South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  11 Are You Sober?

  The next afternoon I hop off the bus at the corner of Montgomery and Washington streets. I look up at the Transamerica Pyramid and wonder whose job it is to climb up there and hang the light every year—the light I saw from the Bay Bridge on my way into the city, the light that shines from Thanksgiving through the New Year.

  I walk three long San Francisco blocks through honking traffic and people hurrying by bent over BlackBerries. Nobody looks where they’re going. The people in the financial district remind me of windup toys plodding along in whatever direction their office-tower bosses point them.

  On California Street, dead center of the block, I stop in front of a stone and glass skyscraper. Tall letters carved in the granite façade above the doors read VALOMBROSA BUILDING.

  The revolving doors spit me out into the silence of a cavernous marble lobby. An armed guard sits like a sphinx behind a reception station in front of two separate banks of elevators. I cross the lobby and smile at the guard. I say,

  Which floor is Valombrosa?

  Name?

  Valombrosa Capital.

  Your name?

  Oh, sorry, Trevor Roberts.

  The guard programs the elevator from his station. The doors slide open. I step on. The doors close and the elevator takes me up to the 30th floor without me pushing anything.

  When I step off, a sleek receptionist sits behind a zebrawood desk that matches her smooth dark skin and hard edges. She has her phone headset on upside down to avoid messing up her shampoo commercial hair. She looks me over cold and says,

  You’re Trevor Roberts?

  Well it’s not fair unless I know your name too.

  She adds annoyance to her cold look. She says,

  Mr. Valombrosa is very busy, but he read your résumé and he asked me to set up an interview. Mr. Valombrosa doesn’t interview many people.

  When you say Mr. Valombrosa, you don’t mean the guy whose name is on the building, do you?

  She cocks her head and removes her headset. She says,

  Follow me.

  She leads me down a long hallway hung with expensive art. I lag behind, wanting to get my bearings, look at the art, prepare myself—but she charges ahead like a runway model, working long, slender legs in a gray pencil skirt. At the end of the hall, she stops at copper double doors. She pushes them open, waves me in, and then shuts the doors behind me.

  His back to me, his BlackBerry to his ear, Mr. Valombrosa leans on the edge of a teak desk looking over the city outside his windows. He wears a tailored gunmetal-gray suit with a faint chalk stripe. He runs his free hand through thick, unkempt black hair and his ruby cufflink catches the light. Then he speaks into the BlackBerry—

  I don’t care if you know which horse is gonna win what race next year, you still gotta do something with the money between now and then. Besides, I’m bored.

  I can see myself standing in front of the copper doors in the reflection of the window he’s looking at. I begin to wonder if he even knows I’m here. Then he says,

  I gotta go—I got a new guy here.

  When he ends the call, I pull my shoulders back, walk to his desk, and stick out my hand. It’s an honor to meet you Mr.—

  He turns around. I see his face, stop short, stumble forward and step on his red Michael Anthony crocodile boots.

  I remember him from Mr. Feldman’s office the other day. He’s the guy I bumped into, the guy who was standing on my résumé. Smiling, he grabs my shoulders and helps me regain my footing. I step off his boot. He pats my shoulders and says,

  Just ask if you wanna dance with me, kid.

  I’m sorry, I’m so clumsy. I didn’t—

  Don’t worry about it.

  Did I scuff your boots?

  They’re cowboy boots, kid. They should be scuffed.

  But they’re Mark Anthonys.

  Yeah, well I walk on ’em, why shouldn’t you?

  When I was learning sales at Edward & Bliss, they taught me how to maintain eye contact and establish control. I never knew what it felt like to be on the other side of that until now because Mr. Valombrosa just keeps smiling and looking into my eyes until shyness forces me to look down. I see my crumpled résumé unfolded and smoothed out on his desk beneath a reading lamp. He says,

  Have a seat, slugger.

  Yes, sir. I slide down into a chair.

  He lowers himself into his chair. Then he leans back and smiles at me with white teeth. He says,

  Do I remind you of your father?

  What? I mean—no, sir.

  Then don’t call me sir.

  Yes, Mr. Valombrosa.

  Paul.

  What?

  My name is Paul.

  Yes, sir—I mean, Paul.

  He picks up my wrinkled résumé and looks it over. I study the office. On the wall, a painted portrait of a stern bald man resembling Mr. Valombrosa must be his father. A sitting area pointed at a wall-mounted flat-panel TV. A bar in the corner. The carpet is green, the faux ceiling painted to look like Italian plaster. An oil-rubbed bronze chandelier hangs over his desk.

  Then I see her—

  Sitting on his desk in a gold frame is a closeup photo of a woman in partial profile jumping a horse. Her face is so calm that I’d swear the photo was staged if the film hadn’t frozen her long blonde hair streaming out behind her as they jump. Her skin is smooth cream poured over high cheekbones. Her nose is small and delicate with just a slight upturn at the tip above her red swollen lips. Long, thick lashes curl away from her eyes—eyes that are as deep and green as Hawaiian pools—eyes you could swim in. All her features cast a perfect spell of symmetrical shadows. She looks like she was carved by Michelangelo and painted by da Vinci.

  You like horses, Trevor?

  I look up. Mr. Valombrosa is watching me.

  Yes, I say, they’re very beautiful animals.

  Your résumé says you were at Edward & Piss before.

  Bliss—Edward & Bliss. Yes.

  Well? Why did you leave there and what have you been doing for six months?

  Uh, I had to . . . well, truth is . . . I had a problem.

  What kind of problem?

  I intended to lie, but for some reason—perhaps because Mr. Valombrosa is staring at me with piercing dark eyes, or maybe because I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired, but whatever the reason—I tell him the truth. I say,

  A drinking and a drug problem.

  Mr. Valombrosa stares at me without responding. Maybe I said too much. Maybe he meant my problem at work. I say,

  I made some bad trades at Edward & Bliss.

  I watch Mr. Valombrosa for a reaction. He gives up nothing. After several quiet beats, he says,

  What kind of bad trades?

  A promising startup was offering us big pops to sell their stock. I had discretion over a few of my client’s long-term accounts and my boss, Mr. Charles, he told me I should buy and sell with them. Startup sank. The clients were upset. Mr. Charles blamed it all on me. They accused me of churning.

  Paul leans forward in his chair. Were you?

  Was I churning?

  Yes, churning.

  Yeah, I guess I was.

  What did they do?

  Fired me. My license is still good though, and Mr. Strawberry wanted me back—he said so—and he would have hired me two days ago, but Mr. Charles vetoed my rehire and . . .

  Mr. Valombrosa looks disinterested in my explanation so I let it die. He smiles. He says,

  Tell me about the booze and the blow.

  My throat swells. My heart rate runs. My lips quiver. I say,

  When they fired me, things got worse. I fell behind on bills—drank a lot—overdosed—went to the emergency room—girlfriend left me—lost my house—I just got out of drug and alcohol treatment and I need a job pretty bad, sir—I mean, Paul.

  He looks away out the window. It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear a clock ticking somewhere. I shouldn’t have said it. I knew better than
to tell the truth. I blew my only shot. I know the interview is over. Sparing him having to tell me I’m not a fit, I stand and say,

  Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Valombrosa.

  It takes forever to walk the long, empty distance to the doors and just when I reach for the handle, he says,

  Are you sober?

  I turn around. So far, I say.

  What if I told you I was sober too?

  You’re sober?

  My question hangs in the air.

  His BlackBerry rings. He looks at the screen. I have to take this, he says. We’ll call you if something opens up, Trevor. Then he turns his back to me again and answers his ringing BlackBerry. Hey there, gorgeous. Still mad at me?

  I trudge the long hallway with my head down. I pass the hair model receptionist, she doesn’t even look up. I step onto the waiting elevator. The doors close. The elevator descends. I slump against the wall and watch my life drop with the floors.

  The elevator stops at the lobby level.

  The doors don’t open.

  I push the door open button—nothing.

  I push the lobby button—nothing.

  The doors won’t open.

  The elevator begins to rise. It rises all the way to 30 again and then stops. The doors slide open and Mr. Valombrosa’s receptionist stands in front of me. She says,

  Mr. Valombrosa wants you here Monday at 8 A.M.

  12 Soles for Sale

  I spend Saturday at the main library on Larkin Street. The library building spreads out covering an entire block in white stone and inside, it’s a maze of bridges connecting floors around a five-story atrium. You can walk the rows of books for hours before you see another soul.

  I sit at the microfiche terminal and look up every news article I can find on Valombrosa Capital. I don’t find much. VC is a private equity hedge fund known for great returns and they’re selective about the investors they accept. Valombrosa even turns away investments from some big clients for no apparent reason. He’s a mystery. Smart. Makes investors eager.

  A story in the Chronicle that profiles Mr. Valombrosa as the King of Capital explores the background of his success. The article says Valombrosa grows up an orphan in New Orleans. He recycles scrap metal for a conversion van and RV builder then works his way up and buys in as a junior partner. A year later, the owner dies in a warehouse fire. The partnership agreement includes a life insurance policy. Valombrosa is cleared of any complicity in the arson. Over the next several years, he grows the company into a national player before selling out to a division of General Motors. Then he moves to San Francisco and starts a venture capital firm. After several hits and some big misses in the tech runup, he makes a small fortune on a bunch of bullish oil bets. In 1997, he founds Valombrosa Capital with a prominent Napa wine family as his first investor.

  The reporter requested an interview but Mr. Valombrosa declined with a letter that said he prefers to stay out of the spotlight. The reporter did snag a quote from Mr. Feldman at Strategic Capital, the asshole that wadded up my résumé that day. Feldman said—

  Valombrosa’s not an activist investor but he sure can generate amazing returns. He doesn’t have any hobbies but he’s a hell of a guy.

  The details in the story drop off citing the lack of transparency in hedge-fund models but it does say that industry experts estimate Valombrosa Capital to have as much as $16 billion in managed assets.

  I look up an armful of books on hedge funds. When a library worker tiptoes by and whispers that they’re closing, I gather up my books, head to the front, and use my old address in Folsom to get a library card. This is the first library card I’ve had since I was 10.

  SUNDAY, I pick through the packed racks at Ross Dress for Less. I buy five dress shirts and one pair of slacks—shirts need to be laundered but slacks never get dirty.

  Then I wave down a taxi, ride to the Upper Haight, and pop into a consignment store on Ashbury. I find a black three-button Brooks Brothers suit. The sleeves are an inch too short but unless I stretch my arms out, nobody will know. Between the shirts, the slacks, and the suit, I piece together a workweek outfit on the cheap. But the one thing you can’t fake are good shoes.

  After passing Buena Vista Park with its benches full of cruisers flagging a rainbow of bandanas from their back pockets like horny, fatted mandrills showing off swollen multicolored callosities, I turn onto Haight and walk through the quiet lane of Victorian storefronts where I find a boutique men’s shoe store called Soles for Sale.

  Inside it smells like leather and Kiwi shoe polish. The red-faced proprietor, wearing a clean white cobbler apron, looks up at me from a pair of shoes he’s inspecting. His twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks make him look like Santa Claus after a shave. He sets the shoes on the counter with a clack. Good afternoon, he says.

  I was wondering, do you buy souls too or just sell them.

  He laughs. I don’t buy them, he says, but I do repair them. I’m more cobbler than salesman, but nobody bothers to repair anything these days. They just throw everything away and buy new.

  Well it’s a catchy name, man.

  Yeah, sign used to say SOLES REPAIRED but my wife came up with SOLES FOR SALE—said it would bring buyers in.

  It brought me in.

  That it did. What can I do for you?

  I’m starting a new job tomorrow morning. I need a new pair of dress shoes.

  The cobbler steps from behind the counter and looks at my feet. Size 12? he says.

  Yep, and flat as flapjacks.

  I know just what you need then.

  He strips off his apron and ducks in the backroom. When he comes out again, he’s carrying a shoebox. He lifts the lid. Nestled inside, protected in blue felt bags, is a shiny pair of size 12 Salvatore Ferragamo dress blacks. While the cobbler laces them, I strip off my old shoes.

  He uses a silver shoehorn and slips the Ferragamos on my feet. They fit perfect. I stand and walk a circle around the shop. They feel great. I stop and look at my feet in a small angled mirror attached to the fitting bench. They look amazing. I say,

  How much are they?

  They’re 640 and worth every penny.

  Six-hundred and forty?

  He clears his throat and says,

  The shoes make the man and those Italian lace-up oxfords make you the tops.

  Thought you said you were more cobbler than salesman.

  He chuckles. A fella’s gotta learn if he’s gonna eat, he says.

  Okay, I’ll take them.

  For another $20, I’ll polish up your old shoes and glue on some zip soles—they’ll be good as new.

  No thanks, you can toss them. I’ll wear the Ferragamos out.

  See, he says, nobody repairs anything. He smiles and carries the box to the counter and punches the sale into his register. He grabs a pair of Superfeet insoles and tosses them in the box.

  I’m throwin’ the insoles in, to help with your flat feet, he says. No charge. Maybe I’ll ask my witty wife to add a tagline to our sign—GIVE YOUR SOUL A LIFT.

  BACK AT THE LA HACIENDA, I study my library books until 10. Turns out there are many different styles of hedge funds and they’re easy to start. They popped up like mushrooms during the bull market in the 1990s. Most funds charge a set percentage fee. Then they take a big hunk of the gains they earn. Hedge funds dodge the heavy Wall Street regulations by only being open to sophisticated investors—high net-worth individuals, pension funds.

  Fixed-income arbitrage, bonds, interest-rate swaps, insurance derivatives, mortgage-backed securities—it’s all a blur and I’m so tired by the time I quit reading, I can’t remember a word of the last five pages.

  I pull down my best new shirt and hang it on the bathroom door to steam the wrinkles out. The motel shower is the size of a broom closet and I have to duck to get my head beneath the hot water but it feels good running through my hair and over my body. Between the clothes at Ross, the Brooks Brothers suit and the Ferragamos, I’ve spent almost a thousand of my c
ash already and tomorrow I need to pay the motel for the week. I turn the water off and the pipes rattle in the wall then settle down.

  I wipe the steam off the mirror. It’s cracked in the corners and the surface is so worn the black backing shows through in the middle. I smile at myself and practice my greeting for tomorrow—Good morning, Mr. Valombrosa. Good morning, Paul.

  It’s funny how sometimes the universe lines up to help you if you just hold on long enough. In treatment, Mr. Shaw said not to give up five minutes before the miracle happens. When I told him that I don’t believe in miracles, he asked me if I believed in buses. Of course I do. Then he tells me to forget about miracles and to just not leave the stop five minutes before the bus shows up. I’m glad I waited for the bus.

  I hang the steamed shirt in the closet next to my secondhand suit and my new Ferragamos with the bright blue Superfeet insoles. I’m excited to dress for work tomorrow.

  I throw my stolen Value Village slacks in the motel trashcan. Then I remember the photo in the pocket, the photo of the boy that Evelyn gave me on the train, the photo with Jared’s phone number written on the back. After that incident with Rooster, Mr. Shaw said it was good I was Jared’s roommate. He said we all need somebody to look up to. He said Jared looked up to me. I wonder how Jared’s doing now that he’s out.

  I sit on the bed with the photo. Evelyn was right, her grandson does look like me. I flip the photo over and look at Jared’s number—209 area code. Stockton. I remember Jared said his dad has a muffler shop in Stockton. I pick up the cheap-plastic motel phone—no dial tone. I’m too tired to go down to the office tonight. I’ll call Jared tomorrow from my first day on the job—he’ll get a kick out of that.

  I flop back on the bed and click on the TV. The screen’s not much bigger than a toaster but at least the little remote works. I can’t believe this shit they peddle on nighttime TV—wipe yourself into a good tan, electrocute your stomach into fitness, smell your way into weight loss. Who buys this crap? I flip through until I find the financial channel where a newscaster with fake teeth and fake tits recaps last week’s stock market news. She’s smiling as if she just won a Pulitzer Prize while she delivers the depressing headlines.