Punish Me with Kisses

by William Bayer

  I listen attentively. A sound is missing. It takes me several seconds to understand: the rumble of the Hyde Street cable; they turn it off around two a.m. So . . . it was silence that woke me up.

  I stretch, stand, go to my telescope, frame the Judge's penthouse once again. Now the windows are dark, the roof limned by moonlight. San Francisco is asleep.

  I move to my bedroom, pull down the blackout shades, take off my clothes, slip naked beneath my sheets. I want to dream tonight, perhaps even dream in color. To do this once is my longest-held desire. To really understand what people mean when they call something blue or green, to see tomatoes as red instead of black, to see the sun as yellow instead of a shade of off-white, to understand the true meaning of such expressions as "I'm feeling blue this morning,"

  "He's yellow, a coward," "I'm green with envy," "Look at that red-hot mama dance !" I wish!

  The shrill ring of the phone cuts through my dream. I awaken with a start, grasp for the receiver, knock the apparatus to the floor. I fumble for it; bring the handset to my ear.

  "Bug?"

  "Yeah?"

  I hear sniffling. "It's me, Crawf."

  "Crawf! Jesus, what time is it? What's going on?"

  "Tim," he says. "You were waiting for him."

  I check my watch. Seven a.m. "What're you telling me? That he just showed up?"

  A long pause. "He's gone, Bug."

  I'm silent. Then I start to tremble.

  "You know that old black guy, Rory, the one sells empty soda cans?" I know the man he means. "He was messing around an hour ago, going through this dumpster on Willow. Found these parts, you know—body parts. Got spooked, called the cops." I hold my breath. "They came right over, dug around, found a head." No! "It's Tim. He's dead, man." Crawf is sobbing now. "Someone wasted him . . . then cut him up."