Impersonal Attractions

by Sarah Shankman

  “May I have this dance?”

  And then he swung her out and exploded into the most loose-hipped, long-legged, get-down dancing she’d ever seen. Whirl, twirl, twist, kick, clap, turn, bump. Again and again and again, in never ending variations of rhythm and motion that kept her twirling on her toes, shaking her behind, laughing with delight. Was this New York style, Staten Island, Irish cop? No, it couldn’t be; what it looked like, felt like, was…

  “Ghetto,” Sean said to her as they stood side by side, bumping hips to the music, clapping hands, slide, slide, slide, as she followed him as if she’d done it all her life. “I grew up with a bunch of black friends who taught me how to dance. And you’re not bad yourself.”

  “I love it,” she said, almost out of breath with exhilaration.

  “Good.”

  The last quarter dropped and Ray Charles crooned “Am I Blue?” Sean pulled her close and they danced slowly in small circles around the room. She felt hot and sweaty and wonderful. She could feel his heart beating against her shoulder.

  Then it was over. He picked up their coats, waved good night to the barman, and led her out the door and into the night. She could hear the foghorns down by the Bay.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  “In a lot near the Square.”

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  She took his arm. It seemed silly not to after all that dancing. This was the same thing without the music. Or was it? There was certainly something singing in her head. She couldn’t quite make out the tune.

  “We haven’t talked shop all evening,” she said to him.

  “No, we haven’t. It’s nice to get away from it.”

  “I know. Especially with Diablo.”

  “And a new murder in the Mission.”

  “What?”

  And before they knew it, they were into it. Sean was telling her things that a man and woman shouldn’t be talking about at the end of such a lovely evening, about murder and gore, strangulation and a long, shiny knife.

  Then they were at her car and she wished she’d never brought it up. Their magical bubble had been burst with the ugly reality of their particular workaday worlds.

  “I’m sorry I asked,” she said.

  “And I’m sorry I answered. Here,” he said and reached inside her BMW, switched on the radio, and flipped through the stations until he found some rock ’n’ roll.

  “Sean,” she laughed, as he took her hand. “We can’t dance here,” she said, gesturing at the parking lot and the attendant, who grinned at them and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why?” Sean asked. “You think we’re breaking a law? Leave that to me.” And he twirled her out across the concrete floor. Flung her out. Pulled her back. Turned her round and round until all the ugliness had twirled right out of her head again and they had recaptured the evening.

  Three songs later, he tucked her into the car, shut the door firmly, and watched while she locked it. He leaned in her window.

  “Thanks. You’re everything I’d hoped you’d be. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Sam sat there with her motor running, watching him lope off into the night.

  THIRTEEN

  The sunset out behind the Golden Gate was, as usual, magnificent this evening, a symphony of vermilion, gold, and pink that even the most jaded San Franciscan couldn’t ignore. In fact, it was the reason many of them had stayed on in the city so long or had never left.

  At the Chestnut Bar & Grill, which named its sandwiches after its favorite hundred or so regulars, Annie waved as Sam walked in. How pretty she was, Annie thought, in her bottle-green silk blouse, perfect with her dark coloring.

  They exchanged a quick hug.

  “The usual?” asked Fred, the bartender. Sam nodded, and he handed her bottled water with lots of lime.

  Annie couldn’t wait. She reached into her big, purple leather tote and pulled out a large packet of letters tied with a ribbon. “Guess what I’ve got here?”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “The Guardian personal?”

  Heads turned and a couple of people laughed.

  “Shhhhh!” Annie was embarrassed. “Let’s don’t invite everyone to the party.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sam giggled. She turned on her bar stool so they had as much privacy as possible, though Fred never took his eyes off them.

  “I saved them for you. I only opened a few.”

  “God!” Sam waved her hands in excitement, then rubbed them together. “It’s like Christmas! What if one of these is from someone standing right here?”

  “Well, he won’t know if you keep it down.”

  “I will too,” said Fred, leaning over from behind the bar. “Mine’s the one with all the dirty words.”

  “Scoot, Fred,” Annie said, waving him away. “I’m sure there’s much more creative filth here than you ever thought of.”

  “How do you want to do this?” Sam asked.

  “Just take half of them and then we’ll switch.”

  They were barely through the first letters when a man at Annie’s elbow interrupted. He was wearing a stockbroker suit, a stockbroker belt, stockbroker shoes, and a stockbroker haircut. But at his neck was a blue-and-red polka-dot bow tie and on his head was a cowboy hat.

  “Lemme buy you two pretty ladies a drink. I want to get to know you,” he slurred, listing to the left. “I been here and there since eleven today, when I read the board, decided the day was fucked, and I might as well be too.”

  “You said it, not me.” Sam laughed and they grabbed the letters and their drinks, and signaled to the hostess, who led them to a quiet table in the back. They both ordered Toots Burgers with jalapenos, cheese, and onions, and got serious about their reading.

  “This man’s married,” Sam announced.

  “Well, of course, some of them are going to be. It’s a game, silly. You see what you can get away with.”

  They resumed sipping and reading.

  “Two more married, Sam. Maybe they’re all going to be. This certainly isn’t what I was looking for.”

  “Who was just saying this was a game? Keep going.” Annie opened another one and laughed. “Listen to this. ‘If you turn out to be my ex-wife, please never tell me about this.’ Not bad-looking either.”

  Sam appraised his photograph as carefully as if she were buying mushrooms at $9.95 a pound.

  “Okay,” she ventured. “But I bet we’ll do better.”

  “Who’s this we?”

  “Why, Annie, my dearest, my bosom, my heart, if you get more than any one woman can handle, don’t tell me you’re not going to share?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Hmmmm.” Sam was distracted. “What about this? Says he looks like Gene Wilder. And see, he does. But who’s that woman with the boobs and the scarf? That’s tacky, sending a photo of yourself with another woman. But he’s tall enough. And forty-two.”

  “You know, I think we’re forgetting something very important here. These men are not really for me. Remember? The point was to find more people for the book.”

  “Yes, but are you going to throw him away if you find a gem? Come on, Annie, don’t spoil my fun.”

  “Okay… Listen to this. Is this Rich Right? One, two, three, no, four pages, single-spaced. Two of them are poetry. He’s done lots of drugs, has a heavy interest in sex—does that mean he likes fat women—and says he’s very good at it. Has a master’s in counseling and works as a…”

  “Therapist,” Sam filled in the blank.

  “You got it. He’s also included a little list here of the things he craves: water, food, warmth, food, love, affection, food, recognition, more food, more love, warm love, warm food, desserts, bagels, and a pinch to grow an inch. And I quote. What do you think?”

  “I think the man is hungry. And nuts.”

  There was a long silence from the other side of the table.

  Finally Sam looked up. Annie was staring at a letter and shaking her head in disbelief.
>
  “Let me guess,” said Sam. “Jeff Bridges. Beau Bridges. That young Australian, whatsisname, Gibson, Mel Gibson.”

  “This letter’s from Lloyd Andrews, the novelist.”

  “I’m giving you Jeff Bridges and you’re giving me back a novelist?”

  “Shut up. Remember, we were talking about him a couple of weeks ago, because I’d just finished his last book and you said you thought he lived in Bolinas. He lives here. On Telegraph Hill. And he answered my ad!” Annie gulped her Campari. “It’s fate. I’ve read every word he ever wrote. I wonder if he makes love as well as he writes it?”

  “Well, my dear, this is certainly your chance to find out. See, I told you you’d get into this.”

  “Oh, damn, he’ll be out of town until next Thursday. Can I wait that long?”

  “Why not? You’ve waited your whole life. Anyway, I thought you were complaining about how busy you are. Sure you’ve got time for Mr. Andrews?”

  “Of course. I mean, I am busy. And I do have time. For this. Jeez, I almost forgot to tell you. I got some responses to the other ad too. Some good ones.”

  “Yes?”

  “A black female lawyer, a lesbian transplanted from New York, a bisexual painter.” She fanned a hand. “Could be some very kinky stuff there.”

  “Speaking of kinky, want to hear about my freeway cruiser?”

  “God! Just talking about me, me, me. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  “I guess he did too. Or maybe he just got cold feet. He never showed.”

  “After all that!”

  “Takes all kinds. But I did run into Sean O’Reilly and we had dinner together.”

  “Well, that’s not a bad trade-off. San Francisco’s Finest’s nomination for hunk of the year. He is that gorgeous detective, isn’t he? The tall one, with the dark red hair, the flashing white teeth, the broad shoulders, the big gun. Did I miss anything?”

  “No, that’s him all right. But you left out the strawberry birthmark on his right shoulder.”

  “Sam! You devil. Did you?”

  “No, silly. I’m teasing. We just ate dinner and talked shop. Murder shop. That guy who killed his parents on Mt. Diablo probably isn’t the trail killer.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “And worse news. Sondra Weinberg?”

  “Right! I meant to ask you about that the other day. Any leads?”

  “Nothing. Except more of the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Afraid it looks like the first in a series. Sean said the body of a black woman was found yesterday in her apartment on the edge of the Mission. Looks like the same handiwork. Rape, strangulation, and a knife. Woman named Cindy Dunbar.”

  “Oh, Lord!”

  “I know. Let’s change the subject.”

  “Okay.” But Annie was pensive as she stirred her coffee.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. They’re making me nervous, all these murders. I’m beginning to imagine things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well…it was probably nothing. But the other night I stayed late in my classroom at State to do some paperwork. It’s always a little creepy out there with no one around.”

  “Just you and the sea gulls.”

  “Stop interrupting. I finished up and started walking toward my car and I heard footsteps behind me. I stopped and fished around in my bag for my keys—and the footsteps stopped too.”

  “Yikes.”

  “I know. That’s when I got really nervous. So no fooling around, I was really moving, almost running, and so was he.”

  “He?”

  “I didn’t figure it was a woman. Sounded like a man. Anyway, just when I got to the car, I couldn’t stand it any longer and I wheeled around.”

  “And?”

  “Nobody there.”

  “What!”

  “Just disappeared. I was so scared, I slammed my jacket in the door, but I wasn’t opening it for anything.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe your work”—she reached over and tweaked Sam on her lovely nose—“is getting to me.

  “Well, let’s go get some Woody Allen to aerate our brains.” Sam snagged the passing waitress and paid the check.

  Out on the sidewalk, Annie asked, “This isn’t a funny one, is it?”

  “No, the reviews said real serious.”

  They exchanged a look.

  “Okay, okay,” Sam agreed. “I know you’re dying to see the Divine Miss M. Let’s do it.”

  “You’re so good to me, Missy Samantha,” Annie said, fooling around. “I should be so lucky as to find a man like you.”

  “You should be, but your chances are slim to nothing. What is it Gloria Steinem said? ‘We’ve become the men we were waiting for.’”

  “Aw, come on, Sammie, let’s don’t get serious about that tonight.”

  “You’re right. And you’re probably going to find a perfectly wonderful man. Every bit as cute as me. Right here.” She patted the letters in Annie’s tote. “But while you’re doing this thing, be careful, okay?”

  “Sure. But if anything ever does happen to me, you promise me one thing.”

  “This is your last wish?”

  “Right.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you’ll sprinkle my ashes over Robert Redford.”

  FOURTEEN

  The classroom Annie used at State two nights a week was standard: green chalkboard, rows of uncomfortable desks, a NO SMOKING sign that she sometimes chose to ignore posted prominently above the podium. But she hoped her classes in creative writing weren’t standard. She really worked to make them good.

  “Pass your papers around the circle to me, please,” Annie said. “It’s show-and-tell time.”

  The class groaned. Becky Beckwith stammered, “But you didn’t tell us you were going to read them out loud. Mine is very personal.”

  “They’re all personal, Ms. Beckwith. Everyone’s story is about a personal experience of meeting someone.”

  “Mine’s so personal, this chick’s gonna blush if she reads it out loud,” a tall, young, black man said to his friend.

  How little he knew, Annie thought. She hoped some of them would be that good. Grist for her own mill.

  She read through the first one quickly. Gladys Chiu, a meter maid, had met her husband Dennis while giving him a parking ticket. He had raised hell with her until he’d noticed the tears rolling down her cheeks. By way of apology, he had insisted on taking her to dinner, and eight months later Dennis was walking her down the aisle.

  “Gladys, you one brave lady,” commented the young, black man, whose name was Cornell. “You be giving me a ticket, I sure wouldn’t be marrying you.” Cornell winked at Gladys and flashed Annie a smile, testing the waters. Was banter cool in her class?

  She read a few more stories—nothing out of the ordinary.

  Cornell volunteered to read his own. He had met his current lady love on the #22 Fillmore bus, which, as it snaked its way from Pacific Heights down through the ghetto of the Western Addition, was better known for muggings and mayhem than romance.

  “I was sitting there, reading my karate magazine, and I looked up and there was this chick that knocked me out, man. She was beautiful. She had this little kid in one arm and a bunch of packages in the other and she was trying to stand up on the bus in these skinny high heels. So naturally, being the gentleman that I am,” Cornell’s smile was a dazzler, “I gave her my seat, snowed her with my rap, carried her packages home for her, and man, I ain’t hardly gone home since. Cynthia is one fine lady, for sure.”

  “You gonna marry her, blood?” asked Cornell’s friend Mac.

  “I don’t know, my man, but if I do, it’s gonna be on the Twenty-two Fillmore and we gonna dress you up like the MUNI man and let you collect the fares.”

  The class laughed. It was nice to see them relaxed, having a good time. Of
course, the revisions weren’t going to be so much fun.

  Eve Gold, a blonde whose zoftig good looks were holding into her early sixties, reached across Annie’s chair, gold bracelets ajingle, to take her paper. She too wanted to read it herself.

  Eve had left Long Island years earlier, but her accent would always give her origins away. She patted her carefully coiffed hair and began.

  “My daughter Linda is married to her stepbrother. My husband Al is married to his son’s mother-in-law.”

  Eve smiled around the circle as people shook their heads, trying to get a handle on what she’d just said. It was a practiced line, one that Eve knew would get them every time.

  She continued. “It happened like this. One, my daughter Linda married Richard Gold, who is now a doctor. Two, my husband Leonard died. Three, Richard’s mother, Al’s wife died. Four, I married Al, Richard’s father, my daughter Linda’s father-in-law. But,” she hastened to add, “Al and I weren’t involved before our spouses died. It was all after that.”

  Annie nodded, encouraging Eve to go on with the details of her romance with Al.

  “And that’s how I came to be my son-in-law’s stepmother,” Eve ended and settled back into her desk. Everyone smiled.

  Or almost everyone.

  The desk to Eve’s left was pulled back from the circle. The man in it was sleeping, his face down on his folded arms.

  Annie glanced at him and shrugged. You couldn’t win ’em all, though she was always puzzled about why students who were bored would bother to sign up. After all, this wasn’t compulsory education.

  “This is for next week’s assignment,” Annie said as she passed out copies of the Bay Guardian personals column.

  “In addition to the dialogue we talked about earlier, find one ad that you like and write a letter answering it. Then write an ad selling yourself. So that’s three pieces of work for next meeting.”

  The class broke up with lots of chatter and several pats on the back to Eve Gold and Cornell. The sleeping student awoke and stretched, flopping his fair hair back out of his eyes. He yawned widely as he strolled out of the room. Annie noticed that he didn’t bother to cover his mouth.