Old and Cold

by Jim Nisbet

  THIRTEEN

  PINK AND DISGUSTING MIGHT BEST DESCRIBE MY NEW DEMEANOR, bourgeois and pathetic might best describe my new arrangement with my new landlady, Mrs. Dunkeljaeger: all cleaned up, in fresh clothes with haircut, shave, and twenty bucks in my lint-free pocket right next to my louse-free cuisse, Social Security check signed over to her bank account, and a tab at her bar, which includes an evening meal, be I inclined to feed. It took three days, and you better believe I squawked. The Social Security website is bookmarked on her computer, as is a service that can produce a birth certificate in 24 hours. Curiously, about the second day in, my first person singular and plural pronouns and their possessives boiled down to the nominative I. The effect reminded one of some of the drugs they used to give one, about thirty years ago, back when certain institutions were making certain efforts on behalf of a certain definition of sanity. A Certain Sanity. It sounds, as they say in the newspapers, and in a lot of books, too, like a movie. It’s yet another example of the a great paucity of similes in this country. A veritable avalanche of paucities, if you ask me, is what’s wrong with newspapers, books, this country, and all movies; but never fear, Kulture, for hardly anybody ever asks me. Which is where I come in, observes the smart money. I thought you took the week off, you say to yourself. The smart money shakes what passes for his head. Back in the saddle. Now, opening the DayMinder, to catch up, you’ve now got four days to affect the job, or the contract expires, and even if you pull it off anyway, you won’t get paid. Think of it this way, you recite in unison, if you don’t get hold of that five thousand dollars, Mrs. Dunkeljaeger will be holding all your cards, only to dispense them to you at the rate of twenty dollars per week. That’s barely bus fare, you balk. The time for balking, the smart money points out, is long past. Not to mention, you continue balking, at four times twenty equals eighty, that’s about six hundred dollars a month less than my check. The time for doing that simple arithmetic, the smart money points out, could have been any of the elastic duration between birth and the third martini, first sipped at a certain bar—Maxilla Salute, you recall with a jerk of the chassis—, and long before you signed it all over. A place to live, you recall nostalgically. Crisp sheets, a creaking radiator, indoor plumbing, none of your crepitation of plastic bags ensnared by carousel wire. Curtains lifted by an on-shore breeze. Outdoor living, however, can be salubrious. Mostly. But regular cocktails, every night at five… On the chit… Which amounts to…? Well, the smart money counts on what passes for fingers, three nights running, you had the price of the first three martinis, since which there have been several others, last time you were conscious enough to add it up, carry the two, I think you’re into Mrs. Dunkeljaeger for about a C-note. What? Plus tip. My god, you say aloud, I’m overextended. I hear you brother, says a man standing next to you at the stoplight. You hadn’t noticed him before. Now you look at him. I beg your pardon? The man shakes his head. Far as I can tell, he says sadly, watching the red hand at the other end of the crosswalk, if I go to work at the Martinizing Depot six days a week for something like thirty years, and limit my cocktail consumption to whatever’s available at weddings and funerals, I’ll die with everything paid off. That’s fantastic, you hear yourself saying. Ain’t it the truth, the man says, stepping off the curb. Don’t wanna be late, he adds, as if to himself, his stride lengthens, and he has accelerated halfway down the block before you’ve gained the opposite curb. What is a Martinizing Depot, you wonder aloud, and a man going the other way spins midstride and explains something about dry cleaning and patent applied for and trademark and copyright infringement before he turns full circle and almost immediately gains the curb from which you have just come. The signal changes and three lanes of traffic in each of two directions intervene between you and the intervention. Four days to get to Telegraph Hill, figure out the scene, and make your move, the smart money prompts you. Too bad we’re never going back to that bar, you allow, as you progress eastward along Lincoln Way. You’re cleaned up enough to take the bus, the smart money points out. What, you riposte, and drill down into my twenty bucks? At 9th Avenue you turn north, into Golden Gate Park. You got five grand coming, the smart money protests. Live a little. Job’s not done yet, you reply stubbornly. You’ve never blown it before, comes the rejoinder. You is a professional. Yes. And like all professionals, it’s the only thing you can do right. As for the rest—television, marriage, movies, family, filial piety, religious observances, advanced toilet training, talking in tongues, keeping up with your insurance, conscientiously answering your email, hygiene, blood in the stool… They say professionalism will kill you but they won’t say when, you reflect grimly. Talk about accruing retirement in the dark, the smart money comments with contempt. And you carry on like that as you diagonalate across the park. Grass, the smart money is waking up to the environment, sunshine, children. Lookit that dog catch that frisbee midair. Good boy. The scrubbing has not affected the period of your ambulatory sine wave, no more than it has cleansed your inner self of its inner self. Preposterous metabolics, you mutter. Meta Bollocks, the smart money counters, so many puns, so much money. A pleasant fantasy, you remark as you cross the horseshoe pit and exit the park at the corner of Stanyan and Fulton. Jog over to Anza, you suggest to yourself, it turns into O’Farrell. That’s true, you answer, not without noticing the foul perspiration of a metabolism desperate to rid itself of the synthesis of alcohol. Sudoriferous, the smart money comments. Perhaps by the time you’ve attained North Beach you will have rid yourself of many of the salients of your new landlady’s recent ministrations. One can hope, you react dully. All she wants is for you to die, the smart money points out. Is it really true, you change the subject dully, that once the liver runs out of the enzyme pertinent to the reduction of acetaldehyde to acetic acid, in desperation it infuses the surplus into the blood? You’re changing the subject, the smart money comments, sort of. Is that why this perspiration reeks of acetylene and vinegar? Not only that, the smart money reminds you, it’s why you get damn little nutrition when you’re on a bender. I’m hungry, you’re suddenly reminded. Plus, all those aspirin you take will eat your stomach lining. Maybe that’s where the blood comes from. No, well, maybe, the smart money ruminates, but my money remains with the desperation of the body. If the blood too is toxic, then the body will try to eliminate as much of the toxicity as it safely can. And we know what elimination is. Shise, you whisper, will these voices never leave me alone? Take California, the smart money suggests. It’s a real nice street. And if you head the other way there’s Burmese restaurants. But if carry on the way we’re supposed to be going, there’s streetcars. Another contraction through sheer usage, the smart money supposes. When is smart money going to become smartmoney? Or even Smartmoney? If it comes to that, you should make it Smart Money, thence SmartMoney. Get some cards printed up. You only got twenty dollars. No streetcars. Was a time, probably, it was hyphenated. Distant past. Back when people buried their cats sitting upright. When was that? So is that why I smell like leaking bottles in a welding shop? Acetylene and vinegar. Quite unlike crimson and clover. Dehydration and deli sandwiches. Huh? There’s an excellent deli in North Beach. That Italian one, on Columbus Avenue. She almost threw away the envelope. That was heads up, telling her it was your daughter, and that you’d pulled the envelope from a dumpster in order to protect the photograph, that you’d not had any contact with her in a decade. Brilliant for two reasons, (a), it humanizes you, to a certain extent anyway, and (b) the thought that there might be a blood relation out there somewhere will force her to exercise a little caution as regards your natural death. Mrs. Dunkeljaeger, you pronounce, is one predatory chthonic harridan. With the stiff-bristle brush between the cheeks of the ass, she’s quite vicious, replies the smart money, by way of agreement. You pluck at the inseam of your trousers. Good thing you’re not going back. Ever. Take a left on Montgomery. Man, you cavil, that’s one of the most uphill streets in town. So take a cab. Plus, it’s discontinuous. No, no, that’s K
earny. What about that generous tab? you wonder aloud. But now you’re downtown where everybody assumes that, rather than talking to yourself, you’re on the phone. You’re never alone in a schizophrenic society, you marvel, looking around. It’s true, you’re fitting right in, the smart money encourages. When the westerly’s up, you comment, nobody can smell that you’re off-gassing. Mop your brow. Once was ironed, once did bloom, that kerchief out of your pocket. Now, it’s rather drenched. You remove the envelope from your pocket. Reading fourteen-ten Montgomery refreshes your memory. You should go by City Lights for a Times, the smart money counsels, Give you something innocuous to do with your hands while you’re waiting. Masturbation is so unseemly. Divert up Kearny, cross Columbus at a corner bar called Mr. Bing’s, proceed up past Brandy Ho’s Hunan Cuisine to Jack Kerouac Alley, formerly Adler Place, and duck into City Lights. Better read it while it still exists says a guy behind the counter, looking up from his own copy, and, Sales tax went to 9½% as he totals the resister. Sorry, he adds, placing thirty-six cents on top of the paper. I changed my mind, you say. Give me my two bucks back. The fuck you say, the guy at the register says. I’m carrying a knife, you hiss. So am I, the clerk responds, I just got here. All right, you break out a grin, let’s cut a rug. Don’t piss me off, the clerk responds. That’s usually my line, you say, but to tell you the truth, I’ve only got twenty dollars to get me through the next week, and I forgot myself over this stupid New York Times. You know, you shrug, read it while you still can. Well, why didn’t you say so? We’ll sell it to somebody else. The clerk opens the register and hands you two dollars. Upper-case G, God is great, you say, accepting them. That’s what I used to think too, the guy behind the cash register says. Now I’m pretty sure it’s lower case. I’ll check back when I can afford another paper, you tell him. Have a good one, the clerk suggests, by way of salutation, though he’s already got his nose back in his paper. You’re across Columbus, across Broadway, and halfway up Grant Avenue before you tell yourself, that guy didn’t recognize me. Why would he, the smart money asks. Did you recognize him? No, no, you tell yourself, there was a time they wouldn’t let me in the store. There was a time they wouldn’t let Gregory fucking Corso in the store, either, the smart money glowers, why not you? I’m not a bard, you stipulate, mustering your dignity. So you do have your pride, the smart money marvels. If you can only do one thing at all, be the best there is. That’s what your daddy always used to say. Fuck him and the plesiosaur he paddled up to the beach on. But it’s true. It didn’t start out that way. Let’s go up Green. You think? Grab that Chinese newspaper. That’ll fool ‘em. This pineapple shirt is soaked through. So don’t court no open flame. Steeper and steeper. What’s a girl gotta do, in order to afford to live in a neighborhood like this? Owe money to the wrong people. Well looky here and whaddaya know, the fourteen hundred block. Pretty good. I walk this town like a Nantucket widow. It’s really true, the sun’s out in North Beach when it’s not out anywhere else in town. Is it true that you can sweat out the poison? If we’re talking about you, you’d probably not make no progress until you’d sweated yourself into a crepitating husk, quivering in a humid breeze, adhered to the bark of a walnut tree and abandoned by a molting locust. That serious? Here we are. Fourteen ten. You keep walking. She’s youngish, she lives in this neighborhood, she probably has a job. What time is it? No idea. There’s a bench down on the corner. Let’s have a seat and read the Chinese newspaper for a while. Catch a little sun. I’ve had about enough sun. There’s bars all over the place around here. You only got the twenty dollars until next week. You’re forgetting the five thousand. That’s counting chickens before they cheep. Yes, but it’s been a long time since we had that kind of dough. Three months. Really? You are incredulous that you can master the urge for such a period. Let alone, focus it, channel it, so successfully. Little did your daddy know, you’d become such a success. That’s the second time that sonofabitch has come up today. Probably the enforced 72 hours of sobriety has made allowances for queer eruptions of thought. Mummy from a bog. Her, too. Her and him need to be left out of the conversation, and remain out of it. Especially now, now that we are working. Formerly, and no doubt latterly, when the mind is merely stew, anything goes. But not now. Now, when we are working. But what about love? Is it true love, when you’re not merely breeding? Is it true cancer, when you’re not merely metastasizing? Even a railing, to put the feet up. Quite a view. This cleanliness, it’s… Disconcerting? That’s it. Just don’t confuse it with thirst. Twenty bucks. That’ not even enough for a cab ride back to the bar, where we could drink all night. I thought we were done with that place. Where’s the harm? So long as Mrs. Dunkeljaeger thinks you have the daughter, she’ll just let you drink yourself to death, which you intend to do anyway. Otherwise, no doubt, she has ways to accelerate the process. A quiver of methods, no doubt. The mattress smelt as one that has been died upon before, it’s true. You’d think that, for the money at stake, she’d spring for a new mattress. So many puns, so much money. That’ll be the day. You think, for the amount of booze involved, you would not have noticed a thing. True, but I’m sensitive. I never doubted it. What time is it? What time could it be? Looking at this Chinese, I feel ridiculous. If you could read it, you’d probably feel more ridiculous. Must be at least five. Let’s take a turn around the block. Sure, just so long as it doesn’t involve a bar. Understood. North on Montgomery to Union, west on Union to Kearny, south on Kearny to Green, north up the steps to the bench again. Salubrious, you wheeze to yourself, but you usually like to strike out for the long haul, from here to the beach and back, for example, especially when you are not in funds and about to go mad. Energetic, sinusoidal, vectored perambulation, mannered, as it were, and sudoriferous. These hikes mark the time between checks, between strikes, between paydays, between delousifications. Perhaps even a bath in the Pacific, to let the brine sooth the sores, cold as that might be. You recall a guy you used to see at Crissy Field. A long, long time ago, long before the restoration of the wetlands, long before windsurfing, let along kite-sailing, long before the goddamn motherfucking Disney Museum. Approximately halfway between the St. Francisco Yacht Club, east along the beach, and the old Coast Guard Pier, to the west along the beach, there stands to this day a grove of Monterey cypress. Most afternoons, out of this grove, a naked man would appear, trot down to the water’s edge, and plunge in. You had no idea who this man was. You didn’t care. Each time you saw him you said, to yourself, a shroud without pockets. But you admired the fact that he expended not a thought upon the idea that anybody might find his nakedness offensive, let alone illegal. So you nodded hello to each other, over the years. And then, one day, you sinusoidaled down the beach as he was coming out of the water. This is it, he abruptly says. What is it? you say, surprised enough to respond. It’s the first and only time the two of you exchange a word. Moving to Oregon, came the response. Really? Why? I’ve been seeing you here for years. San Francisco is over, man, the guy says, and he shakes his head. Way over. All around you were sunshine, the bay, the lascivious lapping of waves, the bluster of the afternoon westerly, cormorants, grebes, seagulls, a chevron of pelicans, and the towering spectacle of the Golden Gate Bridge. Really? was all you could think to say. Closing his eyes and lifting his face toward the sun, with both hands he pushed the salt water through his hair toward the back of his head. Really, he said. Oregon, huh? Oregon. Well, you said, good luck. He shook his head like a dog would, hair flying and droplets spangling. I’m making my own luck, he said, and he walked back up the beach toward the pile of his clothes in the cypress grove. When was that? the smart money asks. I think it was 1985. And, ever since, you’ve been feeling left behind. Don’t piss me off. That’s a long time to be left behind. Permanent and forever, one might say. Yeah, you agree, a generation. But Oregon? You got a—. What? There she is.