“Hey, hey little buddy. What’s wrong?”
“I fucked up. I fucked it all up. I’m never gonna be anyone or anything.”
“That’s not true.”
“How do I escape this trap? I’m in a very posh, permissive mental hospital. But I have nowhere else to go.”
“This is just a temporary prison, Ethan.” I notice how safe I feel as he holds me. I take advantage of his kindness and put my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away in disgust. He just runs his fingers through my hair.
“I don’t see a way out. It’s an endless loop.”
Chance pats my head and squeezes me in his arms. “It’s not. I promise you. You are not very sick. You’re getting out of here.”
I pull away from Chance to give him his breathing space. He brushes a thumb across my cheek to wipe away a stray tear.
I gesture to the many mansions out my window. “How do they do it, Chance? How do they make all their money”?
“They buy low, sell high.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just something my Dad used to say. If I understood it, I wouldn’t be here.” He chuckles and gives me a noogie. “Alright, buddy, time to rest. Tomorrow will be better than tonight.”
As I drift into hazy slumber, I wonder if there’s any way Chance could be my boyfriend. He likes to tease me. He doesn't want me the way I want him. Same fucking story, different dorm.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - CASHING CHECKS
My bankroll grows each night as I work at Sweet Inspirations. Grandmother’s Tea is filling to overflowing, and my paychecks are piling up. I need to bring them to a check cashing place so GA doesn’t find out about them. If I deposit them in my savings account, GA will know. There is a sleazy C&C check-cashing place on Fillmore and O’Farrell. People go to C&C to collect their food stamps. There’s always a line of foreign women waiting out front asking if you want to sell. They give $60.00 for $110.00 worth of food stamps -- enough to buy dope, rock, crystal or whatever the recipient has deemed more important than food.
Chance volunteers to walk me there so I don’t get mugged. I have several weeks’ worth of paychecks now. Each is worth about $85.00 after taxes. Ronald Reagan made service employees pay tax on tips. Even though I am not a waiter, I have to pay a tax on the tips I would have received if I were. Most nights I get about $20.00 in tips from the jar. They tax me on over $100.00 based on what comes into the till for the owners. And I can’t get it back. This explains why my paycheck is so small. At least they add up over time.
On our walk down Fillmore, Chance and I pass the glitzy shops. There’s Betsey Johnson, where I would buy my clothes if I had money. It’s all women’s clothes, but I can pull off a couple of Betsey Johnson jackets or leggings. There’s Z Gallerie, a two story department store carrying fancy furniture, art reproductions like “Night Owls” by Edward Hopper or a 1/16 scale copy of Rodin’s “The Thinker.” There’s flatware and china in ultra moderne Memphis shapes and colors. They have far too many couch cushions and a selection of rugs worth six months labor at Sweet Inspirations..
Chance shakes his head. “Do you really want any of this stuff”?
“Nah. I mean, it would be nice, but I don’t need it.”
“But you want it.” He gives a serious stare.
“Sure I want it. I want world peace. I want an artist’s studio by the sea.”
As we make our way, our animated conversation must appear to be an argument, because the pedestrians give us a wide berth as they pass us. I suppose they don’t often see two lunatics engaged in heavy discourse.
As we cross Bush, the neighborhood grows less and less toney. There’s a black-owned seafood restaurant, a holdout from the days when the Fillmore was ruled by jazz and soul. Fried Catfish wafts into the street, making my stomach growl. We run into our first panhandler. The cops don’t mess with panhandlers below Bush. Plus there’s the Kabuki Cinema on our right, drawing a lot of foot traffic to one place - a panhandler’s motherlode.
Inside the check-cashing center, a motley line of financially unwell people snakes around a series of stanchions leading to a row of bullet proof glass windows.
The clock ticks slower in desolate places. C&C Check Cashing smells of garbage and urine-soaked undergarments. The stench causes the clock to leave snail trails. There are at least 15 people ahead of us. Chance tells me part of his story to keep me amused.
“You see, I thought I was the Mayor, so I went to the rotunda at City Hall to make an announcement, but the police got the wrong idea. They thought I was a jumper. I was just there to announce some governmental reforms to make life in San Francisco much better.”
“Like what?”
“Well, gay marriage, for one.”
“Gay marriage? How sick were you? It will never happen. There are way too many bible thumpers, even here. I mean look what happened to Harvey Milk.”
“Yeah, I was actually gonna propose a national holiday for him, too. But I didn’t have the opportunity.”
“Besides, why are you so interested in gay marriage? Does it affect you in any way?” I didn’t mean to make it sound like a challenge, but it does.
Chance goes on the defensive. “I mean, I don’t want to live in a world where one group of people, mostly idiots, decides a much smaller group of people are less than human.”
I’m touched by this. “Is marriage what makes us human?”
“Dignity makes us human.”
“Would you shut up!” An angry little man in Charles Nelson Reilly glasses and a mud-stained London Fog raincoat turns and glares at us. “We deserve a little peace.”
I shrug and glance at Chance, who shrugs back. We await our turn in silence.
After C&C is done extracting their usurious fee, I am left with a little over $500.00 in cash. I’m glad Chance is here to protect me. There are several ne’er do wells lurking nearby who would love nothing more than to jump me for my money. Chance pats his leather jacket pocket and flashes a switchblade. We’re safe.
On the way back, we stop inside the Goodwill on Geary and Fillmore. This is where all the rich people’s stuff rolls down the hill to be sold to poor people. I haven’t gone thrifting since before the hospital. This is my all time favorite hobby.
Chance and I wind back and forth through the racks and shelves examining each item for its potential value and actual price. If I had my own place, I would buy antiques here. As it is, I’m just cruising the knick-knacks, hoping for a small but valuable find. Chance presents me with a snowglobe of San Francisco. Of course, it doesn’t snow in San Francisco, so this one has sequins and glitter instead. Come close to a drag queen on Gay Pride, and you will be drenched in a rain of sequins, glitter, and loose rhinestones.
“You want me to buy you this, Ethan?”
If the globe were clear, well made, not full of some kind of algae, I might want it. How do I tell him ‘no’ politely?
“If you find one for Palenque, then I’ll take it.” It wasn’t too rude, right? Chance puts it back and keeps looking.
Then he surprises me. He finds an old 1960’s Capodimonte porcelain model of a Vespa with a guy sitting on it who looks like Chance, down to the leather jacket! “Ethan, you gotta let me get this for you.”
I want it, but it’s a portrait of him. “Don’t you want it? It looks like you.”
Chance shakes his head, “I look at myself every day in the mirror. This is for you to remember me when I’m not around.” It’s syrupy and romantic. But it’s a nice gesture.
I perk up, “Well hells yeah, get me the Vespa. I’ll put it on my dresser.”
We trudge up Fillmore on the southeast side of the street. These stores are more geared towards new mothers. Corduroy jumpers and shabby chic bassinets compete for window space in the cluttered mommy shops. We reach La Mediterranee, the Greek/Lebanese restaurant. Chance insists on buying me lunch. I’ve never been before.
“This one is the annex. The real one is in the Castro. But this food will mak
e you cry. It’s so fucking good.” I remember Damon saying something about it at work.
We order Mezze - mixed appetizers to share. It doesn’t look like much food, but together we can’t finish it all. Chance pays the check. This is what it must be like to go on a date with someone. I’ve never dated, just tricked with one night stands. It feels safe and warm.
Upstairs, I place Chance’s gift on the dresser where I can see it from my bed. I dig out my tin of Grandmother’s Tea and add the fresh wad of bills to the stash. I wish there were someplace safer, but this is it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - POMODORO CRUDO
Conard House has a basement, a first floor, a second floor and an attic converted into bedrooms. Our room is in the attic. There are sections of the room where the roof angles all the way down to the floor. You can sleep in a bed, but there’s still wasted space. Chance seems to prefer a mattress that wedges right into the spot where the roof meets the floor. I want to crawl over there and cuddle with him. But I can’t. I watch his chest rise and fall. I need to be close to him. He won’t let me. I disgust him. He would never want a fat ugly lunatic like me.
I can tell him how I feel while he sleeps. That’s safe.
“Chance,” softly, “I know I’m an ugly piece of shit and you’re a god, but would you ever consider being more than a friend”? Chance’s soft breath causes his chest to rise and fall in a soothing rhythm that makes me feel sleepy. I continue. “I want to have a pride parade with you everywhere we go. I would hold your oil-stained hand and you would take my little hand and we would be together. In love. Just you and me, on my Vespa, riding down the Great Highway.”
Calvin is snoring. The problem with being so crazy is that I forget stuff constantly, like going to Walgreens for earplugs. I search through my few possessions to see if I can fashion earplugs out of raw materials. Toilet paper, that’s what we use.
I tiptoe out into the hall. We’re allowed to go to the bathroom; I don’t know why I feel like I need to be sneaky. I roll toilet tissue onto my hand and return to make my remedy. After several attempts, I get the right width and length of tissue. I can still hear Calvin, but the noise blends with traffic and other sounds that are now muffled. I can sleep.
Except I can’t. I look at Chance, and he’s looking back.
“Hey.” He grins.
“Oh, hey.” I’m busted.
“Can I get some of that toilet paper”?
“How long have you been awake”? I unroll a few sheets. Chance twists them into perfectly shaped earplugs. He is a mechanic.
“I haven’t been able to sleep.” Oh, shit. Was he not asleep?
“So, were you wide awake, then”?
“Ethan, I heard what you said. It’s beautiful, really. I wish you had the guts to say that to me when you know I’m awake.
“Okay then, I will. I love you.”
The room tastes like sour milk.
Chance puts the earplugs in and rolls facing the junction of wall and ceiling. I watch his back for a minute before I curse myself into oblivion.
Chance waves me over.
“What”? I’m fighting back tears.
“Let’s cuddle.”
In bed, he gently takes my arm and puts it around his chest, holding it there tightly. I would normally pop a boner at this point, but the vibe he gives off is completely different. It’s deep, romantic friendship. It’s not what I want, but I’ll take table scraps.
Chance smells like Jovan Musk. The gentle rise and fall of his chest lulls me to sleep.
In the morning, Calvin is standing over me. Chance is gone.
“What are you doing there”?
“Nothing.” I crawl off the mattress and get to my feet with as much dignity as the situation allows.
“Care to join me for breakfast”? Calvin’s offer is kind. I want to decline, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
At the breakfast table he shakes his head and laughs.
“What”?
“You, Ethan. The look on your face when you woke up.”
I blush.
“There it is again”! Calvin cackles.
Despite his many quirks, his annoying twang and his abrasive manner, Calvin is not a bad person. He’s one of the good ones. I’m not saying I’m fond of him, but I don’t mind being his friend. I learn more about him as we eat soggy Cheerios with whole milk and too much sugar.
“My first hospitalization was in college,” he tells me. “I thought I had uncovered an alien/Christian conspiracy.”
“Details.”
“Oh, well I was at ORU.”
“Is that Oklahoma Regional University?”
“No, Silly. Oral Roberts University in Tulsa. Anyway, they got this prayer tower with an antenna that supposedly communicates with God.”
“And they locked you up”?
“I know, right? Yeah so I was having my first manic episode and they put a huge balloon on top of the antenna for some reason. Or at least that’s what I saw.”
“Who’s they?”
“I guess the Regents of the University, and Oral himself.”
“I’ve always thought Oral was a weird name to give a boy, or a girl.”
Calvin nods. “Yeah, and so lightning struck the balloon and I saw alien ships. Please don’t think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy. I know we’re both crazy and you’re in good company. Keep going.”
“So the aliens saw me see them and they came after me. They were everywhere.”
“How did you recognize them”?
“The same way we all do. One eye up, one eye straight ahead.”
I drop my spoon. Calvin hands me a paper towel. I start to quiver with fear. That’s the people on the number 27 bus.
“Calvin, I know which bus they take.”
“The 27, right”?
There is an expression, ‘to feel one’s heart beating in one’s chest.’ This is what they mean. Fear washes over me.
“Shhh! They get mad when you talk about them!”
Calvin shrugs. “We’re protected here.”
“How”?
“They’re allergic to wood. This whole place would give them hives.”
Thinking back on my encounters with the wall-eyed aliens, I realize it was always in concrete or metal structures, like the jail or a bus.
“Okay, but they’re not real, Calvin. We are crazy, and we made them up.”
“They’re as real as your cereal bowl. They’re as real as that toaster.”
“No, that’s why they give us lithium.”
“Most people can’t see them. I mean, they see them, but they don’t know like you and me.”
“So I took us down a rabbit hole. You were at Oral Roberts University, and…”?
“I took my clothes off and climbed the praying hands sculpture. They had to call the fire department to get me down.”
“And you went to jail”?
“No, they took me straight to the hospital in an ambulance. The police didn’t want to get involved.” Calvin put his soup bowl in the sink.
“Lucky. I got 5150’ed.”
“Jail is a shitty place to be when you’re on a manic high.”
I figured it was worth asking Calvin about some other weirdness. “So, when I was in jail, I could use my psychic energy to open electronic locks. Did you have anything like that”?
“Not really. I believe it though. It’s crazy energy, the best kind.”
Calvin teaches mathematics when he’s not perched naked atop a giant bronze statue of praying hands.
“Did you leave your students behind to come here”?
“Yeah, but they already had a substitute because I was on medical leave.”
“What kind of math do you teach”?
“Oh, I’m mostly pre-Algebra, Algebra, Trigonometry and pre-Calculus. Geometry is for pussies.”
“Where were you teaching”?
“OKC Community College. Not the smartest bunch of Sooners, but they
learned.”
“Are you going to teach here in the City”?
Calvin frowns. Maybe I’m asking too many questions. But then, “Well, I hadn’t really thought of it. Do you think they need a bipolar Math teacher”?
“Most schools will take whatever they can get. Especially Math. My friend Wanda used to teach English. She might know.”
Calvin brightens. “Would you ask her”?
I shrug. “Right now. I’ll call her at BUSTCo.”
The Berwick US Trading Company (BUSTCo) is an importer of brass plumbing fixtures. Wanda is an Aquarian so she took the job to be a water bearer. Plus, she says, her part of fortune is in Aries, and brass is ruled by Aries. She has done extremely well for herself there. She has an 800 number so it’s easy to reach her.
“USTCo, this is Wanda speaking.”
“Wanda, hey, it’s Ethan.” There is a loud shriek and peals of laughter. It is a good feeling to be loved so intensely by a good friend. The noises make Calvin smile.
“Ethan, it’s so good to hear your voice. What’s going on”?
“Oh, nothing, I have a friend who teaches math and I thought you might know someone who can help him.”
“Is it that boy you like? I thought he repairs motorcycles.”
“Nah, that’s Chance. This is Calvin. He teaches math, and he’s pretty good.”
“Okay, hmmm. What sign is he”?
“What’s your sign”?
Calvin grins. “Stop sign.”
Wanda doesn’t lose a beat. “Okay, that means he’s a Sagittarius because they never believe in anything.”
“So, Sagittarius”?
Calvin nods dumbly.
“Perfect. He and Kari will get along like a house on fire. She’s a Leo. Tell him to call Kari and tell her I sent him.”
I give Kari’s number to Calvin, with Wanda’s instructions.
“Is Kari hiring”?
“No, no, no. She’s a psychic. She doesn’t charge. She’ll read him and tell him exactly where he needs to go. He’ll never go if you tell him that, so just say she’s well-connected, if he asks.”
“Can I go see her”?
“She’s an astro-bigot. She hates Pisces. We may lose our friendship over it. Besides, aren’t you cooking up some scheme to go to Mexico”?
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