. He had never seen that much money in one place. Where did she get that kind of money? Certainly not filling out claims at an insurance company. Maybe she was a drug dealer. A smuggler. Maybe she embezzled it. Maybe it was all a trap. Maybe when he got to the impound lot to pick up her car, the police would arrest him. She had a lot of nerve signing her note “Love.” What would the next one say? “Sorry you have to do hard time in the big house for me. Love, Jody.” But she did sign it that way: “Love.” What did that mean? Did she mean it, or was it habit? She probably signed all of her letters with “Love.”
Dear Insured, We are sorry but your policy will not pay for your barium enema as it was done for recreational purposes. Love, Jody. Claims Dept….”
Maybe not.
Maybe she did love him. She must trust him, she had given him four grand.
He shoved the money in his back pocket, picked up the papers and left the room. He ran down the steps to the ground level and tripped over a large black plastic bag full of dead woman. A coroner’s deputy caught him by the arm before he fell.
“Easy there, fella,” the deputy said. He was a big, hairy guy in his thirties.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, kid. She’s sealed for freshness. My partner went to get the gurney.”
Tommy stared at the black bag. He’d only seen one dead person in his life, his grandfather. He hadn’t liked it.
“How did it…I mean, was it murder?”
“I’m betting creative suicide. She broke her own neck, drained out her blood, then killed the dog and jumped into the dumpster. The ME’s betting murder, though. You pick.”
Tommy was horrified. “Her blood was drained?”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, she was about a gallon low, and no visible wounds. The ME had to go into the heart for a blood sample. He was not pleased. He likes things simple—decapitation by cable car, massive gunshot trauma—you know.”
Tommy shuddered. “I’m from Indiana. Stuff like this doesn’t happen there.”
“Stuff like this doesn’t happen here either, kid.”
A tall, thin guy in coroner blues came around the corner pushing a gurney with a small, gray, dead dog on it. He picked up the dog by a rhinestone leash. “What do I do with this?” he asked the big hairy guy. The dog spun slowly at the end of the leash like a fuzzy Christmas ornament.
“Bag and tag it?” Said Big Hairy.
“A dog? That’s a new one on me.”
“I don’t give a shit. Do what you want.”
“Well,” Tommy interrupted, “you guys have a good day.” He hurried away to the bus stop. As the bus pulled up he looked back and saw the two coroners tucking the little dog into the woman’s body bag.
Tommy got off the bus at a coffeehouse near Chinatown where he had seen guys in berets scribbling in notebooks and smoking French cigarettes. If you were looking for a place to sit and stare into the abyss for a while, always look for guys in berets smoking French cigarettes. They were like road signs: “Existential Crisis, Next Right.” And the incident with the body bag had put Tommy in the mood to contemplate the meaninglessness of life for a few minutes before he started hunting for an apartment. They had treated that poor woman like a piece of meat. People should have been crying and fainting and fighting over her will. It must be some sort of protection mechanism, more of that ability that city people had for ignoring suffering.
He ordered a double mocha at the counter. A girl with magenta hair and three nose rings frothed it up while Tommy searched though a stack of used newspapers on the counter, separating the classified sections. When he paid the girl she caught him staring at her nose rings and smiled. “Thought is death,” she said, handing him the mocha.
“Have a nice day,” Tommy said.
He sat down and began flipping though the classifieds. As he read through the apartments for rent, the money in his pocket seemed to shrink. Here was the reason why people seemed so distracted. They were all worrying about making rent.
An ad for a furnished loft caught his eye. He was a loft kind of guy. He imagined himself saying, “No, I can’t hang around, I’ve got to get back to the loft and write.” And, “Sorry, I left my wallet in the loft.” And writing, “Dear Mom, I’ve moved into a spacious loft in fashionable SOMA.”
Tommy put the paper down and turned to a beret guy at the next table who was reading a volume of Baudelaire and building up a drift of Disc Bleu butts in the ashtray. “Excuse me,” Tommy said, “but I’m new in town. Where would I find fashionable SOMA?”
The beret guy looked irritated. “South of Market,” he said. Then he picked up his book and cigarettes and walked out of the café.
“Sorry,” Tommy called after him. Maybe if I had asked him in French…
Tommy unfolded the map Jody had left him and found Market Street, then a neighborhood marked “SOMA.” It wasn’t far from where Jody had marked the Transamerica Pyramid. He folded up the map and tore the loft ad out of the classifieds. This was going to be easy.
As he prepared to leave, he looked up to see an enormously fat man in a purple velvet robe enter the café carrying a leather sample case decorated with silver moons and stars. He sat at a table near Tommy, his bulk spilling over either side of the cane chair, and began removing things from the sample case. Tommy was captivated.
The fat man’s head was shaved and there was a pentagram tattooed on his scalp. He covered his table with a piece of black satin, then placed a crystal ball on a pedestal of brass dragons in the center. Next he unwrapped a deck of tarot cards from a purple silk scarf and placed them by the crystal ball. Last he removed a sign from the sample case and set it up on the table. It read: “Madame Natasha. Palmistry, Tarot, Divination. Psychic Readings $5.00. All proceeds go to AIDS research.”
Madame Natasha was sitting with his back to Tommy. As Tommy stared at the pentagram tattoo, Madame Natasha turned to him. Tommy looked away quickly.
“I think you need a reading, young man,” Madame Natasha said, his voice high and feminine.
Tommy cleared his throat. “I don’t believe in that stuff. Thanks, though.”
Madame Natasha closed his eyes as if he were listening to a particularly moving passage of music. When he opened them again he said, “You’re new to the City. A little confused and a little scared. You’re an artist of some kind, but you don’t make your living that way. And you’ve recently turned down a proposal of marriage. Am I right?”
Tommy dug into his pocket, “Five dollars?”
“Have a seat,” Madame Natasha said, waving him to a seat at his table.
Tommy moved to the seat across from Madame and handed him a five-dollar bill. Madame Natasha picked up his tarot cards and began shuffling. His hands were tiny and delicate; his nails painted black. “What shall we ask the cards today?” Madame said.
“I’ve met this girl. I want to know more about her.”
Madame Natasha nodded solemnly and began laying the cards out on the table. “I don’t see a woman in your near future.”
“Really?”
Madame pointed to a card on the right of the pattern he had laid out. “No. You see the position of this card? This card rules your relationships.”
“It says ‘Death.’”
“That does not necessarily mean physical death. The Death card can be a card of renewal, signifying a change. I would say that you recently broke up with someone.”
“Nope,” Tommy said. He stared at the stylized picture of the skeleton with the scythe. It seemed to be laughing at him.
“Let’s try again,” Madame Natasha said. He gathered the cards, shuffled them, and began laying them out again.
Tommy watched the spot where his relationship card would fall. Madame paused, t
hen turned the card. Death.
“Well, well, what a co-in-kee-dink,” Madame Natasha said.
“Try again,” Tommy said.
Again Madame shuffled, and again, when he laid down the relationship card, it was Death.
“What does it mean?” Tommy asked.
“It could mean a lot of things, depending on your other suits.” Madame waved to the other cards in the pattern.
“Then what does it mean with the other cards?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course. I want to know.”
“You’re fucked.”
“What?”
“As far as relationships?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucked.”
“What about my writing career?”
Madame Natasha consulted the cards again, then, without looking up, said, “Fucked.”
“I am not. I’m not fucked.”
“Yep. Fucked. It’s in the cards. Sorry.”
“I don’t believe in this stuff,” Tommy said.
“Nevertheless,” Madame Natasha said.
Tommy stood up. “I have to go find an apartment.”
“Do you want to consult the cards about your new home?”
“No. I don’t believe the cards.”
“I could read your palm.”
“Will it cost extra?”
“No, it’s included.”
“Okay.” Tommy held out his hand and Madame Natasha cradled it delicately. Tommy looked around to see if anyone was looking, tapped his foot as if he was in a hurry.
“Goodness, you masturbate a lot, don’t you?”
A guy at a nearby table spit coffee all over his paperback Sartre and looked over.
Tommy pulled his hand away. “No!”
“Now, now, don’t lie. Madame Natasha knows.”
“What’s that got to do with an apartment?”
“Just checking my accuracy. It’s like zeroing out a polygraph.”
“Not a lot,” Tommy said.
“Then I’ll have to adjust my reading. I would have rated you a wankmaster of the first degree. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Considering your relationship card, I’d say it’s your only option.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“As you wish. Let me see your palm again.”
Tommy surrendered his palm reluctantly.
“Oh, good news at last,” Madame Natasha said. “You will find an apartment.”
“Good,” Tommy said, pulling his hand back again. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t you want to know about the rats?”
“No.” Tommy turned and headed toward the door. As he reached it he turned and said, “I’m not fucked.”
The Sartre reader looked up from his book and said, “We all are. We all are.”
CHAPTER 13
TO-DO LIST OF THEFASHIONABLY DOOMED
When you know the future is grim, there is no need for speed. Tommy decided to walk to the financial district. He shuffled along with the hang-dog look of the cosmically fucked.
He walked through Chinatown, spotted three of the Wongs buying lottery tickets at a liquor store, and headed up to the room to get his typewriter and clothes before they returned. His spirits lifted a little when he climbed down the narrow stairway for the last time, but Madame Natasha’s words came back to dump on him again. There is no woman in your future.
It had been one of the reasons he had come to San Francisco—to find a girlfriend. Someone who would see him as an artist. Not like the girls back home, who saw him as a bookish freak. It was all part of the plan: live in the city, write stories, look at the bridge, ride cable cars, eat Rice-A-Roni, and have a girlfriend—someone he could tell his thoughts to, preferably after hours of godlike sex. He wasn’t looking for perfection, just someone who made him feel secure enough to be insecure around her. But not now. Now he was doomed.
He looked up at the skyline and realized that he had navigated wrong, arriving in the financial district, several blocks from the Pyramid. He zigzagged from block to block, avoiding eye contact with the men and women in business suits, who avoided eye contact in turn by checking their watches every few steps. Sure, he thought, they can check their watches. They have a future.
He arrived at the foot of the Pyramid a little breathless, his arms aching from carrying his belongings. He sat on a concrete bench at the edge of a fountain and watched people for a while.
They were all so determined. They had places to go, people to see. Their hair was perfect. They smelled good. They wore nice shoes. He looked at his own worn leather sneakers. Fucked.
Someone sat down next to him on the bench and he avoided looking up, thinking that it would just be another person who would make him feel inferior. He was staring at a spot on the concrete by his feet when a Boston terrier appeared on the spot and blew a jet stream of dog snot on his pant leg.
“Bummer, that’s rude,” the Emperor said. “Can’t you see that our friend is sulking?”
Tommy looked up into the face of the Emperor. “Your Highness. Hello.” The man had the wildest eyebrows Tommy had ever seen, as if two gray porcupines were perched on his brow.
The Emperor tipped his crown, a fedora made of panels cut from beer cans and laced together with yellow yarn. “Did you get the job?”
“Yes, they hired me that day. Thanks for the tip.”
“It’s honest work,” the Emperor said. “There’s a certain grace in that. Not like this tragedy.”
“What tragedy?”
“These poor souls. These poor pathetic souls.” The Emperor gestured toward the passersby.
“I don’t understand,” Tommy said.
“Their time has passed and they don’t know what to do. They were told what they wanted and they believed it. They can only keep their dream alive by being with others like themselves who will mirror their illusions.”
“They have really nice shoes,” Tommy said.
“They have to look right or their peers will turn on them like starving dogs. They are the fallen gods. The new gods are producers, creators, doers. The new gods are the chinless techno-children who would rather eat white sugar and watch science-fiction films than worry about what shoes they wear. And these poor souls desperately push papers around hoping that a mystical message will appear to save them from the new, awkward, brilliant gods and their silicon-chip reality. Some of them will survive, of course, but most will fall. Uncreative thinking is done better by machines. Poor souls, you can almost hear them sweating.”
Tommy looked at the well-dressed stream of business people, then at the Emperor’s tattered overcoat, then at his own sneakers, then at the Emperor again. For some reason, he felt better than he had a few minutes before. “You really worry about these people, don’t you?”
“It is my lot.”
An attractive woman in a gray suit and heels approached the Emperor and handed him a five-dollar bill. She wore a silk camisole under her jacket and Tommy could make out the top of her lace bra when she bent over. He was mesmerized.
“Your Highness,” she said, “there’s a Chinese chicken salad on special at the Cafe Suisse today. I think Bummer and Lazarus would love it.”
Lazarus wagged his tail. Bummer yapped at the mention of his name.
“Very thoughtful of you, my child. The men will enjoy it.”
“Have a good day,” she said, and walked away. Tommy watched her calves as she went.
Two men who were passing by, embroiled in an argument about prices and earnings, stopped their conversation and nodded to the Emperor.
“Go with God,” the Emperor said. He turned back to Tommy. “Are you still looking for a domicile, or just a woman now?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wear your loneliness like a badge.”
Tommy felt as if his ego had just taken a right to the jaw. “Actually, I met a girl and I’m going to rent us a place this afternoon.”
“My mistake,” the Empe
ror said. “I misread you.”
“No, you didn’t. I’m fucked.”
“Pardon?”
“A fortune-teller told me that there was no woman in my future. “
“Madame Natasha?”
“How did you know?”
“You mustn’t give too much credence to Madame Natasha’s predictions. He’s dying and it darkens his vision. The plague.”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy said. In fact, he felt relieved, then guilty for the reason behind it. He had no right to feel sorry for himself. The Emperor had nothing except his dogs, yet his sympathy was all directed toward his fellowman. I’m scum, Tommy thought. He said, “Your Highness, I have a little money now, if you need…”
The Emperor held up the bill the woman had given him. “We have all that we need, my son.” He stood and tugged on the ropes that held Bummer and Lazarus. “And I should be off before the men revolt from hunger.”
“Me, too, I guess.” Tommy stood and made as if to shake hands, then bowed instead. “Thanks for the company.”
The Emperor winked, spun on one heel, and started to lead his troops away, then stopped and turned back. “And, son, don’t touch anything with an edge while you’re in the building? Scissors, letter openers, anything.”
“Why?” Tommy asked.
“It’s the shape of the building, a pyramid. They’d rather people not know about it, but they have a full-time employee who just goes around dulling the letter openers.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Safety first,” the Emperor said.
“Thanks.”
Tommy took a deep breath and steeled himself for his assault on the Pyramid. As he walked out of the sun and under the massive concrete buttresses, he could feel a chill through his flannel shirt, as if the concrete had stored the damp cold of the night fog and was radiating it like a refrigerator coil. He was shivering by the time he reached the information desk. A guard eyed him suspiciously.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the Transamerica personnel department.”
The guard made a face as if Tommy had been dipped in sewage. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.” Tommy waved Jody’s papers under the guard’s nose.
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