As we round Angel Island, the view opens up and the San Francisco skyline shimmers across the bay. Sea spray beads on the glass and paints the city lights distant and mysterious.
We head straight toward the Bay Bridge. From the water, it’s just a band of red and white lights stretching across the dark bay—a Möbius strip of people pouring in, people draining out, and the throbbing city in its center pumping a perpetual dance of life and death until your song ends and you’re yanked from circulation like a shot red blood cell.
I wish this boat were ferrying me out to distant seas, taking me to a land far away—somewhere I can sit alone, polish my memories into sad stones, and turn them over in my mind so that their lonely knocking against one another can comfort me.
The worker who pulled the dock plate walks through the cabin checking tickets. I fish in my pockets. I say,
I must have lost it.
He looks at my bottle of Jack in the brown-paper bag. He says,
You’ll need to buy a ticket at the terminal when we dock.
As we approach the ferry terminal, I pretend its stone tower is Piazza San Marco in Venice and that I’m with Tara, gliding into Rio di Palazzo beneath the lover’s Bridge of Sighs. I squint through the dripping window and it almost looks like pictures I’ve seen.
We dock. I step off last. As I pass the ticket window, the ferry worker calls—
Your ticket, sir!
Embarrassed, I pretend he’s not a ferry worker but just another gondolier hustling tourists for fares.
I trudge up the hill to the industrial area where the Bay Bridge dumps its angry, sputtering trucks into the city. The short exit banks a hard right, and tire retreads torn from braking trucks coil beside the road like thick black snakes.
I pass the La Hacienda Motel. I remember huddling beneath my jacket and sleeping in my car that first night in the city. I remember pawning my car and renting a room. I remember moving into Paul’s yacht. I laugh. I laugh at how stupid and naïve I was. I laugh because my life is a joke. And I laugh because here I am, right where I started, but worse—no car, no room, no money.
The truth stares down at me from every cornice, from every bridge, from every clear, raw memory. Dad abused me. Paul used me. Tara flew south without me. Stephanie walked away from me. And Barbara shut her door in my face.
It’s drizzling—the kind of drizzle that penetrates your clothes and soaks into your bones. I’m shivering—a fugitive and nobody’s even looking for me.
Not far past the motel, a boarded-up brick building leans into a chain-link fence wrapping an abandoned excavated lot. It looks like someone started building something once and gave up.
I’m wet and cold—my legs tired, my feet on fire. I step under the empty building’s arched doorway grateful for the cover. Slumping down in front of the chained door, I scoot into the far corner and seesaw Paul’s boots off my aching feet. Relieved, I rub my toes together through my socks to keep them warm.
I unscrew the cap from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and swig from the bag. Warmth spreads down my throat and into my gut, draping over me like a blanket from the inside.
The drizzle turns to rain and the thick drops bounce off the sidewalk outside my doorway. I’m glad to be tucked away in a cave. I raise the bottle to my lips again. I remember the day I left treatment. I remember the man in the trench coat stumbling down the street with a bottle of booze in a brown-paper bag. I laugh because he was better off than I am now—at least he had a coat.
I check my pockets for money and I find the photo of the boy Evelyn left for me on the train. I remember tucking it in my pocket when I took it from Tara the other morning, the morning she asked me to run away with her to the sunny shores of Malibu. Malibu feels a million miles away.
I start to take smaller slugs from the bottle—measuring my drinks, rationing them, making them last through the night.
I look at the photo of the boy. Orange streetlight cuts an angle across the doorway and when I turn the photo, it lights up his smile.
42 Surrender
Daylight funnels into my dark doorway and lands on the bristled scalp of a skinhead with his grinning vampire teeth filed to a point. Chains dangle from his clothes. He’s struggling with my arm. I close my eyes then open them again. He’s unclasping the Rolex from my wrist. The Rolex! I clamp my fist around the watch and jerk it back.
The skinhead’s hand comes up with a blade. I grip his arm and pull him to the ground. I push myself up. He slashes at me, his blade just missing my belly. He lurches at me. I grab his arm and force him against the brick building. I let up and then tackle him against the wall. The blade clanks on the concrete. I release him, turn around, and pick up the blade—a butterfly knife.
I turn back. The skinhead is running down the street carrying Paul’s red Michael Anthony boots. I look down at my sock-bare feet on the wet concrete and I don’t know whether to cry or laugh.
I toss the knife over the fence into the vacant weed-covered lot. Stooping in the doorway, I retrieve my bottle of Jack. I unscrew the cap, raise it to my lips and take a long swig of whiskey. Every cell in my body screams against the poison and I spew the alcohol out in a violent mist. I screw the cap back on. I weigh the bottle in my hand. Then I hurl it against the brick wall where it smashes and falls to the ground in a twisted pile of glass and booze-soaked brown paper.
I rush to a garbage can at the curb and paw through it. My hands close on a half-eaten hamburger. I stuff the burger in my mouth and chew fast and frantic to drive the taste of liquor off my tongue. Sick, I drop to my knees and spit the chewed wad of meat onto the pavement.
The brutal pain of craving twists itself up in my gut, rises to a moan, and caterwauls from my open mouth echoing down the early morning street.
I crawl back to the broken bottle. Tearing a soaked piece of sack away, I suck the whiskey from the paper. The upturned cap lies next to the bag with a pool of whiskey in it. I pick away the glass shards and pinch the cap between my thumb and forefinger. I raise it to my trembling lips. I taste the alcohol with the tip of my tongue. I’m back in Paul’s study, he’s holding the wineglass beneath my nose, and I hear him say, What did God ever do for you?
The sun crests the building tops and shines on the photo of the boy lying in the shadowed doorway. Calm comes over me. The tiny puddle of whiskey shaking in the cap stills to a placid pool. I study my face in its amber reflection. I see the boy buried behind my disguise. I breathe deep and let go. The cap drops to the concrete sidewalk with an empty tinny clink.
43 You Win, Kid
The pawnbroker sits behind her counter watching FOX News. Her head pokes out from the neck hole of a colorful muumuu spreading beneath her like the flanks of Mt. Everest. She spies me walk in, but her head swivels back to her blasting TV where an animated panel of experts argues about an African American presidential candidate.
I reach past her and twist the TV off. She keeps her eyes on the blank screen. She says,
Poor nigger ain’t got a frog’s ass chance in hell.
Where’s my Porsche? I say.
She snaps around to face me. She says,
That Valombrosa fella said you didn’t pay him. He sold me back the note. Sorry, but you signed the title, kid.
Unclasping the Rolex from my wrist, I slip it off and hold in front of her fat face. I say,
This’ll cover what you loaned me for the Porsche 10 times over. I’ll take the difference in cash.
She snatches the Rolex from me, her greedy eyes searching the diamond bezel. Then she looks me over from head to toe. She sees my wet, socked feet and she narrows her bovine eyes into a smile.
I’ll give you $1,500 for it, she says.
I reach my hand out for the Rolex. I say,
Sorry, lady, but you aren’t gonna hustle me again. That watch you’re holding is an $80,000 Day-Date Masterpiece.
She pulls the Rolex away from my hand. She picks up her phone. She says,
I’ll call my Serbian. H
e’ll know what it’s worth.
She walks away as far as the stretched and knotted phone cord will allow and she mumbles into the mouthpiece. Then she lumbers back on her swollen legs and hangs up the phone. He’ll be here in five minutes, she says.
I know she has long fingers, and I’d bet anything her Serbian does too, so I reach out and pry the Rolex from her hand. She grips it, her fleshy face falling into a wounded look, and she says,
You don’t trust me?
I just smile and jerk the Rolex free.
I wander around the shop and look at all the dreams for sale beneath the glass counters and above on the dust-covered shelves. Guitars that never played the blues. Cameras that never developed into a photography career. Engagement rings that never heard vows. Grandma’s jewelry that wouldn’t sell. Knock-off art. Horn-handled knives. Rusty guns. Even a pair of bronzed-baby ballet slippers.
I inspect a dusty shelf of books. Maybe I’ll pick up reading again. I know now that I stopped growing when I was 10. Inside, emotionally, I stopped growing and started surviving. It’s all so clear from here. As if I’ve climbed out of the jungle and can look back on the path I cut through life.
Ambition led me to Edward & Bliss and when everything I ever wanted was mine—the house, the job, the woman—it didn’t satisfy hungers hiding underneath, the hungers of a lost and lonely boy, a boy hungry for love and security.
The bells on the pawnshop door jingle and the Serbian walks in. He’s short, sturdy, dressed sharp in a clean, black suit and he carries a matching black doctor’s bag. He sets the bag on the counter. The pawnbroker points to me. The Serbian holds out his manicured hand for the Rolex. He’s all business. He turns the Rolex over, front then back. He holds it an inch from his face. He reads the serial number as if he’s decoding ancient Egyptian text. Then he pulls out a loupe, screws it in his eye, and inspects the bezel. Satisfied, he nods to the pawnbroker. She looks at me. She says,
Your Porsche plus $5,000.
Grabbing the Rolex from the Serbian, I head for the door. The pawnbroker says,
How much you want then?
I stop and look at the Rolex.
~~~
I remember La Spa Rouge du Soleil on Christmas Day. I remember finding the Rolex on the bed. I remember Paul with his camera. I remember Tara saying, You unwrapped your present, now it’s time for me to unwrap mine. I remember Mr. Lussier measuring me for the tuxedo, looking at the Rolex, telling me I was living the dream. I remember seeing the same Rolex on the wrists of other men in Paul’s memory book. I remember the shoes, the names.
~~~
I think about the hell I’ve been through and I’m tempted to just let it go for the five grand. I say,
Give me $20,000 plus my Porsche.
She shakes her massive head, swivels to face the TV, and turns FOX News back on. But I see her watching me from the corner of her eye—she’s still negotiating, bluffing. Turning away, I grab the door. I hear the Serbian whisper to her behind me and then she says,
Hold on! Let us make a couple calls.
The Serbian steps behind the counter. They both disappear to the end of the knotted phone cord. Spotting a pair of varsity-red Nike sneakers in my size, I’m tempted to snatch them and walk out, but that feeling in my gut tells me not to do it and this time, I listen.
The TV chatters, they mumble into the phone, and I watch the cars passing by on the street. Where are they coming from? Where are they going? What are their stories, their hopes, their dreams? I remember driving down this street on a foggy day with nowhere left to go. I had empty pockets, an empty gas tank, and an empty hole in my gut. Not much has changed but everything is different.
The TV turns off behind me. The pawnbroker says,
You win, kid—$20,000 plus your car.
44 Look What You’ve Done
After the Serbian counted out $20,000 in 100s from his bag, I bought the varsity-red Nikes and put them on. Then the pawnbroker took me outside.
My banged-up Porsche was parked with a collection of broken cars and boats like a bruised body pulled from the delta and lined up on the coroner’s slab to be identified. The pawnbroker wrestled off the rusty lock, slid the barbed-wire top gate aside, and handed me my title. The 20 grand was already tucked away in my pocket.
In Vacaville, I gas up the Porsche. Grab an orange juice. Two power bars. Wash my face in the bathroom. Jump back on the road. As I cross the Sacramento River into downtown, the sun flashes on the mirrored-glass CalTEARS building.
THE RECEPTIONIST takes one look at me and says,
I’m calling security.
I catch my reflection in the glass behind her and realize I’d call security on me too. Please don’t, I say, I’m here to see Benny Wilson. He knows me. If you’d just call and tell him Trevor Roberts is here.
She picks up her phone, dials an extension, and turns her back to me. I hear her whispering into the phone. Then she turns around and hangs up. She says,
Mr. Wilson says he’ll give you five minutes—
I sprint down the hall to Benny’s office. I remember walking down this hall with those photos in my briefcase that day. That day I didn’t listen to the ache in my gut. That day I made the wrong decision and let myself be Paul’s blackmail errand boy. I stop and look down at the seal in front of the doors. Eureka!
I open the door. Benny sits behind his desk. He looks up, but he doesn’t offer me a drink. I take a seat across from him. He frowns at me. He says,
You look like hell.
I’ve been there.
Paul fired you?
I quit.
Well, why are you here?
I came to warn you.
Warn me about what?
About Valombrosa Capital.
What about Valombrosa?
It’s a Ponzi scheme.
A Ponzi scheme?
A fraud.
I know what a Ponzi scheme is, son. Are you drunk?
No, sir. I’m not drunk.
I know what you’re up to, he says, and I’m not going to be part of your revenge.
I lean forward and grip Benny’s desk. I say,
I’ve been to the 31st floor, Benny. The entire fund is a fraud. I’ve seen where they print account statements. I overheard Paul and Mr. Chapel talking after you and your CIO met with them in the city. Valombrosa Capital is out of money. A Ponzi scheme!
Benny leans forward, his tone warning, he says,
You’re making dangerous allegations. I assume you have proof?
No, I don’t.
No pictures this time?
I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
That’s not proof.
Listen, Paul used me to blackmail you. I’d only been at the firm a week when he brought me to lunch. You said yourself he brought me because I’m young and attractive. You have to have suspicions, Benny. Deep down, you have to know. It’s all a fraud.
How can it be? Paul’s a rich man.
No, he’s not. His wife is rich. Tara’s rich. Paul built a swindle on her family’s reputation.
Benny leans back in his chair, lets out a sigh. Well, it’s too late, he says. We’re moving money over now.
Paul rushed you. He’s desperate for it.
The vein at Benny’s temple swells again. His hands tremble. He loosens his tie. He says,
If this is true, you could be in trouble too.
I don’t care anymore, I say.
Benny stands. He goes to the sideboard. He puts both hands on the counter and leans there with his back to me for several seconds and then he opens a bottle and pours himself a Scotch. He slugs it down. Then he turns back to me. He says,
I don’t get it. First, you come here and blackmail me with my personal life to get our money, now you’re telling me not to send it—make up your mind.
I just had to warn you.
If those photos get out, they cost me my job—my family!
You have to decide, Benny.
Benny walks to the wind
ow and looks out at the muddy river flowing by. I stand. Looking at his back, I say,
You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re all in bed fucking one another. And if you ask me, you deserve one another. But you said you cared about protecting your members, so I’m giving you a chance to prove it. I haven’t told anyone else. And I won’t tell anyone I was here. So it’s up to you, Benny. You decide.
Benny doesn’t turn around when I walk toward the door—he just keeps gazing out at the river running away from him. I grab the handle and open the door to leave. I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or to himself, but Benny says,
Look what you’ve done.
45 Is Jared Around?
On a tired street at the south edge of Stockton where weeds win the battle with asphalt, I slow to look at the addresses and spot a rusty building advertising muffler repair. Next to the building, lined against a fence, are beat-up cars with prices painted on their windshields.
I pull in and park. It’s funny to see the Porsche fit in with the secondhand junkers—left fender twisted, headlight smashed, tan top layered with worn gray duct tape, white paint covered with dirt.
Inside an open shop-bay door, a man in grease-streaked white coveralls hunches beneath a hoisted car working with a welder. Blue sparks bounce off his mask. I stop at the edge of the door. I say,
Excuse me—hello!
The man pulls the lit torch away from the car, lifts his mask. His face is tough, bearded. I say,
Hi, I’m looking for Jared!
He turns off the torch. The hissing flame disappears and the garage gets quiet. He sets the welder down and takes a step toward me. He says,
You one of his goddamn drug buddies?
No, sir! Jared was my roommate—in Fresno—in treatment.
South of Bixby Bridge Page 22
