Oakland Noir

by Jerry Thompson

  “Just to save a few bucks, they toy with the lives of millions. We can’t let them get away with it.”

  The conversation turned to action ideas. A debate broke out: symbolism vs. substance. There would be no rising of the masses, so they could only prepare for the coming chaos on their own. Should they do something spectacular to make people notice, or should they do something to help others prepare? Take over a TV station? Hijack a food delivery truck and distribute the food to the poor?

  Isabel felt this was stupid. Decades back she’d come to the Bay Area to join the Symbionese Liberation Army. Back in Gallup, New Mexico, this had seemed romantic. By the time she arrived, the SLA members were either dead or in jail. She ended up meeting some Marxists, who convinced her that violence without the masses was not revolutionary, they’d be better off working for the longer haul. She’d tried it, but even that had gone nowhere. She’d come tonight to see if this group had any fresh ideas—but clearly they didn’t. She gathered up her coat and walked out the door.

  What followed made Gholam’s heart sink. Michelle, who’d mostly been silent, came over to Keisha’s side. She was smooth. She struck a skeptical posture, she asked leading questions, and she allowed Keisha to persuade her. Falling for her provocations, Tracy and Keisha competed to present the most radical ideas. The choice came down to robbing a bank to gather funding, or commandeering a food truck to distribute groceries.

  When Gholam tried to interrupt, Michelle cut him down: “There was a time when Gholam was courageous, but he’s lost the spirit of his younger days.”

  Tracy muttered, “Sellout.”

  Keisha looked confused.

  Gholam understood Michelle’s game. Here was a group of overzealous students and one ABD, and sure, in the hothouse of a campus, students and would-be professors might easily fantasize about apocalyptic or utopian scenarios, but come final exams, things would usually fizzle out. Unless, of course, espionage agencies sent instigators in to stir the pot.

  Gholam caught Michael T.’s attention and said he’d like to speak to him outside. Michelle gave him a warning look.

  They stood out on the landing.

  “Look, this is getting out of hand. It’s time for you to tell these people this was all just part of your dissertation, an exercise to see how people react. It’s not real.”

  “I can’t,” Michael T. responded. “I’ve set it in motion, I need to carry this to the end.”

  “Even if it means you guys end up in jail?”

  “I’ll make sure there are no weapons involved.”

  “But the other side will have weapons. You can’t risk people’s lives and future.”

  “They’re adults, free to make their own choices.”

  “Damnit, Michael, you’re not being much of an adult.”

  He could have spilled the beans on Michelle but his own self-interest restrained him.

  When they went back in, Michael T. informed the group that since Gholam didn’t agree with taking action, he should leave. Only those who wanted to be involved should help with the planning. Gholam saw confusion in Keisha’s eyes once again but she remained paralyzed. Michelle was smug.

  * * *

  Gholam desperately sought a way to stop this disaster in the making. He tried to engage each of the players. Tracy was contemptuous, Rachel shut him down, and Michael T. was unreachable. Keisha stopped coming over but they met once for tea after her last final exam. She wouldn’t say what they were planning but was insistent on her duty to act.

  “What about us? Is it over?”

  “No. But if you cared for me, you’d join me. The least you could do is change your plane ticket.”

  Gholam tried to contact Michael T. through e-mail. He offered detailed arguments, providing scenarios of how Michael T. could pull these students back and still maintain respect. When he received no reply, he concluded these people were beyond reach.

  Still, he could not let Keisha come to harm. He had to find a way to get through to her. Gholam decided to forfeit his plane ticket, and bought a new one for a flight leaving on January 2. It cost him twice as much. He called to tell her, but he had to leave a message, so instead he wrote a passionate e-mail. He knew she was busy New Year’s Eve—but what if they had one night together on December 30? He was headed to the other side of the globe. If something did happen on January 1, he wouldn’t be able to fly out, but if he did fly out and then something happened back home, would she not want to see him one last time?

  Somehow this desperate plea worked; Gholam didn’t have to come up with an alternative plan.

  * * *

  When she arrives at his door, there’s a tentative look on her face, as if she’s not sure why she’s here. Her face brightens when she sees the spread he’s laid out. He’s even lit candles. Gholam’s about to open a bottle of wine but she says no, she needs a sharp mind for the following day. That’s her only mention of the next day, and she seems relieved when he doesn’t press.

  After they finish eating, they play Scrabble. Then they make love slowly and fall asleep. He wakes her one time and they have another go.

  Gholam hardly sleeps and wakes before dawn. When he slides out of bed, she’s still lightly snoring. He quietly opens the drawer and takes out his accessories. With the silk ribbons, he loosely ties her ankles to the bed frame. He can tighten them later. With one of the cable ties, he carefully clasps a wrist to the headboard. Before he can use the second tie, however, Keisha wakes up.

  “What . . . are you doing?” She has a curious smile. She doesn’t seem surprised, perhaps because there have been one or two times they’ve used light restraints in bed.

  “Hush.” He kisses her left nipple. She moans and closes her eyes, he sucks harder, and in her moment of confused pleasure he clasps her other wrist to the bed.

  “Gholam, not now. Maybe after you get back.” She pulls her hands and realizes it isn’t just ribbons holding her wrists but something tighter. “What the fuck?”

  Before she can get another word out, Gholam stuffs her mouth with fabric. Now Keisha’s eyes are open wide. She’s scared, confused, and hurt.

  He sits next to her, one of his hands on her belly. “Don’t be afraid. I can’t let you go today. You don’t know what’s waiting out there, so I have to keep you like this for the rest of the day since I don’t know what you guys have planned. I’m really, really sorry, but I have to tell you the full story.”

  Her eyes fill up with pain, tears, and blazing hatred. No matter what story he tells her, he doubts she will forgive him. He doubts whether he will forgive himself, for it is his cowardice that led to this.

  Gholam extends his mind ahead. In ten, twenty years, what will he remember? What will she? Will it be a story of him as a savior, a betrayer, or both? Whose story will stick longer? Will it depend on what happens when the calendar turns and the prophecy fails . . . or proves true? Or are the myths that survive built much deeper?

  He needs at least one certainty. In the wreckage he’s created, he doubts he can get on a plane. Unless, of course, he obtains forgiveness. Only tomorrow will tell if he has a chance.

  “Inshallah,” he whispers.

  BLACK AND BORAX

  by Tom McElravey

  Haddon Hill

  Sean swallowed the hard fact that being the doorman at the Nitecap wasn’t the most lucrative position he could get in Oakland. So he supplemented his income as a small-time dealer of low-grade narcotics—never inside the bar, but the gray area outside left him overlooked although not invisible.

  Thoughts of bottom-shelf tequila shots soothed the endless supply of his cutthroat bump-and-grind, although this gave him access to the local clientele, most of whom ended up drunk and interested in increasing their high. He was the man.

  The jazz clarinetist inside improvised Davis’s “So What,” as Sean swayed in his seat and watched the stage lights blinking above his head. Funk Town Arts Street.

  “Everything you’ve got, motherfucker! You did tha
t, baby . . .” Danny’s laughter beat the musicians back into their two-dimensional heaven while Sean picked himself off the sidewalk.

  “Piece of shit! What’d you do that for?”

  “Cuz you an easy target.”

  “I didn’t hear you walk up.”

  “You lucky I didn’t run up. What were you doin’? Dreamin’ of that girl you don’t have or somethin’?”

  “More like . . . remembering yours from last night.” They gave each other that TV dinner grin—half plastic and no meat.

  Sean changed the subject: “So, supwitchu?”

  “What you think, man? Same shit, same ol’ shit.” Danny dragged his vowels like he dragged his spliffs. He paused a moment, lighter in hand, and cupped the end of the stoge. He had just finished rolling another one and it bounced between his lips. He handed Sean the last of his spliff. “Lemme know when you ready to get your ass whooped. I’ll be back,” Danny said, stepping inside.

  Sean inhaled, shifting his attention toward the mural across the road, back into his daydream. The spiff burned his fingers with the second drag, and he tossed it toward the gutter.

  The music slipped through the doorway like greasy fingers with painted nails, red and chipped from the wrestling match between tunes. A chill went down Sean’s back as applause drowned his daydream with the first lines of “St. Thomas.” He rocked the barstool, shoulders supporting his lean body against the stone wall, head cocked against the window.

  The clink-clank-bling of bangles snapped Sean back to attention. He sat up and gave a quick half-smile to Hershe. She was neighborhood royalty, commanding an impressive air of confidence as her footsteps popped sharply on the cement. Her Diana Ross do bounced lightly, contrasting with the heavy jewelry hanging from her wrist and neck. The studs on her leather jacket glistened as she passed in and out of the shadows.

  “Honey! It’s been too long!”

  It hadn’t been that long, maybe a week, but Sean reveled in Hershe’s affection. He stood to greet her, blushing. She swayed her heavy bag with practiced instability in her matching Gucci heels, leaning down to receive his kiss.

  “It has been too long! I used to see you twice a week at least! Where’ve you been? You’ll never believe what happened around here the other day. Tommy, you know Tommy, came in blind drunk—”

  “That’s wild, honey!” Hershe interrupted. “As to where I’ve been, I’ve been through it. Good thing I can always count on a kiss from my favorite doorman.”

  “Well, I’m always here.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ma go talk to our favorite proprietor, don’t go far now.”

  Another kiss, and she disappeared into the dark bar.

  He listened to the eruption of friendly greetings as she walked toward Ms. Shirley, who took her arm as they disappeared to the back office. The Thursday shift was usually slow and full of regulars and tonight was no different. Sean looked forward to shooting a couple games of pool with Danny and talking business.

  * * *

  Sean stayed within his means—he never sold larger than dime bags, half-grams, and Norcos. It was his principle to keep his head down and he’d yet to have trouble with the local hoods. Danny was his connect, one and only. They never passed goods close to the area, but they did talk inventory over a game of pool and friendly gambling.

  “Fuck it, I’m off tonight.”

  “Man, you ain’ never on when I’m around. Bring it back.”

  The colorful balls rumbled down the chamber, and a resentful crack sounded as Sean forced the eight into the center of the triangle. Danny cocked his cue for the break.

  “Hershe lookin’ fly as fuck.”

  “You think you’re real clever, huh? Rerack that shit.”

  “Just thinking out loud. I’ma make you play it though, ball touched a rail.”

  “You hustlin’ ass cracker. Fine, I’ll play and I’ll still win. Double or nothing.”

  Hershe and Ms. Shirley emerged from the office. Both had the looks of actresses, insincere and pleased with themselves. Ms. Shirley took her seat where the bar bent. Hershe catwalked to the pool table.

  “Gentleman playing fair?”

  “You know Sean can’t shoot, ’specially when you around. Poor kid’s distractable.”

  “He’s got taste is all. How’re you faring, honey?”

  “’Bout to come up twenty bucks.” Danny let out an overzealous “Ha!” earning a scowl from Sean.

  “Just another night.”

  “Another night when you buyin’ my drinks! Where you been, girl? I h’ain’t seen you in a minute.”

  “I been layin’ low, you know, focusing on myself. It’s not just beauty here, a girl’s got to stay sharp to get ahead in this world. Can’t be spendin’ all my time in bars like you men.”

  A sleek black ’87 Cadillac pulled up to the front door and honked twice.

  “That’s my ride, gentlemen, see you two later. You don’t go takin’ all the baby’s money. Be safe now.”

  Sean stared at her ass while she strutted to the car, her strong thighs shifting with hip-shaking grace.

  “That woman really is something. What does she do, anyhow?” Sean asked. “I known her for years and never got a straight answer.”

  “Man, would you ask me what I did? Mind your own damn business,” Danny replied with a knowing smile. “A beer says I run you out.”

  He did as he said. Sean swore as his opponent sunk the eight ball for the third time. Now twenty in the hole, Sean reluctantly returned to his position at the front door.

  Danny beamed. “I’ll take that beer anytime.”

  Back outside, Sean took a pinch of tobacco from his pouch and stuffed it into a rolling paper, shaping the cigarette into a small cone. The smoke floated into his eyes, blinding him. As he blinked through the tears, the pain began to recede. Sean held his eyes closed to expedite the process.

  “You sleeping on the job?” came a stern, melodious voice from his right. “What I pay you for anyhow?”

  Ms. Shirley had an interesting sense of humor, though her employees were rarely subjected to or included in the comedy. Sean was caught off-guard and froze, looking like he had a pocket full of wallets. He smiled, attempting to interpret whether this was one of those rare occasions. She smiled back, confirming his doubts and setting him at ease.

  “Taking off, Miss Shirley?”

  “I’m the boss.” She smiled ferociously. “Get back to work,” she chided, and swaggered to her car.

  He shook his head, confused again by their interaction. Several minutes crawled by before he heard an engine growl to life. She took the intersection at a dangerous speed and drove toward East 18th, not bothering to stop at the light.

  Ms. Shirley was a reckless, intelligent, self-made, and selfish Korean woman in her forties, known throughout Park Boulevard as a shrewd businesswoman, a “dragon lady.” She was genuine, not generous, and could diffuse a disagreement with simple totalitarian logic: My bar, my rules.

  She was also mindful of her patrons. Sean had seen her help more than one “fly who lost his job” or “friend of fly who needed work,” considering it was mutually beneficial. She was well connected; receiving in return an owed favor, a new body added to the roster of regulars, and more cash in the register.

  Sean was considered a “fly who lost his job.”

  Six months back he had hit bedrock, his shit job washing dishes at a greasy burger joint making just enough money to cover rent and buy smack. Repeat. Until a scratcher won him five hundred dollars. Cash in hand, he walked straight to the dealer, buying enough black for a two-week spree, enough to disregard responsibility and lose his job. With the change he went to the bar. A week later he woke up facedown under the “borax king’s” train of plastic donkeys in F.M. Smith Park, the late-afternoon sun pressed against his thick field jacket. A plaque within arms’ reach became a crutch as he struggled to his feet: Mules in Oakland? The letters danced across the information board—a brief hist
ory of the commercialization of borax. Describing F.M. Smith’s mule teams as they marched to the center of the Mojave and back, so he could be rich

  This image of tired mules trudging to their sorry destination forced Sean’s exhausted body three blocks to the bar. He vividly remembered falling into the swinging door with force enough to make the walls shake.

  Ms. Shirley was tending the bar, a factor he hadn’t considered. Her disapproving scowl glared up from the well. Slurred, incomprehensible words dribbled from his mouth, and he watched her face distort into perturbed sympathy. She shook her head no, igniting a passionate rage. He flew from his stool, shouting incoherently until a local fly threw him to the floor and gave him a singular punch to the nose. Submitting, the large man picked him up and pushed him out the door. He lay against the wall outside, drunk and defeated.

  “I like you.” Ms. Shirley’s voice had a reverberating effect as thick blood pounded in his ears. “But you especially stupid lately. Come back tomorrow when we’re open, or never come back.” She gave a final huff and opened the bar door. “Go home!”

  He stumbled toward the “shortcut,” an overgrown staircase designed to connect Oakland’s old trolley system, now forgotten. His final memory of that afternoon was gazing at the city skyline from the top of this stairway, attempting to pick the pocket lint from the last of his black.

  The next morning Sean awoke, guts aching; he lay in bed attempting to recollect the evening before. Ms. Shirley’s threat reverberated through his skull. He glanced at the time before pulling on his cleanest clothes. It was two thirty p.m.

  The Nitecap had been open for an hour before he timidly pushed his way inside. Ms. Shirley looked up when the door creaked open and greeted Sean with a solemn nod. He slunk to the seat adjacent to her and waited. She dramatically finished polishing a glass, held it up to the light, and said, “Johnny quit. We need a new bouncer, you it. Clean up and come work. You have one week. No show, no work.”

  He agreed to the terms, spent a week sweating in bed, and began his new career.

  * * *

  His pipe had one hit left, maybe two if he scraped the bowl. Sobriety made him feel, and weed dulled that edge. It was twelve thirty a.m.: he didn’t want to stick around any longer. The night had been painfully slow, not a full gram sold, not a single argument escalated. Bored and profitless, he felt like a waste of space. An evening like this would keep him awake until daybreak.