Oakland Noir

by Jerry Thompson

  PRETTY RUDY: Nah, it’s just there’s this new thing where I’m pouring water in coffee, or pouring anything really, then something takes control of my arm, and I’m talking to my arm, like, Quit pouring that on the cookies, or the counter, or whatever. Like my brain knows I’m not supposed to be missing the mark that bad but my hand ain’t got the memo yet.

  SILLY CHINO: Does your hand just keep pouring and then put the water or milk back in the fridge on its own? Or does it go back to the cup?

  PRETTY RUDY: The water slides back to pour in the cup, like nothing happened. But not soon enough.

  SILLY CHINO: Weird. Must suck getting old, huh?

  PRETTY RUDY: Yeah, like it must suck being such a dopey motherfucker.

  SILLY CHINO: Just sayin’, that sounds serious, like that Lou Diamond disease.

  PRETTY RUDY: Lou Gehrig’s disease. Looked it up online yesterday, degenerative shit. Lou Diamond’s only disease is he’s a degenerate who stars in shitty flicks.

  SILLY CHINO: Lou Gehrig, Lou Diamond, who gives a fuck? Whatever they call it, you still end up with old-timer’s disease.

  PRETTY RUDY: Does make me think of Michael J. Fox, though. Wonder if he started to notice a lot of tiny bad spills before he went full-blown shaky?

  SILLY CHINO: You think when his body started to lose control he was like, Fuck, I gotta do shit. My time’s almost up?

  PRETTY RUDY: Hell yeah. I’m spilling just a little more than usual and I’m like already figuring out a bucket list.

  SILLY CHINO: I ever learn I’m gonna die soon, I’ma start a fuck-it list. Just go do some crazy I-don’t-give-a-fuck shit.

  PRETTY RUDY: Funny you say that. First thing on my bucket list actually is a fuck-it list.

  SILLY CHINO: You wanna just say fuck it too?

  PRETTY RUDY: No, I wanna like literally fuck a porn star. And not some stripper on the corner with a cam site. Like a righteous porn idol from way back. Bring ’em out of retirement if I gotta.

  SILLY CHINO: Like who?

  PRETTY RUDY: Kay Parker, Christy Canyon, Nina Hartley—who’s still in the game and ain’t lost a beat—Honey Wilder maybe too.

  SILLY CHINO: I don’t know none of them names.

  PRETTY RUDY: ’Course not. You pull your pud to all that slope anime porn, jacking off to fuckin’ cartoons. Yours is a loopy generation.

  SILLY CHINO: Them anime broads are perfect. No worrying ’bout wrinkles, cellulite, and shit.

  PRETTY RUDY: You into pixels. I’m into real pussy with bushy cavewoman pubes.

  SILLY CHINO: What else you got on your bucket list? Mount Everest? Race-car driving?

  PRETTY RUDY: Fuck no! The thing’s to try not to die while doing your bucket list.

  SILLY CHINO: Then what?

  PRETTY RUDY: You know how they got names for sex positions? Like the Rusty Trombone? Dirty Sanchez?

  SILLY CHINO: Yeah, my favorite is the Tony Danza.

  PRETTY RUDY: What the fuck?

  SILLY CHINO: It’s when you’re fuckin’ some chick doggy-style, then when you’re about to drop your load you punch her in the back of the head and yell out, Who’s the boss!

  PRETTY RUDY: (laughs)

  SILLY CHINO: Or the Coyote Ugly. It’s when you wake up with the ugly broad you banged the night before all cuddled up and asleep on your arm. So you gnaw that fuckin’ arm off like a trapped coyote and leave it there.

  PRETTY RUDY: I take it back. Your generation ain’t half bad.

  SILLY CHINO: So what about the sex names?

  PRETTY RUDY: I want to nickname a sex act.

  SILLY CHINO: Ha ha! For your bucket list? Ha! Why not?

  PRETTY RUDY: Exactly. So the other night I was doing 69 with this broad, and she’s really fuckin’ chowing down on my schlong, and I’m thinking this cunt is a goddamn cannibal the way she’s gobbling my meat. I mean, Sudanese refugees who ain’t eaten in three weeks devour a meal less savagely than this fuckin’ bitch on my pipe.

  SILLY CHINO: Call it 69ing the Sudanese Refugee. Or better yet—the Walking Dead.

  PRETTY RUDY: I said cannibal, not zombie, you dumb-ass. Nah, I’m thinking of naming it the Donner Party.

  SILLY CHINO: (laughs hard)

  PRETTY RUDY: Works, right? Num-num, all grubbing on groin and shit.

  SILLY CHINO: I’m thinking of some paisa in TJ all dame el Donner Party, con fuerza.

  PRETTY RUDY: Dame, con hambre, chiquita!

  (HARD LAUGHTER.)

  SILLY CHINO: Motherfucker, that’s on point, tío.

  PRETTY RUDY: Yeah. So I can cross that one off now, I suppose. Next, well, I’m not sure if losing weight is a bucket list thing or not.

  SILLY CHINO: That feels more like a New Year’s resolution thing. Like trying to quit smoking. Or maybe this year quit spilling food on every shirt you own.

  PRETTY RUDY: Wait. What you really saying?

  SILLY CHINO: Look at your shirt. What, the food at Burger King was so good you had to bring some home with you? That’s your last six days: six different shirts.

  PRETTY RUDY: I know, I know. That’s actually one reason I wanna lose weight. No bullshit. Dry cleaning bill’s killing me.

  SILLY CHINO: What’s another reason?

  PRETTY RUDY: What?

  SILLY CHINO: You said stains on your shirts are one reason you wanna lose weight. What’s another?

  PRETTY RUDY: I was jacking off the other day, and right when I was ’bout to bust a nut, my stomach cramped so hard I thought my appendix burst.

  SILLY CHINO: (laughs hard) Stop! Stop!

  PRETTY RUDY: I was yanking my shitty little dick all belligerent and shit, so my belly got all twisted up from my aggressive reach-over.

  SILLY CHINO: That’s why they got massage parlors, tío. You shoulda retired your hand in the nineties.

  PRETTY RUDY: Sometimes the urge is stronger than logic, kid.

  SILLY CHINO: What you do?

  PRETTY RUDY: What I do? Well, first I screamed out like a broad. Then I laughed my ass off.

  SILLY CHINO: Hey, you know how you said when you walked out the kitchen how your hand had a mind of its own sometimes?

  PRETTY RUDY: Yeah?

  SILLY CHINO: So when you’re stroking yourself, your hand ever like lose control and reach out to jack the cock nearest to you? (bursts out laughing)

  PRETTY RUDY: Fuck, you smart-aleck punk, I should—

  SILLY CHINO: Nah, it’s just, you know, you were sayin’—

  PRETTY RUDY: Fuck that. You can’t clean that shit up.

  SILLY CHINO: It’s just, you know, maybe I’m minding my own business one day, then your hand starts giving me a slow ride.

  PRETTY RUDY: Don’t go there, youngblood.

  SILLY CHINO: It’s just, I wanna know what’s the protocol for a rogue hand job.

  PRETTY RUDY: You got some balls on you, kid!

  SILLY CHINO: You see, that concerns me that you know anything about the size of my balls. Should I be concerned? (laughs)

  PRETTY RUDY: That’s it. Get me my gun. Let’s go do this before I shoot you right here and pick up my third strike, while that mutinous motherfucker gets to walk the planet free.

  SILLY CHINO: Just keep your hands to yourself, that’s all I’m saying . . . And here’s your Magnum. You want the revolver instead?

  PRETTY RUDY: This’ll do. Now remember, give him the gun with blanks. And shoot him once in the head, twice in the chest.

  SILLY CHINO: I know! I know!

  PRETTY RUDY: The money’s real good on this one. Your aunt gets a better tombstone.

  SILLY CHINO: Let me hear it again.

  PRETTY RUDY: Nah, not now. We’re about to go—

  SILLY CHINO: Now is the exact right time. We’re gonna go put this dude in the crypt. I wanna hear my Aunt Maggie’s voice again.

  PRETTY RUDY: Okay. Only ’cause you were her favorite.

  (RUSTLING NOISES.)

  TÍA MAGGIE: (on voice mail playback) Hey, honey. Can you please bring some of them L
orna Doone Shortbread Cookies when you come back to the hospital? A nurse here let me have one yesterday, reminded me I got some in the cupboard above the fridge. Thanks, I love you. You’re the best, babe. Tell Chino I love him too. And kiss Pokey for me. And don’t forget to give her the medicine by her food bucket. See you soon. Mwah!

  (CLICKS OFF.)

  PRETTY RUDY: Right. Let’s go punch this punk’s ticket . . . Last thing I’ma say to him is, Ain’t no fun when the rabbit’s got the gun.

  (FOOTSTEPS. DOOR OPENS.)

  SILLY CHINO: I was talking to Big Ralph, my old biker cellmate from Fresno. Says he wants me to join his crew. You think I could be a Hell’s Angel?

  PRETTY RUDY: Fuck them. You don’t wanna be a Hell’s Angel. Now, a Charlie’s Angel? Fuck yeah!

  SILLY CHINO: Aaahhh! I don’t know why I waste my time asking you a serious question.

  PRETTY RUDY: No, really. You could be a Charlie’s Angel all day long. All the fellas at the bar say you got a pretty mouth.

  (LAUGHTER. DOOR SLAMS SHUT.)

  STATE OF CALIFORNIA,. )

  )

  COUNTY OF LOS ANGELES. )

  I, POMPTON X. GALA, a Certified Shorthand Reporter in and for the County of Los Angeles, State of California, do hereby certify:

  That on February 11, 2016, thereof, I transcribed the text/electronic/audiotaped recording of the proceedings; that the foregoing transcript constitutes a full, true, and correct transcription of all proceedings had and given.

  IN WITNESS HEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand and affixed my Official Seal on February 11, 2016.

  ________________________________________

  POMPTON X. GALA, CSR #(d)-10-5942

  Certified Shorthand Reporter

  THE HANDYMAN

  by Eddie Muller

  Alameda

  First time I set foot in Alameda, I moved there. Laurie and I had been searching all over the East Bay for an escape route out of San Francisco, and not long after emerging from the tube that links downtown Oakland to Alameda, we spotted a For Rent sign in the upper window of a place on Central Avenue. It was a late June afternoon, and the sun cast a warm glow across the majestic Edwardian-style structure and the gorgeous garden that bloomed out front.

  There was a phone number on the sign, too small to read.

  “Let’s just go ring the bell,” Laurie said.

  We’d seen more than two dozen places that week and this was the first one that had made Laurie excited. She was out of the car before I could get my glasses on. That’s crucial, looking back now. If I could have seen the phone number on the sign, if I had told her, It’s getting late, let’s call tomorrow, maybe everything would have turned out differently. Maybe not. I’ve thought a lot about how things might have turned out differently. It’s all I do, really.

  We crossed the garden to a pathway leading up to the entrance. A woman was leaving the house, an attractive African American in conservative business dress, with a young girl, her daughter I presumed, holding her hand. We smiled in passing. I dismissed the possibility that she was the owner, or the current tenant. She said to our backs, “You don’t want that place, believe me.”

  Laurie was nonplussed, and I turned around, saying, “Why’s that? Is there something wrong with it?”

  “Yeah, I want it!” She tried to laugh it off, only it wasn’t funny. “Oh my God, the place is fantastic,” she said. “It’s everything I ever wanted. And a good school just blocks away? I won’t ever find a place like this in Oakland.” She picked her daughter up and hugged her, appearing to be on the verge of tears. Grimly, she said, “You looking to rent this place?”

  “Driving around, that’s all,” Laurie said quickly. “We just like to look.”

  “I could actually afford it. Maybe.” She stroked her daughter’s head. “But we’ll probably never get in a place like this.” She surveyed the lush grounds—a gorgeous Japanese red maple formed a canopy over a bubbling koi pond—then gazed at the house looming above. Finally she said, “C’mon, baby, we got to get home.”

  “Okay, that was uncomfortable,” I whispered, climbing a few steps to the front door, which was still open.

  We rang the bell, knocked, called out—that’s how eager we were—and presently a tiny figure appeared, coming rapidly down the stairway: a petite Asian woman, her wiry gray hair pulled back into a bun. Hard to figure her age; could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy. She wore a simple denim smock and slip-on sandals. Stepping between us, she glanced down the pathway, squinting through delicate, wire-framed glasses.

  “She gone?”

  “Who?” Laurie said, playing dumb.

  “The black. She gone?”

  We shuffled awkwardly, coughing a few noises that weren’t words.

  “Single mother never good tenant. They bring home men. Men make them do drugs, maybe gamble. ’Specially blacks. Black woman means black man. No trust. She pay rent, maybe he steal her money, gamble.” She looked us up and down and grinned. “You last ones. Agent gone now, but I show you place myself. I live bottom unit, other side. You need something, I always here. My name Phi.”

  Laurie loved the place so much it made me jealous. She certainly hadn’t oohed and aahed and carried on so ecstatically when she’d first laid eyes on me. The original house—probably a second home for some nineteenth-century San Francisco Gold Rush millionaire—had been converted into a duplex, and the upper unit was nothing short of glorious: two spacious bedrooms with high coved ceilings, big picture windows with leaded-glass panes, tasteful new carpeting, a large fireplace in a grand living room, built-in bookcases and china cabinets, a deck off the dining room, a remodeled kitchen with a Jenn-Air range—it was insanely great. And it was okay for us to have a cat. Our recently rescued Burmese would be moving from the streets to a dream home.

  “Everything top-notch,” the landlady kept repeating. “You make sure keep good condition.” In the main bedroom, she gestured at windows on the east and west sides. “Best thing! Sun rise this room, all day never go way. Sun circle house this way, evening sunset living room. Light very beautiful, like Renaissance painting.”

  We were ready to sign a lifetime lease even before she opened the narrow door off the central hallway. “Come up. Show you what I do in attic.” She led us up a slender switchback stairway almost too small for me. We emerged into an entirely separate apartment, which included a brand-new, unused bathroom. Skylights made the cloistered space feel airy, even expansive. Laurie dug her fingers into my arm. “Oh my God,” she whispered, more emphatically than when we had sex. “This is unbelievable. This is perfect. I can run my business here. I don’t need an office—look at all this room.”

  As we took a final look around—we didn’t want to leave—we spewed our life stories to Phi, lying that we were married and otherwise convincing her that we were model citizens with abundant bank accounts, rock-solid credit, guaranteed lifetime employment, and no vices beyond having recently rescued a small black cat. She finally raised a hand, stanching our flow of self-aggrandizement.

  “You handy?” she asked, measuring me with a level gaze.

  “How so, exactly?”

  “Handy! You good fixing?”

  “Oh . . . handy. Oh, yeah, sure. She calls me Mr. Fix-It.”

  Laurie was tall enough that Phi couldn’t see the comically incredulous expression on her face. Truth was, I couldn’t hammer a nail straight and I had a talent for stripping every screw I’d ever tried to tighten. But to score this place, I’d damn well become handy.

  “Happy, happy,” Phi said. “Glad you handy.” When she smiled, she looked twenty years younger. She’d been an attractive woman once. She patted my chest. “You nice couple. I like you. You live here. I call company, tell them apartment rented.”

  * * *

  Before I met her, Laurie had been a high school teacher, but that didn’t work out, I figured, because every male student had crushed on her. She was a prize—smart, funny, empathetic, and beauti
ful in the most disarming, unself-conscious way. She had everything—but didn’t like to be reminded of it. A public job, she’d decided, was not her style. She didn’t like to be the center of attention.

  By the time I’d fallen madly in love—and convinced her we needed to live together—Laurie had been seized by the entrepreneurial zeal that energized lots of young people in the early nineties. Bush was out, Clinton was in, and suddenly for us lefties making money was a capitalist continuation of the counterculture we’d missed out on. Fight the Man by making dough your own way. Find a live-work space. Build your own business. Make a few million and then sell out to a big corporation. Retire young and do fuck-all for the rest of your charmed life. That seemed to be the strategy, based on the few examples I’d seen. Follow your bliss, business-wise.

  For Laurie, this meant founding a greeting card company. She dreamed of doing it all, bottom to top: designer, illustrator, manufacturer, marketing manager, distributor, CEO. All this responsibility, of course, would be just until she established her brand. Then there’d be expansion and outsourcing, maybe fewer eighteen-hour workdays. It’d take maybe a year or more to reach that stage—but in the meantime she’d found the perfect place to build the ship, rig it just right, and set it sailing.

  That’s no casually chosen metaphor, by the way. I’d gotten a job in the traffic department of a big shipping outfit based in downtown Oakland. My department sold space on trans-Pacific ocean carriage. All those cranes you see lining the waterfront as you drive the bend of 880—they’re all picking containers from gigantic ships off-loading the endless tide of shit that keeps the American economy humming. Not much goes the other way. My job was to figure how to reposition empty boxes—dead-heading, it’s called—without the company taking too big a loss in the westbound lanes. Fascinating stuff, maybe even important—but not as gratifying as creating and selling a greeting card.

  I didn’t have much involvement in Laurie’s business—beyond bringing in the steady, relatively substantial paycheck and the company medical plan, which allowed her to invest so completely in the development of her dream. I was left with plenty of time to learn new things on my own—like how to be handy.