“So I teach you how points work next time, okay"?
“You bet.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - INTERRUPTED
I knock at the door, and Chance says, “Ethan, ‘that you"?
I open the door.
Chance is sprawled out reading Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He lifts his olive eyes from the page to look at me. He wears a big grin; it could be interpreted in a half-dozen ways: He’s happy to see me; He was enjoying the comic book; He’s annoyed and hiding it behind a smile; He’s into me; He’s trying to seduce me; He’s remembering a great day at the beach...I should just ask, but I’m scared.
“You find a vacation in there, Ethan"? He points to my purloined copy of Let’s Go! Mexico 1986. I hand it to him. “You speak Spanish, right"?
“Yeah, actually, not very well but I do.”
“We should go.” He looks at me again with the same smile.
“Why are you smiling”? Even as the words leave my mouth, I realize I should have said it when I walked in the room, not now, and not in an accusatory tone. Chance’s smile turns into a frown. I turn away embarrassed. Can I fix this, or is he mad now?
“Ethan, I’m smiling because I am high on life.” When I raise the courage to look at him again, the smile is back. “Let’s look at this book together little buddy.” I am Gilligan sharing a hammock with the Skipper.
He sits beside me on my bed, and I can smell his leather jacket. He’s leaning pretty close, but it’s not what I want it to be. He’s just making sure I can read the same thing he’s reading. There is this pleasant musky odor under the leather, and I know it’s Chance’s sweat. Why does it smell good? Mine smells like the fish market in Chinatown.
The book is so massive, I don’t know where to start. There’s the big introductory section about how to get there and how to get around. They say traveler’s checks are the safest and least troublesome means of carrying your funds. Cash is just a huge headache. I don’t know how or where you buy traveler’s checks. Plus don’t they cost like 3.75 per 100 dollars? How stupid. I’ll take my chances with cash.
We look at the section on Chiapas. I want to see Palenque.
“Have you ever seen the stuff they have in Palenque"? Chance is reading my mind. “They have this carving of a king on a spaceship.”
I perk up, “Yes, as a matter of fact. We studied the tomb of Pakal in my Art History class and I have wanted to see it ever since.”
“Dude, you should totally go to Palenque.” Chance dog-ears the Palenque page. It’s a library book, but what the hell. I think I’m stealing it anyway. I noticed he didn’t say “we should go.” I keep my mouth shut and hide my disappointment
“What about Mexico City"? Chance asks. “It’s one of the largest cities in the world. Let’s make sure you go there.” The section on Mexico City is over 20 pages, so Chance puts a dried eucalyptus leaf as a bookmark.
“And you should see the cultural heart of Mexico, so you have to go to Guadalajara. The place is Mexico on a stick.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Isn’t it where the Mariachis come from”?
Although it is a stupid question, Chance is gracious, “Yeah they have a whole giant square in the middle of town where the Mariachis gather to find work at weddings and whatnot.”
I remember my situation, how stuck I am, and hang my head. Chance shakes me by the shoulder, “Ethan, what’s up"?
Fighting back tears, I say, “This is fun, but there’s just no way I could ever go. I’m fucking crazy and I’m locked up in a halfway house. I have nowhere to go.”
Chance smiles the same delicious smile and says in a deep voice, “Ethan, you can do anything you want. You have nothing to lose.”
“Except my sanity.”
“Sorry, you already lost it, along with just about everything else.” I glare at Chance, but his mirthful face wipes away the anger and replaces it with laughter.
“Seriously, Ethan. You don’t have a wife or kids, no mortgage, no job – you will never have a better time in your life to go on a wild adventure.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Who knows, maybe I’ll go with you. It sounds like a fucking blast.”
I lie in my bed enjoying the image of me falling asleep on Chance’s shoulder on a train in Mexico. As I drift towards slumber, I feel him watching me. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me? I only know it is not what I see in him. He finds me repulsive.
I turn towards him and lock eyes. He is so handsome, it hurts. Without prompting, he says, “Ethan, you are a good looking kid. You don't mind me saying so, right”?
Before I can catch my breath to gasp, the door comes open and Janis walks in with some white dude I’ve never seen before. He is short and stout. He wears dress slacks and a white t-shirt.
“This is Calvin. He’ll be taking this bed.” Janis points to an empty bed I hadn’t noticed until now, then turns tail and leaves us to get acquainted. Chance rolls his eyes and sighs. As I stand, Calvin breezes past Chance, ignoring him, and pumps my hand. “Calvin, and you are…”
“Ethan.”
“Yeah, Ethan. Janis told me. So you and me are gonna be bunkies.” Calvin has an accent somewhere between Chicago and Texas. He could be from Nebraska.
“We are”? I’m not good at hiding my disappointment.
“Yeah, just you and me.”
“And Chance,” I gesture towards Chance, who snores to avoid the conversation.
He glances in Chance’s direction, then shrugs. “This is a beautiful room.” Calvin has a rustic charm.
“So, where were you before this, Calvin”?
“Probably the same place you were. San Francisco General.”
“You came straight from the hospital”? I look over at Chance, who no longer pretends to sleep. He’s asleep. Chance is not a people person, and Calvin is.
“Yes. I was easy to fix, you know, just needed my lithium levels sorted out and now I’m right as rain.” He has a definite twang to his speech.
“Calvin, where are you from?”
“Oklahoma.”
“The Sooner State,” I say, making idle conversation.
“Why yes it is. How did you know?”
“Calvin, you will soon learn there is an extraordinary stack of trivia piled in my brain. Your state bird is the scissor-tailed flycatcher, right?”
“Ethan, I think you might be a genius, unless you ever lived in Oklahoma, why would you know something so obscure?”
“In fifth grade we had to learn all 50 State Capitals, Nicknames, Mottos, Birds, Tallest Mountains, State Animals...you get the picture.”
“And you still remember them?”
“Is the Bison the state animal of Oklahoma, and does it shit on the plains?”
Calvin loses his smile. “I don’t like vulgar language. It’s not appropriate.”
Great. I am living with Calvin the Calvinist and Chance the misanthrope. What if Calvin is a big homophobe?
“Calvin, what brought you to San Francisco”? The question is a good opener to figure out which way their wind blows on the whole gay thing.
“One day I just stopped my medicine and an inner voice told me to head West. So here I am.”
Hmmm. Not enough info. “How do you like it here? Have you seen much of the city?”
“Oh San Francisco is pretty and all. A lot of weird people, though.”
“I’m weird, Calvin. You are too, if you’re in the mental health system, right?”
Calvin gives a snort. “Maybe, but I’m not weird in that way!”
“Yeah, but I am. Is it a problem”?
“Hell no! I don’t care what you do as long as you don’t do it to me.” It’s an acceptable answer, so I fall silent to let him open up more.
“I mean, half my friends back home in OKC are queer. You guys are so much more interesting than the cowboys and oilmen, you know”?
“We prefer to use the term ‘gay’ in San Francisco.”
Calvin is horrified at his f
aux pas. “Gosh, Ethan, I’m so sorry. I forget it’s a bad word because it’s just how you say it back in Oklahoma, even my quee-- my gay friends use that word.” I am charmed by his contrition. He’s no great prize, but living with him won’t be so bad. I doubt Chance agrees.
“No apology necessary. I was pointing out the local custom.”
“Whew! Well, it’s late. Gotta get ready.” Calvin waddles over to his bed and unpacks his clothes into a small dresser. He removes his shirt, folds it, and puts it on the ground He takes off his shoes and aligns them at the edge of his bed. This takes several adjustments. Next are dress slacks, so now he’s just wearing a wife beater, BVDs and black socks.
I look over at Chance to see if he’s watching, but he can sleep through anything. When I look back, Calvin is naked except for his black socks. Toothbrush in hand, he walks into the hallway and shuts himself in the hall bathroom. I hear strains of country songs garbled by a toothbrush. I wish Chance were awake to witness this.
Calvin comes swinging back into the room, oblivious to his nudity. I marvel at the level of comfort with his body he must possess to wander the halls naked. He’s going to get into trouble.
“I’m a grower, not a shower,” Calvin says. As if to prove his point, he plays with himself to fluff up a bit. Indeed, it grows bigger. Then overcome with some mysterious shame, he covers himself and jumps under the covers. He turns to me and says, “Quit looking.”
He removes one black sock and throws it out onto the floor. I hear a rhythmic thwacking sound. The other sock will serve as a receptacle to contain his eventual release. Calvin’s moral compass is lopsided. After a few minutes, Calvin moans, then turns out the light.
“Ethan, can you turn out the other light please”?
I don’t want Calvin leaving man-dribble all over the room, so I do as he asks. I hope this isn’t a regular routine.
Calvin snores. I need to buy ear plugs. Lying in the dark, unable to sleep, I remember the magic moment destroyed when Calvin came in the room. I’m filled with hope now, because Chance has let on he finds me attractive. Not just attractive...I'm good looking. He’s a sexy motherfucker.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - WORK
My first night at Sweet Inspirations takes me for a twirl. I meet my co-workers: Heather and Liz. Heather is a new-waver; she has an asymmetrical bob and wears a checkered blouse with a pink miniskirt. She’s a music lover. Her favorites are TinTin, BowWowWow and Adam and the Ants. “They’re assonant and alliterative,” I tell her.
Heather wrinkles her nose. “What do you mean”?
“Assonance is when a vowel sound repeats, like ow, ow, ow or in in. Alliteration is when the consonant repeats, so like wow wow and T T and Adam and Ant.”
“Whatever, dude, I just like the music.”
Liz has dyed black hair and piercing blue eyes, with a Texas accent. She is warmer than Heather, and more interested in what I do and who I am. “Damon tells us you are experienced. You’ve served before"?
“Yeah, I worked at a bar in New York called the Milk Bar.”
Heather leans in, curious, and asks, “Did they serve milk"?
“No. It was named after a bar in A Clockwork Orange.”
“You mean the Korova Milk Bar”? Liz is well-read. Heather squints at Liz.
Liz explains, “It’s this great science fiction book and even better movie. The thugs all go to a bar where they drink milk laced with drugs and do crazy shit.”
“The New York Milk Bar was pretty tame compared to the one in the novel,” I offer. I like my co-workers right away, even Heather.
Damon shows me how to make a layered latte. First, you put cold extra rich Vitamin D milk into a stainless steel pitcher - not too much, because once it heats up, you can’t use it again - it won’t work. Rotate the valve and keep the steam nozzle right at the surface of the milk, so it “blows bubbles.” Like when you were a kid and you blew bubbles with a straw. Only these bubbles are tiny, and they act like meringue. What you get is a pitcher filled half with hot milk, half with foam. Next, you pack this heavy scoop called the ‘portafilter’ with ground espresso, and press it on the built-in tamper. The scoop seals like a pressure cooker over a steam valve called the gasket. The steam runs through the coffee, and drips out of the two spouts at the bottom of the portafilter. You put a teacup under the spouts to catch the drippings.
Meanwhile, you pour hot milk into a tall glass mug, about to the halfway mark. Next, using a long spoon, you scoop a bunch of foam on top of the hot milk. Damon is a very good teacher. The teacupful of espresso comes next.
“Don’t just dump the espresso in, you need to make it cling to the inside edge of the mug, like this.” Damon tips the teacup gently and lets the espresso drip down the outside of the cup until it makes contact with the inside edge of the glass mug. A miracle happens. The espresso passes through the foam unfettered and floats on top of the milk, underneath the foam.
“If you’re making a macchiato, you’re done. But if this is a caffe latte, you have to scoop one more bit of foam to hide this stain where the coffee passed through the foam.” Damon puts another dollop of foam, and voila! The three layer treat is complete.
It’s a happy surprise this is easy for me. Damon watches me make one latte, and declares me ready to serve. He isn’t quick to hand out compliments, but I can tell he’s impressed. Liz and Heather still can’t do it, so they take orders and bus tables. I’m at the register. I make fun coffee drinks, cut slices of cake, and smile at the hot guys, a harmless flirtation which often leads to better tips. This is San Francisco, after all.
I catch Liz during a moment of relative quiet, “I hope you aren’t mad at me for working the espresso machine. I know you and Heather are both in line ahead of me for the position.”
“Did Damon tell you that”? She smiles. “We graduated. I prefer working both sides of the counter and picking up shit. Making espressos is easy - I just don’t want Damon to make me do it.”
“Heather the same thing, then? She’s faking it"?
“Nah, she genuinely sucks at running the espresso machine. She always burns herself on the steam.”
Throughout the night, we have to keep the steam nozzles clean and free from stuck on milk residue. This involves rubbing up and down the nozzle with a damp rag in long strokes, just like the cute guy at Cafe Soma. I do my best not to make this cleaning look too sexual, but it’s a challenge. Whether I go fast, slow, light speed - there is no denying it looks like I’m giving the espresso maker a hand job.
Even on a weeknight, Sweet Inspirations is very busy. Cake and coffee fly over the counter and tips overflow. Damon grabs singles and sells them back to the register while I keep the customers’ orders moving.
The teamwork is something different from my earlier jobs. Instead of being isolated and put on a task all by myself, I have coworkers who act like partners. Heather and Liz take turns switching from busing tables to taking orders and running the register. It’s an unusual feeling of camaraderie. I mention this to Damon. “Yeah, I could tell from the moment you came in asking about the job you were gonna fit right in. It’s why I hired you.” He has no idea; even though I live in a mansion on Jackson street, I’m no rich kid. I live in a mental facility and don’t want anyone to know.
At the end of the night, there is $118.00 in the tip jar. We split it four ways - Damon is meticulous with the money, breaking fives into ones and ones into quarters. We each get $29.25. It’s more money than I’ve had since I went to the hospital.
It’s late. I walk Fillmore to Jackson, enjoying the posh surroundings. I pass a very busy bar called “The Alta Plaza.” There’s a piano inside, and a chorus of male voices sings showtunes. I want to go in and spend all my money on a drink. Then I look at my espresso-stained Vans and my grubby jeans, and think better of it. Note to self: do laundry tomorrow morning.
Back at Conard House, I have to rap on the door so the night counselor can let me in. It’s a dude named Brad whom I only met once before.
“Ethan, it’s way past curfew.” He isn’t mad.
“I got a night job just down the street at Sweet Inspirations.”
“Very nice. I wish I could afford to go there! I get my coffee at the donut shop. Well, don’t let me keep you. Don’t forget your meds.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
I decide to go via the back stairs, which requires me to pass through the common room. I’m looking for somewhere to stash my cash. On the games shelf, there’s a box of Jenga tiles; most of them are missing. This is pretty good. But I don’t like the collapsing tower imagery accompanying such a box, so I keep looking. Behind a stack of magazines there is a dark orange tea tin “Grandmother’s Tea.” On the outside, a silhouette shows a Japanese chashitsu set against a stylized image of Mount Fuji. The paint is worn in a pattern resembling steam. It suggests there’s a Grandma inside the tea room boiling water in a cauldron. Inside are just the dregs of a few old tea leaves. I don’t know where this came from, but it will work. I am superstitious about removing the tea leaves, so I lay the money folded on top of the leaves. This is my Mexico money. I shepherd it to the room hidden in my coat. Calvin is snoring. Chance is downstairs watching the Tonight Show. After a few furtive glances to ensure there are no hidden assassins watching from the shadows, I stash Grandmother’s Tea in the far recesses of my duffel bag. It is about as safe as you’re gonna get it in a halfway house.
Outside my second story window, I can see a few city lights. I think about the hundreds of rich Pacific Heights people tucked away in their mansions and apartments. I wonder how they figured it out. They are making tens of thousands of dollars a month. I am excited because I just brought home thirty dollars. A darkness overcomes me and I lose hope. I fucked up my life; I will never be able to live in one of these mansions except as a client at a halfway house. The irony stings and draws tears.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t hear him come in. Chance sits on my bed and holds me while I throw a pity party for myself.
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