I've worked at many different places since I got here. My first job was an inside sales job. It was a place south of Market. I can't remember if I actually thought that job was some kind of new start. I probably did. Every new thing I find myself falling into I think is the beginning of something great. But it usually only turns out to be a weird rest area while things keep shifting, and I end up someplace that really does have potential.
The main thing I noticed on the way to my first job here was the lack of trees. There are some trees, but it is obvious that the city was here first and they added them later by jack hammering holes in the sidewalk.
My job was to data entry product orders into the computer system, and listen to the salesmen on the phone so I could learn how to sell. All the salesmen were white. Everybody at this job was white. The salesmen were musicians. This was their day job. One guy played keyboards in a swing-type band. His band would sometimes give performances in convalescent homes. He said the audience didn't applaud they just shook their IV stands.
Another guy was a drummer who recorded and arranged songs at home using the computer music software we sold. He was nice enough. He was a tall skinny guy, with glasses and curly hair. The last sales guy was a Loner. He had long blonde hair and a beard. He seemed older than he was. He also seemed very afraid. I see him at concerts all the time. I remember his name, but I never say hello, because I know he wouldn't remember me.
The office manager was a psychotic witch with stringy black hair. She played bass in some small time outfit I was unfamiliar with. She would verbally abuse me. At first it seemed unreal. No one had ever spoken to me the way she did. She was apparently unhappy with my job progress, even though my two bosses seemed to think I was doing fine. I quit very suddenly without giving notice.
I have too many numbers assigned to me, and sometimes it's confusing. It takes thirteen numbers to access my voicemail at work, twenty-four numbers to access my voicemail at home, nine for my social security number, six for my date of birth, and four for my personal identification number that allows me to get cash from my checking account. Even though my PIN has the fewest digits, it's the one I have the hardest time remembering, because I just kept the one I was assigned.
I was at the grocery store using my debit card to try to pay, and I could not remember my PIN. I didn't have enough cash on hand, or my credit card, or my checkbook. The woman working the register was very nice. I think she could see that I was genuinely confused and allowed me to try again three times before I finally got it right. The other people in line were also nice. They didn't seem frustrated or impatient. It was so strange. Not at all like you'd expect.
Sometimes I feel like I'm actually glowing. Seriously, it's like I'm one of those neon light sticks that they sell at nightclubs and concerts that you crack and shake, and then they glow. I have this uncomfortable awareness of myself that is almost maddening. Also, other people appear very intense to me.
I sure hope this stops soon.
five
It's an hour past my bedtime on a Thursday night, and I'm sitting on the outer ledge that surrounds the dance floor of a club. The first of three bands is playing. They are a surf/punk band from Ft. Wayne, Indiana. I don't know how much surfing one actually gets to do in Indiana, my guess is not much, but they are a decent band.
The key to any group is a solid rhythm core: bass and drums. This outfit not only has an outstanding drummer, but a very tight bassist. The front person is the guitar player, a stout, mini-skirted girl, with short dyed-blonde hair. She's a good guitar player, but I'm watching her legs. I'm specifically noticing the inside of her thighs. They look creamy smooth.
The dance floor is circled by day-glow portraits of a Christ-like woman with exposed breasts. At the rear of the dance floor is the booth where the person running the sound boards is sitting. A young black woman is running the boards tonight. She comes bolting out of her area, through the crowd, to reposition the bassist's mike stand, to stop the microphone from feeding back. I thought it sounded good. It reminded me of someone doing bird calls.
Before the surf/punk band from Indiana began their set, there were two lovely large ladies dancing on the bar. I chose the place I'm sitting so I could watch the lovelier of the two ladies. She was also a young black woman. She wore a long black wig and leather short-shorts. Most of the time she seemed bored, merely swaying to the music. I even caught her looking at her watch. But a few times she seemed to be enjoying the attention, and her dancing showed that, as she stretched her arms over her head, and grinded with a grin.
The first band just finished their last song, and the DJ is announcing that there will be a peep show at the rear of the club. It costs a dollar. I get in line with the others, and make small talk with the dwarf who was photographing the surf/punk band from Indiana. He says his flash wasn't working. He doubts that the photos will come out, which is a shame because I would have given him my name so he could send me photos of the guitar player's thighs.
A large lady with heavy make up and a leopard skin jacket takes my dollar, and I follow everyone into the back room. It's small. And once everyone is inside, it's a tight squeeze. The interior is red velvet. A fake yellow man introduces two Geishas. They are chubby white girls in their early twenties. They are in costume, and circle the audience collecting dollar bills in their bosoms. Both girls are quite cute.
After they circle, they go onto the stage, and one steps into a bucket and acts like she's smashing whatever it is one smashes to make sake, while one kneels before the bucket. The fake yellow man orders people to pay a dollar for a cup of the freshly-made sake. A few men go to the front, pay the dollar, and the girl kneeling scoops out sake from the bucket and give it to the men.
One of the men tells me it's actually grape juice, as I try to ignore the horribly cute music playing in the background. The fake yellow man is angry that more people aren't buying the sake, and the lady who took our door charge tells us to pay more or the show's over. People begin leaving, and the lady announces that we can get an instant photo with the Geishas for three dollars. People keep leaving and I feel bad for the girls. If people had bought more sake, who knows what would have happened. Another guy and I stick around and get our picture taken with the girls.
I have the photo if any of you want to see it sometime.
One of the hardest things about my divorce was condensing a whole home full of stuff into the place I now live.
After my ex came and got her things, I was left with getting rid of the furniture and other household items. I tried to have a garage sale. It was a dismal failure. The white people I was living among were immigrants, and they picked through my things and wanted to haggle. After two hours, I pushed everything into the driveway, and put up a sign that said ‘Free Stuff.’ It still took two days for all of it to disappear: the vacuum, dishes, glasses, pots, pans, table, chairs, whatever. The only thing left was the gold loveseat that I loved in the antique store, brought home, and watched be whittled down by the dog.
I got rid of the gold loveseat by taking a hammer and smashing it into small pieces. Then I loaded the pieces into the car that I still had at the time, drove into Golden Gate Park after dark, and threw them into a dumpster.
You don't realize how much stuff you actually have until you have to move. Even after I got the barest necessities into my new place, I found I had piles of clothes remaining. I put them in plastic garbage bags and set them out with the trash.
I used to have a lot of photos of my ex. Not anymore. I threw most of them away, except for the ones of when we first met.
We were young and skinny.
We were children.
When I was four years old my Dad had me driving quarter-midget race cars. Quarter-midget race cars are half the size of half-midget race cars, which are half the size of full-midget race cars.
What I remember most about racing, was the noise of the cars and the absolute terror I felt driving. I can remember feeling almost frozen with f
ear, pressing the gas pedal to the floor, and gripping the steering wheel as tightly as I could. I think I wanted to get the race over with as soon as I could, and that's why I almost always won. I was competing against boys that were six to seven years older than me. My parents have my trophies and newspaper articles to prove it.
My Dad would work on the car, and we would go to the county fairgrounds in the foothills every Friday to run practice laps with the other racers. The racing was done through an organization of some kind. It was like little league. The parents all knew each other. The Dads would be the pit crew and hang out with the cars, and the Moms would be in the grandstands chatting and watching, and I would guess, praying that their sons wouldn't get hurt. I remember most of the races being at dusk. I remember seeing the pink sky and lovely clouds over the foothills buzzing by from the corner of my eye while I calculated how to pass the car ahead of me.
Now, knowing my Dad, he probably regrets having me race, thinking it caused me harm and contributed to me being the horrible person I am today. I don't think it did. My Dad has asked so little of me I'm actually glad I got to race for him. The only other request came much later when I was in high school. He wanted me to wrestle. I gave it a try. I found I did not enjoy being in close contact with a semi-clothed sweaty boy. I was a terrible wrestler. Once the other guy got me in a weird hold that I couldn't get out of, I would surrender.
My racing career ended after a car drove up my back and stopped on top of me, causing me to crash. My brief wrestling experiment ended after I was pile driven twice into the mats during practice.
If any of you ever run into my Dad please be nice to him, because all he wanted was a race car driving wrestling son and I let him down. Actually, I know that's not true. My Dad is a good man, and all he really wants for me and my brothers is, "What's best for you."
Thanks Dad.
six
I was on Haight Street today with a friend, and saw that a place where I worked is gone. It was a shop that carried imported items that were nice, but not too pricey. It was fun working there. A lot of women came into the store. Too bad I was still happily married at the time.
The friend that accompanied me to Haight Street is yellow. Sometimes, I can't understand what he says, and he has to repeat himself, but I like him anyway. Last Halloween he asked me if I was going to wear a costume. I told him I didn't know. And I made him repeat what he said, about maybe I should dress as a woman. He seemed to think that I could pull it off, and offered his vision of me as a woman. It entailed wearing a wig. He said a red one would look best. It also entailed lots of make up and lipstick, earrings, a necklace, and fingernail polish. He said I would look great with a pointed bra, a tight black sweater, and a leather mini-skirt. He said I could shave my legs and wear high heels.
I assured him that the only way I could convince anyone that I was a woman, would be to wear a shapeless full length dress, a big hat, gloves, and a veil.
I called E after waiting a few days like I was told, and found her time was being spent with the guy she was seeing from Long Beach. We made a date to get together and see a play, but it was over a month away. She said in the mean time we could talk on the phone and write.
I thought this was strange, but I was occupied at the time with trying to finalize my divorce. The paperwork was truly incredible. It seemed no sooner had I sent a form off, it would be returned on a technicality, and I would have to take a late lunch to go to the courthouse and stand in line to have the clerk at the window dealing with divorces explain how to fill out the form.
I made at least six late lunch journeys to the courthouse to stand in line to have the clerk who works at the window dealing with divorces help me fill out a form. The clerk was very patient and very nice. If there are such things as angels on earth she is one.
A friend told me I should do the divorce myself, and not use an attorney. He said it would be quicker and easier. He may have been right, but I bet it was more mentally taxing and frustrating. After that experience I may be qualified to offer my services as a professional divorce paperwork processor. I've never seen so many emotionally raw people in my life as the people who were in line with me. And I'm sure if I could have had the power to see my own face, I looked every bit as ragged as they did.
It's Saturday night, and I have just finished watching a beach blanket movie. I hate to say this, but I liked it. The color was vivid and the actors and actresses looked fantastic. I turn off the TV, and look at the clock and see that it's time to do something. Anything. I'm restless and bored.
I decide to get on the bus that stops across the street, and ride it to see where it ends. I put on my boots, and as I step out the door, the brown mother and her three children that live in the apartment across the hall are standing in the entrance, making strange sounds. Judging by the tone and their interaction, it is some kind of game that only they know. It sure sounds weird. It sounds so weird I can't even describe it.
There's not a bench at the bus stop across the street from where I live, and a brown man is sitting on the sidewalk with his back to the wall. I wait as well, wishing that a car of strangers would pull over and ask me if I wanted to go for a ride. If that happened right now, I would definitely say yes.
My car of strangers doesn't arrive, and I see the bus pull over at the stop just up the street. I tell the brown man sitting on the sidewalk with his back to the wall, that the bus is coming. He stands, and as the bus pulls up and stops, I let him get on first.
The bus driver seems like a friendly guy. He's wearing a brown flannel shirt instead of his bus drivers uniform. I guess today must be his casual dress day.
My hope for a quiet bus ride is quashed. Two white boys sit next to me, and talk the entire time they are aboard. I give up trying not to listen to them. They chatter mostly about girls, and to tell you the truth, they are so boring and uninteresting it doesn't even warrant detailing.
The bus twists and turns, and everybody has gotten off except an old yellow woman and me. I figure we must be getting to the end of the line. There is a bottle rolling around on the floor at the back of the bus, and the driver pulls over and stops. I get off, and realize he pulled over to get the bottle. He tosses it at the garbage container at the stop as I walk by, and it smashes against the side, sending glass everywhere.
I'm on Broadway and Van Ness, and decide to walk Van Ness to the water. I walk past the toy train store to Lombard Street. I'm hungry, and decide to eat at a sandwich shop I know.
I'm the only one in the sandwich shop, and I watch the tourists walking. You can always tell the people visiting from out of town because they look clean and crisp. Most people here are a little weathered.
I finish eating, and head up Van Ness, trying to keep a comfortable distance from the woman walking in front of me. She keeps stopping and looking back. She turns and begins walking towards me. I swing wide of her. She asks me to stop. She wants to know directions to a certain bar. I tell her. She thanks me and walks away.
I get to the water, and instead of going right towards the wharf, I decide to turn left. I jump over the cement wall that separates the upper area from the lower area, and scare two kissing brown teenagers. I apologize, and hop down onto the rocks at the edge of the water, promptly falling on my butt. The rocks are wet and very slick from the moss on them. I stand and walk along the rocks, and under the plank that leads to a building on posts.
It's scary under here. It's murky, and I realize that there might be water rats. I come up on the other side of the plank, and step back up to the cement at the base of the wall. I follow it, stepping over big drainage pipes until I get to where the walkway ends.
I look around and realize I am totally alone. For the first time since I've been in the city, I am all by myself: no homeless people, no Yuppies, no tourists, no Fringe Folks, nobody. I sit and listen to the waves as they crash against the rocks. It's quite loud. My heart is beating fast and my head is racing. I'm finally alone.
This
feeling is hard to explain. It's frightening and totally satisfying at the same time. I'm thinking about everything, and finally decide that it's all going to be all right. A strange peace settles over me, and I get on my knees and say a prayer.
seven
I was waiting for my second date with E, when she called and said she wanted to come to the city and get together, and did I know anything fun we could do? I told her a friend of mine was having an open house at the artist co-op where she lived.
E hesitated at the suggestion, but I convinced her it would be fun. So she said okay, and instructed me to meet her the next day at the rock and roll memorabilia restaurant. I was elated.
I carried a set of clothes in my backpack to work. I shaved, brushed my teeth, and changed in the bathroom. I wore a long cashmere coat that I was given as a gift. As I waited for my first bus, I tried to stay away from people and things that would soil it. Once I got on my first bus it dawned on me what a drag it was to have to take a bus when you are dressed sharply. Buses are filthy.
I got on my second bus, and began my slow crawl up Van Ness past City Hall. The homeless people used to congregate in this area, until the mayor trimmed the trees to mere shrubs, so as to not offer any real shelter for them, and the police began moving them along.
Derek Henkel - Dirty Red Kiss.txt Page 3