“How did you hear about that”?
“You just sent me a psychic fax.”
Wanda is an incredible, powerful psychic. Not like my mom, who uses her psychic energy to exert power over people and make red lights turn green. Wanda is in touch with the full spectrum of light.
I leave Calvin on his call with Kari and enter the Kitchen. Kathleen smiles. She is dicing tomatoes, adding them to an enormous glass bowl.
“Whatcha making?”
“Pasta alla Pomodoro Crudo. Can you squeeze some garlic for me?”
“I thought we weren’t cooking until tomorrow night.”
“You have to let the tomatoes, capers, olives, basil and garlic sit overnight. Tomorrow night we just make garlic bread and cook the penne.”
“When do we cook the sauce?”
“‘Crudo’ means ‘raw’. It comes from Sicily where it gets horribly hot in summer. You don't want to have a lot of stuff cooking all day long. So you cook pasta and add it to the tomatoes when it’s hot. The pasta cooks the sauce.”
I squeeze two bulbs of garlic into the bowl of finely diced tomatoes. As I finish chopping green olives, Kathleen dumps a full jar of capers in, and adds two cups of olive oil. We both tear basil into little bits. The olives go in last. She stirs the whole concoction with an industrial wooden spoon, covers the bowl with six long strips of plastic wrap, and puts it in the giant fridge. The large scale of the kitchen equipment creates the comical illusion that Kathleen is an elf.
“Tomorrow, before we do any cooking, we take that bowl out so it can warm up.”
I nod.
“They only had fake Parmesan cheese at Safeway, so we’ll have to make do.” Kathleen indicates a collection of green foil cardboard tubes that say, ’Scotch Buy Parmesan Cheese - Italian Style’ in big letters, then ‘A pasteurized cheese recipe’ in much smaller script.
“My mom says it has wood chips in it.”
Kathleen nods. “I don't doubt it. But it tastes a lot like cheese, so it will work.”
*
Making dinner is easy tonight. Kathleen took the huge bowl of tomatoes out of the fridge around 3pm when she got back from Day Treatment, so it’s at room temperature now. I can smell the garlic from the other side of the kitchen. Kathleen puts on a giant pot of water to boil. We cut the giant loaves of Columbo sourdough bread in half lengthwise. We spread a mixture of crushed garlic and spreadable margarine liberally on each half. The oven can take six loaves at a time; we have 12 loaves. The bread cooks for 10 minutes until it’s charred on the edges. I cut each half into 6 pieces and toss them into a big bowl lined with clean dish towels. Meanwhile, Kathleen throws a huge handful of salt into the industrial-size pot of boiling water. She immediately dumps in box after box of Golden Grain penne. The pot foams up but doesn’t boil over.
The box says to cook it for 11 minutes, but Kathleen pours out most of the water at nine minutes. She ladles the condensed liquids from the enormous bowl of tomatoes into the pot and cooks the pasta for another two minutes. Then she drains it, and dumps the whole hot pile into the bowl. Instantly, a garlicky basil vapor rises with the steam. It causes my mouth to water involuntarily. The bowl is nearly filled to the top, so Kathleen stirs it carefully with the giant serving spoon. I catch any bits that fall over the edge and add them back to the bowl. The second batch of garlic bread is ready; I cut it and fill the big bowl of bread to the top, covering it with a towel.
First in line is Rick, a fifty-year old black guy with Schizophrenia. He takes three pieces of garlic bread and three giant spoonfuls of penne. “Hey, where’s the meat? I need meat with every meal.”
Kathleen smiles sweetly and hands him a cylinder of parmesan cheese. “Take this back to the table with you, please.”
Rick grumbles and shuffles off to the dining room. He is the toughest customer. Everyone else moans and groans with joy as they gorge themselves on Kathleen’s Sicilian/Californian cooking.
I look around, but Chance is not here. I save him a bowl and two pieces of garlic bread.
I’ve already managed to sock away a couple hundred dollars from my tips at Sweet Inspirations. No one at Conard House knows how to account for the money, so they can’t factor it in when extracting the rent from my GA check, which would only leave 15 dollars for me to buy cigarettes, get my hair cut, buy snacks, or whatever else people do with 15 dollars a month. As the pile of money grows, I am leery of keeping my whole stash in one place. I consider carrying half in my wallet. I don’t want to get mugged on the three block walk between Conard House and Sweet Inspirations. Chance offers to keep half in his backpack. I can't think of anywhere safer, so I agree.
My secret Mexico vacation makes the days fly by. I tell Janis I want to go on a trip to Mexico with “a friend” (I don't want to get Chance in trouble) and she says it would be “AMA” or “Against Medical Advice.” She’s pretty cool, so she adds, “I’m not a doctor, so I can give non-medical advice. That sounds like a pretty fucking cool trip to me. But you need to think about where you will live when you come back. You should wait a few months until after you’re in a co-op. You don’t want to return homeless.”
Great advice. If I leave early, I will need to talk to my Mother about crashing at her apartment. I make a mental note to do so, with an added mental pang of dread.
Tonight it’s Mah Jong. Shirley Mae and Tony Ha form two sides with me and Bernadette. I have gotten pretty good at Mah Jong, and I find playing it takes my mind off of other stuff. Pong! Pick up for three of a kind. Kong! Four of a kind. Bernadette chatters away like a sports announcer, the Howard Cosell of Mah Jong.
I do have a good head for numbers and cards. I inherited it from the Jewish side of the family. They were all card sharks on riverboats in the South, riding the Mississippi making money for the family by counting cards and bluffing. I just know which cards have fallen and which are still in play. I can't help it. Les Jeux Sont Faits.
Chance leans in and makes a signal for me to meet him upstairs. I excuse myself from the table at the end of the round. Bernadette still wants to play, so I let Helen Ka have my seat. I run to the room, where Chance is waiting.
“Ethan, my time here is up. I’m leaving in a few days. I gave it some thought, and I want to go to Mexico in January. I would love it if you came with me.”
A thousand thoughts bombard me at once. Chance wants to go with me to Mexico. He used the word ‘love’ in a sentence about me. Chance is leaving me at Conard House all alone. It’s nearly Christmas, so this is coming too soon. If I go with him, I would be leaving the program early.
“Why January"?
“It’s the best time for me. I can take time off. Nobody rides Vespas in January in San Francisco.”
“Yeah, but I’ll lose my spot for a co-op apartment. I have to stay until March.”
“A while ago, you asked me how to break out of this jail. How to escape the loop. This trip is the way.”
He has an excellent point. I’m being too cautious, keeping myself trapped in the mental health world. “You know what, Chance? Fuck it. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - TICKETS AND COFFEE
The Greyhound station on Seventh Street is a filthy shithole, but they have some tickets to great destinations. I buy my ticket to San Diego and a transfer ticket to Mexicali. This will cost 42 dollars, more than the entire train fare to Guadalajara, Mexico DF, and the Yucatan from Mexicali. Amazing. Chance buys his ticket and we’re set. We leave January 15 for San Diego, transfer to Calexico, then cross on foot to Mexicali. We can buy our train ticket there. Janis isn’t going to be happy about this, but I think it’s the right thing to do, given my age and ability with the Spanish language. We can see so much of Mexico by train.
I can count the days now until the trip. I keep socking away my money so I will have enough to cover me on the trip. It’s only a few hundred dollars, but Chance assures me a hundred dollars in Mexico can buy what two thousand dollars buys in the States, and we will be fine. I hope he’s
right.
*
“Girl, I STILL wanna meet him"! Michael is jade green with envy about Chance. “He sounds too good to be true.”
“Sorry, Michael, but he’s kinda shy. He hasn’t met my mother and I don’t think he wants to meet my friends either.”
“You’re hiding him from me.”
“Whatever, queen.”
We’re sipping cappuccini outside the Peet’s coffee on the corner of Jackson and Fillmore, pretending to belong to the line of cashmere cardigans. When Conard House does its coffee walk, we march right past Peet’s, past Sweet Inspirations, and into the Rolling Pin Donuts on California and Fillmore. It’s a lowbrow establishment in a high-rent district, same as its counterpart on Castro Street. Today, I want to pretend I don’t belong to coffee walk. Today I want to be part of the glamorous set haunting Jackson Street and Cow Hollow. I want to be rich. I want to be one of the city lights.
“When are you leaving again"? Michael asks.
“The 15th. We have tickets to Mexicali, and then we’re catching a train.”
“That sounds so fucking romantic.”
“Yeah, well it’s strictly platonic so far. Very romantic.”
We sip from our cardboard cups and drain them of the last of their caffeinated grog. “Do you want me to bring you anything from Mexico"?
Michael pauses to think about this. “Yes, a Mule-tooth necklace, please.”
“Done.” I don’t know where they sell them, but I know I can find them.
“Are you gonna see any ruins? Like those big Aztec ruins near Mexico City.”
“We’re playing it by ear, but we are definitely going to Chiapas to see Palenque.”
“That’s where the chariots of the gods thingy is, right"? of course Michael knows about ancient astronauts.
“The tomb of Pakal. He looks as if he’s strapped into a spaceship. We studied it in my Archaeology class at Columbia.”
“I am so jealous.”
“Come with us. Mexico is cheap.”
“Do you realize after rent and the PG&E bill I have 30 dollars to pay for my groceries for an entire month"?
“Can’t you work under the table somewhere"?
“I wouldn’t jeopardize my SSI for that. Sorry. Without it, I am nothing.”
“I’ll bring you a mule tooth necklace. Stay here and keep San Francisco from falling into the ocean.”
“Fine, bitch, I will.” We both cackle like old hens.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - WHIZ BURGERS
The last person I will tell about this trip is my mother. I will telephone her from the Greyhound station in San Diego. Not a minute sooner. Given enough time, she would stomp all over everything. She would make the entire thing about her. She will destroy the plans, tell all the counselors, sue Conard House, whatever she can do to get extra attention and make me feel small and angry. So she doesn’t get to know about it. Michael G. Page knows about it - he’s a much better mother to me. He supports my trip, although he’s still suspicious he hasn’t met Chance yet. I will try to arrange a meeting when we come back from Mexico.
Today I ride the 22 Fillmore to the Mission to go to Whiz Burgers on 18th and South Van Ness. It’s my favorite junk food restaurant. Whiz Burgers is an old drive-in hamburger stand where they still have girls on roller-skates to bring the food to your car door. I don’t have a car, so I order a Whiz Burger special at the walk-up window. It’s a cheeseburger, fries and a strawberry shake. Behind me in line is a tiny girl I remember meeting in the Haight. Her name is Munchkin.
Munchkin wants a Mango milkshake, but Whiz Burgers doesn’t carry mango. I have to admire her pluck. “If I go and buy a mango, would you put it in a vanilla milkshake"?
Robin, the bald man behind the counter shakes his head. She settles on a banana shake. “It’s the next best thing to a mango shake. Hey Ethan, what’s up"?
She remembers me. I tell her I am in a halfway house because I lost my mind.
She is at a hardcore detox called Walden House next to Buena Vista Park. “I hate it,” she confesses, “I can’t get away with anything. They call me on all my shit. I just want to get high.”
A few months ago, getting high would sound pretty good to me, but I have Mexico now, and it dampens the pain and emptiness that dope could kill. I don’t want to get high right now. I tell her about my upcoming trip and she is super jealous.
“I want to go! Can I just crawl into your suitcase and fall asleep by accident"? We laugh and enjoy our milkshakes. I wish I had chosen banana instead of strawberry. We exchange sips and we agree banana is far superior. “You can taste the chunks of banana in there, but not the strawberry; it’s all chemicals. And there are no chunks of strawberry at all.” She has excellent taste.
*
Tonight it’s packed at Sweet Inspirations. There is some Kubrick film about Vietnam playing at the Clay, and everyone comes out needing sugar and coffee. That’s what we’re here for. After splitting the tips, there’s twenty dollars just for me. Life is good. Twenty dollars will buy two nights at a motel in Palenque. I can’t wait to go. Christmas came and went, and we are staring at 1988 like a tsunami about to wipe out 1987. Good riddance. What a fucking awful year! If I had it to do all over again, I would do ANYTHING to stay sane. I would sleep and ignore the earthquakes in my bed. I would find a better job than the fucking Stud. I would steer clear of AT&T and ITT Technical institute. I would NOT go to the Library and I would avoid the Mark Hopkins hotel. I would shun Dennis Peron’s weed, and I would not stand in the wind and let random thoughts blow into my head. The whole mess could have been avoided.
Mexico is what matters now. 18 days and counting. Chance will be discharged this week. I’m the luckiest guy in Pacific Heights. And I have 1,000 times less money than any given neighbor. The letter of Paul to the Corinthians springs to mind. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing. And though I drive a Mercedes Benz and have a million dollars in the bank, but have not love, I am nothing. What I have with Chance is the closest thing to love I have ever known. It might be love.
*
My meeting with Janis is at 10am, but when I get there, I see Chance talking with her, laughing. He puts his hand on her knee in a flirtatious gesture. I am jealous. His flirting just hits me in the heart in a weird place. He will be discharged soon, leaving me to fend for myself. I have Mah Jong and I have Kathleen, although she is a little dizzy. I’m jealous Chance is hogging my time with Janis, too. She’s such a cool lady. After about 15 minutes, I stop standing in the doorway and find a place to sit where I can observe them together without appearing needy.
Chance finishes with Janis. He holds me in a big bear hug. I look at the parquet floors and try to make sense of the dozens of geometric patterns on the floor.
“Hey, little buddy, I put your money in your duffel bag - inside pocket.”
Kathleen walks past and says, “Ta brae nacht na bricht.” That’s a greeting reserved for night time, but I don’t bother correcting her. She leaves her Gaelic book out in the common room, where I can flip through and try to learn a language so close to my own, and yet so foreign. I will stick to Spanish and French, the two I learned in high school.
Janis is already seeing another client, so I figure I can skip it for today. Chance notices my faint tinge of jealousy. I ask him “What did you two talk about"?
“You,” he answers. “It was all good. She doesn’t know about Mexico. I was just talking about what a great kid you are.”
“Thanks.” The jealousy is replaced with embarrassment. I always blush when people say good things about me. Reminds me of my mother bragging about me in a narcissistic glow of tri
umph. She has nothing to brag about today. Her son is psychotic and spending time recovering from a stint in the mental hospital. She can’t put any positive spin on that. That’s why she’s being such a dick to me. I’m making her look bad.
CHAPTER TWENTY - LOST CHANCE
Chance didn’t say goodbye. He’s gone now, and I am alone in the room. I expected some ceremonial farewell, a long embrace, even though we will be together on a train in Mexico in just a couple of weeks. He just vanished. He didn’t have much stuff, because I can’t even tell if anything is missing in the room. I never saw him get dressed or read or do anything suggesting he had possessions. It’s like he was never here. I walk downstairs to play Mah Jong.
Nobody in the Mah Jong game knows about me and Chance, so Tony Ha doesn’t ask me why I look so blue. Most of us look blue most of the time, so there’s nothing special about it. I win a hand with all four winds and two birds - which brings great praise but leaves me empty. Mah Jong is too easy. I need to learn how to play Bridge or one of those other games that requires skill. Mah Jong is 90% luck and the other 10% is all that makes the difference between a champion and a loser.
*
Sweet Inspirations is crowded. I keep hoping Chance will show up and surprise me. I want to introduce him to Damon and the others. They’ve heard about him. No visitors. Just an endless line of upper middle class Pacific Heights residents ordering caffe latte, mocha and cappuccino. If it were not so busy, it would be hard to hide my sadness. Customers don’t notice. I can spare them the loneliness of being away from Chance.
I channel my loneliness and isolation into making the perfect layered latte. I even try to pour the espresso into the glass mug without leaving a stain on top of the foam, but it is impossible. The Italians knew this to be so, or they would never have coined a name for the macchiato.
When things slow a bit, Damon chats with me. “Ethan, you live just up the street. Do you live with your parents?”
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