South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  On Friday, the markets closed down for the 13th straight trading day. But all eyes are on Monday’s opening bell and what the weekend job report will do to investor confidence . . .

  My eyes close.

  . . . In other news—a young stockbroker—Trevor Roberts is guilty of selling futures when there isn’t one—guilty of trading options when there aren’t any—and the judges sentence him—to be exposed—on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Bells ring, papers fly, screens blink, and busy traders dart back and forth signaling one another and I stand naked in the center of the exchange dripping with the mucus of afterbirth and pulling at a long umbilical cord stretching out from the hole in my gut up to the press box where the newscaster holds it clutched in her nailed hands as she grins down at me—

  This is hell. It’s waiting for you.

  13 Valombrosa and Me

  When I wake, the TV is still on and a panel of experts prattling on about foreign markets has replaced the newscaster. I try to remember my dream but the horror slips away as soon as I click off the TV.

  In the pitiful La Hacienda lobby, the old bald clerk now wears a dragon print hat as he sits behind the counter working on a greasy carburetor spread out on a motel towel.

  I ring the bell on his counter but he doesn’t look up. I say,

  I want to pay for the week.

  Keeping his head bent over the carburetor, he speaks from beneath the bill of his hat. He says,

  Two-forty-five if yer payin’ cash. Charge tax if yer usin’ plastic.

  I count the cash into his greasy hands. He folds the bills in half and tucks them in his shirt pocket. I say,

  The phone in my room doesn’t work.

  He grunts and taps his finger on a faded sign taped to the counter—PHONE DEPOSIT REQUIRED.

  MR. VALOMBROSA’S SECRETARY clacks across the marble floor as she charges toward the elevators in her black six-inch heels. She looks me over as if she’s grading beef. You’re early—that’s good, she says. Then she turns to the guard and says, Trevor’s with us now.

  The guard nods.

  She leads me onto the elevator, swipes her key-card and pushes floor 30. Are all these floors Paul’s? I say.

  Paul? she says. Boy, don’t you move quickly. Just 28 to 31 are ours. The other bank of elevators services the lower floors—Mr. Valombrosa leases them out to different companies. Don’t mind the guard—he’ll warm up to you. I’ll issue you a key-card that will get you access to our floors and to the garage so you can park your car.

  Don’t worry about the garage, I take the bus.

  You don’t have a car?

  I didn’t say that. I’m just reducing my carbon footprint.

  The elevator stops at 28. Our research floor, she says. The doors open on dim rows of faces glowing in the blue of computer screens. A young researcher lurches onto the elevator. He half smiles at Valombrosa’s secretary but loses his courage and looks down. He swipes his key-card and pushes 29. The elevator rises and the doors open on a beehive of activity where a less attractive receptionist fields phone calls to eager brokers buzzing around cubicles. Our trading floor, she says. The researcher steps off and the doors close. The elevator rises to 30. The doors open. What’s on 31? I say.

  Thirty-one is our hedge-fund floor, she says. You’re not allowed up there! You’ll be working here on the executive floor with Mr. Valombrosa and me.

  You mean, Valombrosa and I.

  No, she says, it’s Valombrosa and me. It’s been Valombrosa and me for—years. No one says with I.

  She smirks as she leads me past her desk and down the long hallway. Today, I take my time, look at the art, and while I’m no connoisseur, I recognize Picasso’s signature when I see it.

  Down another hall, left of Mr. Valombrosa’s copper doors, she stops at a small interior office. She throws open the door. The office is bare and white—desk, chair, computer, phone—the only color from a tall stack of green file folders.

  Welcome home, she says as she waves me in.

  What’s this, no view?

  Don’t push things.

  I drop into the chair and test it. It feels good to be back in the saddle. Leaning back with my hands cupped behind my head, I prop my Ferragamos up on the desk. I say,

  You know you never did tell me your name.

  Get your shoes off the desk.

  You like them? They’re Ferragamos.

  She pats her hand on the stack of file folders. Mr. Valombrosa wants you to review these commodity-trading patterns, she says. I suggest you get started.

  Where is Paul?

  He’s out of town all week and if you knew Mr. Valombrosa well enough to use his first name, you’d know that. Now get to work.

  She turns for the door, looks back before closing it. My name is Britney, she says. Then she shuts the door and I’m alone in the quiet office. I drop my shoes off the desk and open a file folder. I spent my first year at Edward & Bliss analyzing commodities so at least this is familiar work.

  I pick up the desk phone. Nine gets me an outside line. I dial Stephanie’s cell number. Three rings and her voicemail answers—

  Hi! You’ve reached Stephanie. You know what to do.

  This time I leave a message—

  Hi monkey—I mean Steph. I wanted to call and tell you I’m in the city. Give you my new work number—I’m over at Valombrosa Capital. I thought—well, I hoped that maybe we could grab a coffee or a bowl of chowder this weekend. Or we could even go skydiving, or smoke a joint or something—just kidding about the joint, of course. Maybe we’d go to church. I’d love to see you—

  A female computer voice cuts me short, thanks me for my message, and then tells me I can send it with urgent delivery by pressing one, but doesn’t give me an option to erase it. I hang up. I sounded like an idiot. I didn’t even leave the number here and it’s printed right on the base of the phone. I pluck the receiver off the cradle and dial her again. After three rings, she answers—

  Hi, Trevor.

  What? Oh. Hi, Steph. How are you?

  I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch—

  That’s okay. I understand.

  It’s been hard, you know—

  I know. You staying at your mom’s?

  Yeah, just until next quarter starts then I got a dorm. But you probably don’t—

  No, I’m fine. I mean everything’s fine. I just left you a message.

  What did it say?

  You can listen to it later if you want.

  Okay, then.

  I’m glad you picked up, I say.

  A long silence. It feels like I’m talking to her in an old movie on an antique phone over a cable stretched across the Atlantic Ocean with a 30-second delay. Then she says, Trevor?

  Yes, Stephanie.

  You wanna meet up this weekend?

  14 Ambitious Bird

  Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie stand together looking at us with permanent smiles. Stephanie stands between them reflected in the museum window with posture as perfect as the wax figures, the top of her head level with my shoulder—in my month away, I forgot that I’m a foot taller than she is. I also forgot how turned on I get by her long dark hair, her exotic face, her full red lips.

  She smiles up at me. Look, she says, it’s your doppelganger.

  Yeah sure, I say, I’ll bet people stop Brad Pitt in the street all the time and tell him he looks like me.

  I take Stephanie’s hand and we walk on together down Jefferson Street. The air crisp, the sun warm, the smell of fried seafood wafting on a gentle breeze—a perfect San Francisco afternoon.

  Giggling groups of tourists bump past us along the old warped wood piers of Fisherman’s Wharf and as we pass a cluster of shrubs on the busy sidewalk, a street performer disguised as a bush springs out at us and roars! Stephanie screams and jumps back into my arms. Then she laughs and I laugh too. I lean down, our lips touch—she shakes her head and pulls away.

  Several tourists, already wise to the trick and mi
lling about to see the next victim, clap and laugh. I smile and throw five bucks into the bushman’s basket as we pass.

  Stopping at a chowder stand, we order two wharf specials from a concessionaire with a toothless smile and wispy strands of hair hanging from his shiny head. We watch as he ladles our steaming clam chowder into sourdough bread-bowls. I whisper to Stephanie that he looks like a 70-year-old newborn. She elbows me in the ribs.

  We carry our chowders to the wharf’s edge and listen to the sounds of San Francisco—gulls swarm overhead calling for crumbs, gentle waves lap at the pier, distant sea lions bark fighting for space on a large floating buoy.

  So far today, it’s been all small talk between us. We were always good at avoiding things, it’s part of our problem. I tear off a piece of bread-bowl and toss it to a gull. Stephanie stirs her chowder but she doesn’t eat. After a long silence, she says,

  So?

  So what?

  So, how was it?

  You mean how was treatment?

  Yeah, treatment.

  It wasn’t bad.

  Wasn’t bad?

  Some of the guys were all right, I guess. And the food was good.

  The food was good?

  It wasn’t like this, I say holding up my chowder, but it was good.

  I wasn’t asking about food, she says. What did you do all day?

  Group therapy mostly. Everybody trying to out-do one another with their stories of woe.

  And what was your woe? she says.

  Oh, I don’t know.

  You don’t know?

  Why are you drilling me? It was drug and alcohol treatment. What do you think we did all day, every day, for 28 days. It’s just a bunch of guys trying to find their way back.

  Did you find your way back?

  I’m here aren’t I?

  Were there girls there too?

  Is that what you’re afraid of? That I met a girl.

  I’m not afraid of any such thing, she says.

  ~~~

  Then I remember something Jared asked me, a question the morning I left rehab, something he said his mother asked him before she left. What did he say? He said—what would you do if you weren’t afraid?

  ~~~

  Stephanie grabs my arm. Where are you? she says.

  What would you do if you weren’t afraid, Stephanie?

  I don’t understand you, Trevor.

  You ever think about leaving?

  Leaving where? Why?

  Going somewhere new and starting over, I say.

  Are you doing okay, Trevor?

  You mean am I sober?

  Yeah, I guess, she says. Are you sober?

  I like seeing the concern in her eyes so I don’t answer her right away. I toss another piece of bread to the circling gulls. Then I say,

  I haven’t touched a drop.

  Has it been hard?

  I held on.

  Stephanie squints into the setting sun, her chowder untouched in her hand. Then, without looking at me, she says,

  Do you think you’re alcoholic, Trevor?

  Do you think I am?

  Stephanie pats my arm. Hey, tell me about your job, she says.

  The job’s great, I say. Mr. Valombrosa—he likes me to call him Paul—he runs a massive hedge-fund for rich people. Makes them big bucks too. And everyone loves him. The Chronicle even did an article, called him the King of Capital.

  The gulls circle our heads begging. I toss my last hunk of bread in the air and a big gray swoops down and snatches it. Stephanie says,

  Where’d you meet this Paul person?

  Did I tell you he’s a billionaire?

  Ya, but what’s he like? Is he nice?

  Paul’s sober too, I say.

  He told you that?

  In not so many words he did. We have a way of spotting each other, you know. Us sober guys. Like a secret club.

  So you’re sober now?

  I told you, I haven’t touched a drop.

  Well, I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into this time, she says.

  A fat gull swoops down, snatches Stephanie’s bread-bowl in his beak and flaps away with it, landing on a nearby pylon. We watch with equal admiration and alarm as he struggles to swallow the entire sourdough lid, getting it caught in his throat and choking as sallow foam drips from the sides of his beak.

  Stephanie looks right at me. She says,

  Ambitious bird!

  AT GHIRARDELLI, we order an enormous ice-cream sundae. The menu calls it The Earthquake and the server asks us three times if we’re sure. I was sure until he brings it out on a dish that covers the entire table between us.

  Stephanie has one bite and then decides she’s not in the mood for ice cream. Watching me pack away the sundae, she says,

  You eat like you used to drink.

  Then she laughs at her own joke. I fling whipped cream at her. A young brother and sister sharing a smaller sundae watch us. The little girl dabs whipped cream on her nose—I dab whipped cream on my nose. The little boy eats a bite fast—I eat a bite fast. Stephanie joins in and lobs a cherry into my mouth. The kids giggle. Stephanie giggles. We all giggle.

  It feels good until their parents catch on and admonish the kids with hushed anger and then drag them crying from the creamery.

  WE TAKE OUR TIME strolling in the heavy twilight toward the Embarcadero BART Station. I love twilight. Everything looks clean and new and anything seems possible.

  When we get to the tunnel entrance, I stop and soak up one last look. The narrow streets tumble down to the bay, a streetcar climbs a distant hill, the sky hangs blue over red brick buildings, and white clouds billow from steam-plant stacks.

  Yellow sodium vapor lamps replace the blue sky as we descend into the underground station. I want to kiss Stephanie. I’ve wanted to kiss her all day. Instead, I walk to the edge of the platform and peer down onto the sunken tracks. Stephanie pulls me away from the ledge. She doesn’t let go right away and I can tell she doesn’t know what to say either.

  Sure you gotta go, I say.

  It’s late, Trevor.

  Well maybe we can get together next week sometime?

  The train slides in from the tunnel. The doors hiss open. I reach into my pocket, pull out the blue Tiffany & Co. box and hand it to Stephanie. Her eyes light up with surprise and then she smiles.

  What’s this? she says.

  Just a little something, I say. You can open it later.

  Stephanie throws her arms around me. I kiss her head, breathe her in, smell her sweet vanilla shampoo, and commit the moment to memory. Then she breaks free and runs onto the train. She looks at me through the glass as the doors seal closed.

  WALKING BROADWAY STREET above, I feel that ache in my gut again. Stephanie will ride BART back to the parking terminal in Tracy and then drive her Honda Civic home. By the time she gets there, Sacramento will be asleep. But San Francisco never sleeps and the writhing city streets stretch out their lights like hungry lovers tempting me with sweet oblivion.

  ~~~

  I remember in treatment, Mr. Shaw told me that the alcohol and drugs never were my problem. He said the alcohol and drugs were my solution and that was my problem. And he was right.

  ~~~

  Red-neon light shines on two bikini-clad strippers shivering on a smoke break outside their club. One calls to me. Hey, handsome, she says, lonely tonight? Three-dollar drinks. Five-dollar dances. I put my head down and keep walking. The stripper yells at my back,

  Screw you then, faggot!

  ~~~

  I remember Mr. Shaw saying, If you don’t want to slip, you need to stay away from slippery places.

  ~~~

  Farther along a dealer lurks in the dark shadows of a doorway slinging rock. His dead, milky eyes flash in the headlights of a passing car. Whatcha need tonight, slick? he says.

  ~~~

  I remember Jared showing up to rehab, huddling in a corner twitching, picking at his skin, coming down, and I remembe
r him telling me I was lucky I never got into crack or ice or junk.

  ~~~

  Just keep walking, I tell myself. Today was great. Tomorrow will be better. Every day I’m sober things get better. Nothing is worth throwing my sobriety away. Think the drink through.

  Another three blocks and I pass a homeless man lying crumpled in a doorway with a cardboard sign propped against his threadbare coat. The sign reads: The DEVIL mAde ME do IT.

  I stop and look down at his wrecked body curled up with a bottle of booze in a brown-paper bag. His whiskered mouth hangs open with a spray of vomit in front of it and with each raspy exhale, his swollen tongue pushes his one remaining loose tooth out past his lip and then his inhale sucks it back into his mouth again. I pull out a 20-dollar bill and stuff it into his jacket pocket.

  Walking on I focus on the rhythm of my steps. It’s a long way to the motel but the bitter night air feels good pressing against my face and the sidewalk sliding beneath me calms my thoughts.

  ~~~

  I remember Stephanie’s face when I handed her the Tiffany & Co. box—the surprise, the smile. I hated to part with any more money but I figured Mom would approve. I remember Mom taking me to the city once, I remember looking through the Tiffany & Co. window, and I remember her saying the color of the boxes reminded her of a robin’s egg. She loved robins. She said they brought spring.

  ~~~

  Now I need to figure out how to buy the Porsche back from Second Chances. Last week Britney barely said boo to me as I passed her desk every morning and I’m tired of studying copper and oil prices—it’s a waste of time, crap that Mr. Valombrosa could get off a thousand websites, stuff any of his researchers could throw together.

  ~~~

  I remember stepping on Mr. Valombrosa’s red boot, I remember my crumpled résumé unfolded on his desk, and I remember him saying, What if I told you I was sober too?

  ~~~

  I’m beginning to worry that I’m a sobriety-charity case. Then again, nobody told me how much I’m being paid or when I’m being paid and I haven’t even filled out any employment papers.