Half

by Duncan MacLeod

  “Ethan, I see it all over your face. You have a crush.”

  “Fine, fine. You got me. Chance is sex on a stick with wheels. We have not found our way into each other's arms, and I’m not his type.”

  “Did he actually say you’re not his type"? Michael should be an interrogator.

  “I don’t exactly remember what he said but it was something close.”

  “I need it word for word.”

  “All right, he said something to the effect of ‘We just met. I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea when I put my arm around you.”

  Michael gasps. “He put his arm around you"?

  “Yeah, but like he said, I would be getting the wrong idea if I thought he was into me.”

  “Nonsense. He left the door wide open. All you gotta do is walk in.” Michael looks around as if a waiter might appear at the donut shop. “This coffee used to be free refills, but now they make you pay a quarter. It’s outrageous! For some of us, a quarter is a lot of money.”

  Michael hops off the stool and asks the Asian donut man for a free refill.

  “No. You pay quarter or no coffee.” Michael looks at his feet and sees a shiny quarter right next to his left combat boot. He bends over picks it up, and hands it to the donut man, who seethes and refills the cup.

  As Michael comes back to our window counter, he encourages the old guy with a pat on the back. “You dropped your nutsack, but hey, if you got it, flaunt it.” The old man smiles, chuckles then goes back to concentrating on the school of fish swimming past the window, hoping to hook one with his prodigious worm.

  “Ethan, you need to introduce me to this Chance character. I need to sniff all up in his stuff and make sure he’s your future ex husband.”

  “He works strange hours, so it would be hard to predict if he’s there.”

  “Come on, Ethan. Look at the top of Castro. The 24 Divisadero; it’s divine providence. Do you have your crazy card and 15 cents for the bus"?

  “Yes.”

  “Great, do you have an extra 15 cents I can borrow"?

  “I got a quarter and a nickel.”

  “That works.”

  We dash across 18th Street to catch the 24 Divisadero. Michael has to smuggle his coffee onto the bus.

  “Transfer, please” - the bus driver tears off a transfer for Michael. Michael inspects it. “I’m sorry sir, this transfer is only good for one hour. I think your pad might have slipped.” Transfers in San Francisco employ a medieval technology. They are printed with today’s date and are bordered in bright colors. On the main body of the transfer there are two columns. On the left are the numbers 1 through 12, which repeat once. On the right are the numbers 00am 30am 12 times, then 00pm 30pm another 12 times. To set the expiration on the transfer, the driver has to slide and skew the pad of transfers at an angle so when torn off, will produce a minimum 90 minutes expiration time. This gives the rider about 2 hours before the transfer expires. At the top of the transfer is a little perforated tab “Void if Detached.” That’s the first transfer. The second transfer is the colorful transfer. There is no third transfer, but most bus drivers will let you keep the second transfer. Michael needs more time if he plans to hang out in Pacific Heights for more than a minute. The bus driver adjusts the pad of transfers to allow 2 hours and 30 minutes for Michael.

  The 24 Divisadero is a clunky electric bus traveling through the Castro, across the Western Addition, then rises to Jackson Street, where it’s just a short walk to Conard House. When it crosses Haight street, there is a 40% chance the trolley poles will come unjoined from the overhead cables, and the driver will have to step off the bus at great peril and reattach them to the wires. This is what happens when things are not going well. I have a growing sense of dread. Chance and Michael are from two different worlds. I don’t think it will be a pleasant meeting, if it even happens.

  We disembark at Divisadero and Jackson. Michael rolls me a Drum and lights it before he rolls his own. He’s a sweet man under his dark, angular exterior. We walk in silence, refueling our nicotine cells.

  At Conard House, there are a few clients hanging out on the steps. I don’t know them very well except for Bill, a schizophrenic garbage man. “Hey Bill, do you know if Chance is here"?

  Bill shrugs, takes a long drag off of his cigarette, and says “Nope. No Chance.”

  I am relieved. “Oh well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  I wait with Michael for 35 minutes before an overstuffed 22 Fillmore stops at Jackson. A couple of people get off, so Michael figures he can fit. I wave as he wedges himself into the mass of humanity. He blows a kiss as the bus pulls out, shudders then wheezes down the hill.

  *

  Today I have to clean the Conard House library. The “library” is a dusty room in the basement filled with bookshelves and a jumble of paperback books, comic books, and records. They are muddled and snarled, like what you would expect to find at a mismanaged thrift store. With no one to help me, this is one of the labors of Hercules.

  I return upstairs to ask Janis if she has something else for me.

  “I can’t do this by myself, it’s too much.”

  Janis gets a twinkle in her eye. It is both frightening and intriguing

  “Ethan, this won’t be a one hour walk in the park. Think of it as a marathon, spread out over several days. Start by telling me what you mean by ‘too much.’”

  I consider the question, “I need help.”

  “That’s not what I asked. What do you mean by too much"?

  “There’s over two thousand books, 500 comic books, and I don’t know how many records down there. Do we even have a record player"?

  “We do, in the common room. It’s not like we can afford a CD player.”

  “Now you mention it, I did see a record player in there.”

  “Back to the question about this being ‘too much.’ Ethan, can you envision yourself alphabetizing 20 books"?

  I scoff, “There’s 2,000"!

  “Again, not what I asked. Can you picture yourself picking 20 books from the pile and putting them in alphabetical order"?

  “It won’t work because I’ll spend the whole time putting books in between other books.”

  “You’re jumping ahead a bit, but good thinking. How would you organize this, if it wasn’t too much"?

  Damn, she’s good. I gotta hand it to her. “I would pre-sort by type, so comic books, books, and records were in their own piles, then pick the smallest pile first.”

  “You have the beginnings of a good plan, Ethan. What would be the next step"?

  “I would have to see how many shelves worth of stuff I have, and then assign those shelves for the records, which are the smallest pile.”

  Janis asks, “Do you have to finish by our house meeting at 3pm"?

  “No, I don’t. I have all week to finish, right"?

  “You have months to get it done if you want. But I don’t recommend it. Today, do what you can and then we’ll see if you need help.”

  The light in the basement library is a 25-watt bulb, which contributes to the gloomy sense of dread, but I have a plan now. A good plan. I find three empty corners and use them for the pre-sort. Like a gleaner in a garbage pile, I pick out the records and stack them in the first corner. This music is stale. No 12-inch singles in this group. Paul Mauriat, Engelbert Humperdinck, Henry Mancini, Ogden Nash, Allan Sherman - these are grandma records.

  Seeing these records reminds me of the job I had in New York City. For five dollars an hour under the table, I worked at Second Coming Records. I had a prestigious cashier gig in the rock store, until I dyed my hair pink. Andre and Gladys, the world’s meanest people and owners of the store, told me I looked like a “fucking fairy” and banished me to the soundtracks, show-tunes and vocals store across the street. Some of the coolest gay people in the city shopped there, but I was embarrassed and angry because I wasn’t allowed to work in the rock store. I was supposed to play vocal music from the store collection, but I w
anted to play Led Zeppelin and David Bowie like we played across the street. So instead it was Paul Mauriat because the cover looked cool, and the Village Stompers because I thought they might be punk rock. I was indignant. I didn’t even care when Fred Schneider came in and bought an Yma Sumac album, nor when Mark Almond bought the original Broadway cast of Hair. One day I played a Doris Day 45 single on endless repeat until customers complained. My secret love was no secret anymore.

  But such a memory stretches across a giant chasm with a big ugly hospital in the middle. Nothing is the same now. I have about a hundred records stacked in the corner, and the rest are buried out of sight under comics and regular books. The comics don’t weigh very much, so I move on to them.

  Superman, Archie, Richie Rich, Wendy the Witch, Casper the Ghost...this is not worthy of a library. There’s some cultish comic called “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” It’s not as cool as it sounds. No R. Crumb, no Frank Miller. I dump armfuls of comics into the opposite corner and glean a few more exposed records from the pile. I even find “Let it Bleed” by the Stones. I wish the record player were here. It would make the work go by quicker. I lost my Walkman when I got arrested, so I can’t listen to tapes.

  What remains is a big pile of books.

  Records will be easy - alphabetical by artist or composer, V for Various - just like we did at Second Coming.

  Comic books - I think alphabetical by character will work.

  As for books, fiction will be alphabetical by author, and nonfiction...hmmm. Alphabetical by topic might work, but it might not. Sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint the topic. Like this book “The Magic of Findhorn” - would it go under G for gardening, P for plants, R for religion or S for Spirituality? Or this book, “Let’s Go The Budget Guide to Mexico 1986” - M for Mexico or T for travel? Wait, this book is cool. I’m borrowing it.

  Let’s Go The Budget Guide to Mexico 1986 is published by the Harvard Student Agencies, which, if I’m not mistaken, means real Harvard students write the book. The cover boasts “revised and updated every year.” So this book is last year’s model. How much can change in a year? I can’t wait to find out back in the room, but for now, I need to concentrate on sorting library books.

  I’m debating about whether to separate hardcover books from the paperbacks, but it wouldn’t make sense. If you’re reading a book, who cares whether it’s hardback or paperback? Bookstores separate them because the hardcovers are worth more. But this is a library for mentally ill people, and no one cares whether the book is worth a penny or a hundred dollars. They just want to read. So I scratch the separation plan.

  It occurs to me this would be a good time to go see Janis and ask for some guidance, but I think she’ll just use the Socratic method and I’ll have to make the decision myself anyway. So hmmmm…fiction and nonfiction are two different kingdoms – plant and animal, so they will have to be the top-level sort.

  Fiction will be easier, because I can alphabetize by author. It could be divided into mysteries, fantasy and science fiction, literature…but this is Conard House, not A Clean Well Lighted Place for Books, so screw it. I’ll cross the Nonfiction bridge when I get to it. I should pop over to Van Ness and see how they sort nonfiction at A Clean Well Lighted Place for Books. Part of my “activity.” right? I’ll have to get Janis to agree. She will think I’m scamming her, but I need to know the best way to handle non-fiction…I’m getting ahead of myself and I need to stay focused.

  My experience at Second Coming paid off, and I had the entire collection of over 300 records sorted and alphabetized on a bookshelf just in time for our 3pm meeting in the common room.

  I’m not early this time, so I have to stand. Tony Ha offers his seat to Vicki, who looks like she needs it. He stands next to me.

  “Ethan, we missed you at Mah Jongg last night.”

  “Yeah, sorry. My mom called, and then I had to go to sleep.”

  “When she call, I tell her you asleep. She mean, mean lady.”

  “Yeah, she mean, mean lady alright.” Tony Ha is a wise man.

  *

  After the meeting, I still have two and a half hours until my mother arrives. Sally Jessy Raphael is a crashing bore, and the news gives me anxiety, so I opt out of TV. I remember the Let’s Go Mexico book I set aside, and bring it to the room.

  Chance is hiding out, avoiding the meeting. He sees the book and grows curious.

  “What you got there"?

  “A travel guide to Mexico. I’ll read it and pretend I’m going.”

  “Why don’t you go for real"?

  I laugh and say, “yeah, right"!

  “No, really, dude. The peso keeps falling. You could spend a month there for a hundred dollars easy.”

  “According to this book, I say, referring to the exchange rate in the front, the peso is 400 to the dollar. A nice hotel room costs 24,000 pesos, so it would be sixty dollars right there.”

  “First of all, you don’t need a nice hotel room. Second, the peso fell over 1,000 to the dollar. It’s at 1,600 right now.”

  I perk up. “Really"?

  “Yeah man, it was on the news last night. Weren’t you paying attention? They’re having a crisis. It’s a perfect time to go. The same hotel room would cost less than 30 bucks. And if you rough it, you can stay in a clean motel for two bucks.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never been out of the country. Don’t I need a passport"?

  “Not for Mexico. Read the book. Man, I kinda want to go with you.”

  “You want to go with me"? My heart hurts. Nature plays cruel tricks on us. We ache to be with someone and they want to be with us, but not the same way. The Smiths said it best, “I Want The One I Can’t Have.”

  “Yeah, Ethan. It would be cool.”

  I bury my nose in the book, learning about planes, trains and automobiles, money, traveler’s checks, bus routes, cities and ruins. This is fascinating. Chance is right; I should go. I turn to tell him about Palenque and freeze when I see the red LED alarm clock reads 6:07 p.m. Outside, I hear a car horn blasting.

  I take the stairs two at a time, slide across the parquet entryway and out the front door. Double parked in front, blasting her horn, is my mother. Her face bears the grimace of Faye Dunaway in the famous wire hanger scene from Mommie Dearest. This won’t be a fun-filled evening.

  “What did I tell you!? Do you realize I almost got a ticket for double parking"?

  I point to an empty parking space, “There’s a spot right there, mom.” I know this is not the right move to make in this chess game, but I just want to sacrifice my rook.

  “You’re missing the point, Ethan. When I ask you to be out front waiting, I expect you to be there. What could you possibly be doing worth making me wait half an hour for you"?

  I know I should not question her hyperbole. Maybe she got here 23 minutes early. How do I get out of this? “I’m sorry. I had diarrhea.”

  “Oh, not your irritable bowel"? She looks concerned now.

  I nod. “It still hurts a little, so could we please get on the road? I might need to use your bathroom.” Bingo!

  She capitulates, “I think yelling at you didn’t help either, did it"?

  I shrug, not wanting to disagree with her, and not wanting to make her feel bad, leading to accusations of “guilt tripping.” She’s out in Fillmore traffic now, passing the expensive shops where wives and mistresses buy their clothes and household goods. Now that I’m not cringing in fear, I look at her car, which is a Honda Accord hatchback. It’s brand new. “Hey mom, is this a new car"?

  “Yes, I got it so we can be together more often. Plus all the jobs are on the peninsula, so I need a car if I’m going to make any money.”

  “Is this a new car"?

  She nods, “Grandma Joan bought it for me.”

  Inside, my first thought is ‘Wow, I wish my mother had bought me a car,’ but I’m trying to keep this visit on an even keel. “How great! It’s really nice. Can I turn on the radio? Hey, it has a tape player, too.�
�� I push play on the tape and I hear my mother’s voice, talking to someone. She’s crying. She reaches over and switches to KSAN, a country station on FM radio.

  “What was the tape"?

  “Well, it was something I wanted to talk to you about, but you don’t need to hear it. Leslie took me to see a psychic while you were in the hospital. Not a storefront gypsy, this lady was the real deal. She’s friends with Jane Roberts, the lady who channels Seth.”

  “She sounds good.” I play along but don’t let my guard down.

  “Anyway, we taped the session. I was just so worried about you, and I felt so helpless because they wouldn’t let me see you. So I asked her to do a remote healing for you. She used to do stuff for NASA too.”

  “Wow, cool.” It sounded cool, despite my misgivings. The country music playing is the shitty crap with the slide guitars and boring white people singing about heterosexual drama. “May I change the station to KMEL or KRQR"?

  “No, leave it on KSAN.” When I was younger, KSAN was my favorite radio station. It played AOR, and on Sunday evenings it hosted the Dr. Demento show, which was the best thing to ever exist on radio. The only other AOR station was KMEL – the Camel. Then one day KSAN decided competing with KMEL was hurting their profits, so they switched to country music. This was right around the time John Travolta came out in “Urban Cowboy.” Loyal KSAN fans were so pissed, a group of them rented a dump truck full of cow manure and unloaded it on the front steps of the station. It was a brilliant symbolic protest for a worthy cause.

  KRQR is the closest thing we have to KROQ, a new wave station out of LA. KRQR plays a lot of British bands and calls themselves “the rock of the eighties.” It is sort of played out now in 1987, but years ago, in 1983 and 1984, it was the shit. But none of it matters, because I am just sitting here listening to Merle Haggard sing about being an Okie from Muskogee, even though he was born and raised somewhere near Bakersfield. What a bunch of poseurs.

  My mother’s new apartment is on Linda Street, a dead end alleyway next to a park with tennis courts. There was parking right out front, which was unusual for the Mission. “I always have parking. See, the tennis courts have parking over on Valencia, and since there are only a few apartments on this street, there’s fewer cars.”