“A true San Franciscan doesn’t even ride the cable cars,” Traci said between swallows of Mexican beer. “And we wouldn’t be caught dead at Fisherman’s Wharf. Unless it was in the middle of winter when the place is deserted.”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Junior. Riding the cable cars up and down these steep hills and listening to the clanging of the bells does peel my paint. Maybe I’ll have to get that out of my system before I can become a true San Franciscan.”
“Well, you might not be a true San Franciscan, but you’re sure full of beans,” Traci teased.
“Can’t I be excited? I’m in this beautiful city with a beautiful woman. Of course I’m feeling my oats.”
She laughed. “Can you keep a secret?”
I nodded.
“Even us jaded folks like to hop a cable car every once in a while for old-time’s sake. We just tend to get the urge in January.”
I sat across from the interviewer, who insisted I call her Vickie rather than Ms. Hauser. It was only my first interview. I’d just opened the job-hunting book What Color Is Your Parachute?, and I didn’t even know the answer yet. I got to face the window that looked out on the bay. Everybody seemed to have a view in this town. I reminded myself not to get too distracted.
I was thankful that I’d packed my beige skirt and white blouse, although I could’ve gotten away with my pantsuit. Vickie was wearing a navy one. I still had to adjust to these dark colors in the middle of summer.
“Jean, I must say that I’m really impressed,” Vickie said, looking up from an open folder.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, briefly making contact with Vickie’s green eyes. Maybe in San Francisco, a blonde had to compensate by having short hair, and not wearing makeup. Probably you wouldn’t get any respect otherwise. If you were blonde, slim, wore a dress, and had hair down your back people would probably think you lacked leadership qualities. Vickie was a tough blonde, I decided.
“I believe that you’re perfect for the Minority Outreach Training Program.”
“Well, thank you.” I wondered why I was perfect for a training program. I was already trained. Hadn’t Vickie seen my résumé? I decided to hip her to the facts. “As my résumé indicates,” I said sounding like a job-hunting manual, “I worked at a TV station in Evanston the summer before last, and at a radio station in Normal last summer.”
“Yes, I see, station WILD, Normal, Illinois.” Vickie smiled and winked.
“I think it was pretty tame by San Francisco standards.”
“You know, they say, ‘You get an interview because you’re qualified, but you get a job because someone likes you.’ Jean, what can I say, I like you.”
“Thanks,” I said, not knowing what to say after the interviewer says “I like you.” It would sound silly to answer “I like you too.” Although I’d be willing to say it if it meant getting the gig. “Does that mean that you’re offering me the job?”
There was a moment that seemed like an eternity and then Vickie nodded and said, “Yes, welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” I said letting out a breath. It was too good to be true.
“Vickie, I’m really excited by the opportunity of making a contribution to KPIX.” You don’t have to sound so damn formal. You’ve already got the gig, I criticized myself.
“Well, Jean, we’re excited about having you, regardless of where you end up being assigned.”
“Assigned?”
“Yes, KPIX is hosting the two-week training program, but after that you could end up anywhere. Maybe even Normal, Illinois.”
Ha, ha, very funny, I thought. “So I might not be working in San Francisco?” I tried to mask my concern.
“Chances are, you wouldn’t, since your interest is in news reporting. Right now the only need here is for minority account executives.”
“Maybe I’d be open to sales.”
“There’s still no guarantee that you would be placed in San Francisco. A prerequisite for the Minority Outreach Training Program is that you be willing to relocate.”
“Well, I’d really love to be a reporter, and I would love to work in San Francisco, too.”
“You and everybody else,” Vickie groaned. She opened the drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes. She pulled out one and offered me the pack.
“No thanks,” I said, watching a ship gliding across the water.
“Jean, the only entry-level jobs in the media here are clerical and production-assistant positions.” Vickie puffed furiously on her cigarette. I felt like I must have driven her to smoke.
“I’m willing to start on the ground floor.”
“Those jobs are often part-time, and they pay less than four dollars an hour.” Vickie exhaled.
“Money isn’t everything. An opportunity is all I want.”
“Are you sure that you want to turn down this opportunity just to hold out for something that may end up being a dead end? Is it that important to stay in San Francisco?”
“I love this city and I’ve met people here. I don’t want to relocate. I just located.”
“Well, there must be something in the fog,” Vickie declared, and blew smoke practically in my face. “Sorry,” she said, waving the air. “I know people with master’s degrees waiting tables on Union Street, and Ph.D.’s driving taxicabs. They’ll take any job just for the privilege of living in San Francisco. Personally, I need a certain amount of comfort.”
“Maybe when I’m older, I’ll feel that way, too.”
Vickie almost choked on her cigarette.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you were old. I mean you’re not old.”
Vickie shrugged her shoulders, but her finger wiped at a wrinkle under her eye. “I just hope that you’re not making a big mistake.”
“I hope not either. But I feel like San Francisco is where I can really blossom.”
“Spoken like a true dreamer.”
“Working in the media in San Francisco would be a dream come true.”
“Well, if we get an opening that you would be suited for, I will give you a call.”
“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate that.” I stood up to go.
Vickie hesitated. “Jean, let me be frank. Dreams die hard in this town.” She mashed out her cigarette. “San Francisco has the highest suicide rate in the country.”
I swallowed. “I’m sure it won’t come to that. I’d head back to Chicago before I’d head for the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Well, I’ve tried to level with you.”
“I think you have.”
“It’s just that an opportunity like this doesn’t come across my desk every day. They’re not like BART trains. If you miss one, you can’t just catch the next one.”
“I know.”
Vickie lit another cigarette and inhaled. “Jean, a smart flea knows when to hop.”
I leaned toward the door. I wanted to hop on out of here.
Vickie suddenly mashed her cigarette out. “Save yourself some shoe leather. Accept this slot in the Minority Training Program!” she insisted.
“I’m just not willing to relocate at this point.” I sighed. “But thank you very much for considering me.”
Vickie stood up and extended her hand. “Jean, good luck, then. And have a nice day.”
“Thanks.”
“Jawea, the mail’s here,” I called down to her in the small yard below. “Your Sojourner newspaper and your Ms. magazine came.”
Jawea continued to sway with her hands and feet. It looked like she was dancing in slow motion. It looked weird.
“Jawea, did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you, but maybe I don’t give a shit!”
I was taken aback. Just last night Jawea had said I had a tall spirit. And that I projected beautiful energy. We didn’t see each other that much, but when we did, everything seemed cool. I thought that Jawea liked me, that she was glad I was living here.
“Jawea, I don’t appreciate you talking to me like that.”
“Well, I don’t appreciate your interrupting me when I’m practicing Tai Chi.”
“Well, you didn’t have to get funky. I didn’t know what that was. I’ve never heard of Tai Chi before.”
“Ok, Stevie, just try and tune in to the vibes a person is putting out before you insert your energy into their space, from now on, all right?”
I sighed and walked away, rather than telling Jawea that she could tune in to kissing my ass.
I went back into the pad and found Traci in the kitchen. She was getting stuff together to make a salad for Pat’s birthday party.
“I just told Jawea the mail’s here, and she went off on me.”
“Is she doing Tai Chi?”
“Yeah, that’s what she called it.”
Traci set a big pottery bowl on the table. “Don’t go to Hollywood. She just didn’t want anybody to break her concentration.”
“Well, I didn’t know. Jawea’s the one who went to Hollywood.”
“Don’t take it personally. It wasn’t about you. Jawea is studying to be a master.”
“At the rate my job hunt is going, maybe I should join her.”
Traci kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t worry, baby, you’ll find something. But maybe you need to forget about the glamour jobs. There’s way too much competition. Everybody can’t be Barbara Walters.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to use my skills.” I watched Traci cut up vegetables.
“Maybe you should consider working with your hands, doing manual labor.”
I shrugged. “Not intellectual enough.” I crunched on a carrot. “How come it’s potluck? Are they that poor?”
Traci shook her head as she sprinkled sunflower seeds on the salad in the big pottery bowl that Jawea had made. “No, ’course not. I mean, they’re downwardly mobile like everybody else. Gretchen actually comes from money. She’s in a land-surveyor apprenticeship. And Pat goes to the People’s Law College. Her parents own a dry-cleaning business back in Philly. I’m pretty sure Pat grew up middle-class.”
“I just never heard of a birthday party being potluck before, that’s all.”
“Everything out here is potluck, you’ll see.”
Traci began stirring together her secret herb dressing.
“Are you sure they wouldn’t rather have some fried chicken?”
Traci sighed. “Most of them will be vegetarians.”
“Even the sistahs?” I imagined they’d be glad to get their mitts on some of my fried chicken.
“There won’t be that many sistahs there.”
“Why not? It’s Pat’s party, isn’t it?”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Pat is a feminist first, black second.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Remember, this is San Francisco.”
My baby had been right, I’d never seen folks get so excited over a salad before. Me, I wouldn’t mind sucking on a bone right now, I thought, surveying the table full of breads, quiche, dips, vegetable dishes, and this cheese that reminded me of cement. They even had the nerve to have that nasty Perrier water that Traci insisted I’d get used to. That’s what people had said about sexual intercourse with men, too—that I’d get used to it. Maybe, if Myron had believed in longer foreplay, it wouldn’t have hurt. And if Skylar had lasted more than two minutes, I could’ve gotten used to it. Just when it started getting good, it was over.
There were about ten women, mostly dressed in denim or flannel shirts and jeans, in the homey living room furnished with crates and comfortable old furniture.
“You can hardly hear the music,” I complained to Traci as we headed for a spot on the couch with our drinks and little plates of food.
“Yeah, and it’s Sweet Honey in the Rock, too. They’re a dynamite a cappella group. Their music has a powerful message.”
“The sistahs sound good. Pump up the volume.”
“Somebody turned it down, said they were trying to have a conversation,” Traci explained between sips of wine.
“You don’t go to a party to talk, you go to a party to party,” I whispered.
“Stevie, later on we’ll pump it up and turn it out, don’t worry,” Traci assured me.
“Give me some couch, I’m gonna get over here in the sistah corner.”
It was Pat, dressed no differently than if she were going camping I dug myself into the corner to make room for her sturdy frame.
“So, you decided to become a native?”
“How can you become a native?” Traci challenged her.
“You know what I mean. You know what I mean, right, Stevie?”
I nodded. Two of the white women who’d introduced themselves as Tamar and Miriam edged closer, drawn to us like bees to honey.
“Hey, I told Stevie, you only go around once in life, so you gotta grab for all the gusto you can,” Traci said, gulping her wine.
“Sounds like a slogan from a beer commercial.” Pat laughed. “You made the right decision, ’cause it ain’t happening back in Chicago, if you know what I mean,” she added.
Traci nodded, although she’d never been to Chicago.
A knot of white women had drawn close to us. It was obvious that their attention was focused on our little corner.
“In Chicago, the Mafia runs all the bars,” Pat informed us. “Same with Boston,” she added. “‘The Man’ ain’t getting up off of nothing there.”
Tamar whispered to Miriam, “Who’s ‘the Man?’” Miriam pointed to her white arm. It was obvious from the puzzled expression on Tamar’s face that she still didn’t get it.
“Chicago and Boston are racist as hell.” Pat continued to hold court.
“You see how fucked up they acted in Boston around busing,” Traci reminded us.
“Didn’t Dr. King say that Chicago was worse than the South?” Miriam cut in, straightening her glasses. She was the librarian type, with her dark hair pulled back, and her forgettable features.
“Yeah, he did say that,” I confirmed. I remembered the time Grandma and I had marched with Dr. King through a white Chicago neighborhood, and how vicious the taunts had been.
“San Francisco is the only place to be. Can I get a witness?” Pat asked.
Traci raised her glass in agreement.
“What about Seattle?” Tamar asked respectfully.
Traci shook her head. “Rains so much, you’ll rust.”
“Seattle’s like being lovers with a beautiful woman who’s sick all the time,” Pat added.
“I heard that!” Traci smiled, giving Pat five.
“What about New York?” Miriam asked, sounding like a game show contestant.
Pat hesitated. “New York is cool for a visit, but I don’t want to smell piss three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”
“New York smells like piss?” I asked.
“Their subways stank,” Traci explained.
“They got too many roaches for me,” Pat added. “I bet even Jackie O’s got roaches. Now, you know that’s a damn shame.”
“When I visited my cousins, I swear, there was roaches at every meal,” Traci cut in. “I lost ten pounds in two weeks.”
“Stop lying,” Pat laughed.
The white women in the room were now gazing at us like an audience watching a play. I felt a little uncomfortable being onstage, and yet I enjoyed being the center of attention.
“If I’m lying, I’m flying,” Traci insisted between gulps of wine. “You open the refrigerator and ten roaches come out. They up in the bed with you and shit. The killer was when I went to brush my teeth and the mothafuckas was crawling on the toothbrush.”
“Stop!” Pat yelled. “People will lose their appetites.”
“I heard that,” I said. But I realized that I’d lost some of my appetite for visiting New York.
“Not to change the subject,” Pat said lowering her voice considerably, “but, Traci, I can’t believe you finally got up with a sistah.” Pat had slurred her words so that most of the white women couldn’t under
stand what she’d said.
“Traci usually likes to play in the snow,” Pat added for my ears only.
“You got your nerve,” Traci whispered, “blonde as Gretchen is. Besides, we integrating your damn party. So, you need to shut your ass up.”
“Hey, y’all look good together,” Pat smiled. “I was just making an observation, that’s all.”
I didn’t want to stick to Traci like glue, so when Gretchen asked if anyone wanted to go with her on a beer run, I volunteered.
“Coors,” I exclaimed happily, pointing to a case of beer behind the glass door. I remembered how my white dorm-mates had packed their car trunks full of Coors beer after a Colorado ski trip. Everybody put Coors beer on a pedestal. You couldn’t get it east of the Rockies.
“Not Coors!” Gretchen shouted as color rushed to her normally pale face.
“Why not? Is it too expensive?” I asked sheepishly.
Gretchen shook her head, her face relaxed, and she sighed as though she’d suddenly remembered something.
“I forgot, you’re new. You see, we’re boycotting Coors.”
I knew about not eating grapes, I supposed the whole country knew about that. But I had never heard of boycotting beer.
“How come we’re boycotting Coors?” I asked, anxious to be considered a part of the “we.”
“Because they’re racist, homophobic, classist, sexist, and otherwise oppressive,” Gretchen recited as calmly as a teacher explaining a math problem to a third-grader.
“Oh, I didn’t know,” I said. “Here I was thinking that Coors beer was the cat’s meow. Thanks for hipping me to the fact.”
“I realize that you didn’t know, Stevie. Well, now you’ve learned something,” Gretchen said in a patronizing voice that made me want to scream.
Gretchen and I walked up the hill, each carrying a six-pack of Miller’s. A couple wearing down jackets walked toward us, a man and a woman.
“It’s my sister, Susan,” Gretchen muttered. Susan looked like a slightly younger version of Gretchen, except her hair was a darker shade of blond.
Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice Page 11
