He pulled a fistful of crumpled twenties out of a pants pocket and paid for our fishcakes and noodles with two bills and waited for change. “Got to be back at ShoeString right away, a call’s coming in from Bangkok,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I’m not going home.” That part was true. “I’m meeting a friend.”
“I’ll drop you where you need to be. No trouble.”
“I don’t mind taking MUNI.”
“If you don’t want the person you’re meeting to run into me, say so.” He grabbed my wrist, and twisted it, but not hard enough to hurt. “Be straight with me, hon. Otherwise there’s no relationship.”
Relationship sounded so dated. “It’s nobody you’d be interested in, Ham.”
“Let me be the judge.”
“It’s nobody you’d want to meet. This guy’s weird, really weird. He lives in my building. Loco Larry.” My plan was to barge into the Vulture office and check out the latest fax.
“Loco as in ‘crazy’?”
“Hates immigrants, hates feds. Hangs an I ‘HEART’ MY ARSENAL on his door.”
“Is that the guy in army surplus on your stoop?”
“Not surplus. He’s shown off knife slits and old blood.”
“Poor fucker! Guys like him had their brains fried.”
“Was it your baby? Did you love Jess, Ham?”
“What baby?”
“The abortion. You said something about an abortion …” Abortion, abandonment, adoption: all options in Bio-Mom’s era had begun with the letter a.
The waitress came back with Ham’s change, but didn’t stick around for the tip.
“You mean the fetus?” He made expense account notes on the back of the receipt. “I’m no chauvinist, that’s too easy. You can’t be that lazy.”
Embarrassed, I backed off. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
I showed my gratitude by asking for a new favor. Ham liked being asked, so we were trading favors. “Get me together with Jess? It’ll bring me one step closer to your Berkeley times.”
“Just be yourself and she’ll come to you,” he said. But he looked pleased. “How’s Thursday night? Vito’s, after nine.” He made a note of it on the restaurant receipt.
Getting into clubs like Vito’s was a breeze if you had Ham. Hanging with him meant your life was in the commuter lane, no waiting, no hang-ups, zipping right along while taxpayers sat fuming. Clubs were free; movies were seen months before release; musicians worked his name into songs. Everybody owed him. He needed to be owed. He was lonely. The loneliest is the person with the largest entourage.
I joined the debtors. That’s as far as I could go in the commitment business.
“I’m not saying you aren’t special, Devi,” Linda, my psychic neighbor, warned. “But so’s everyone. Take anyone in our building, take anyone in the universe. You think that poor schmuck from that Van-whatever place isn’t special when there’s a bounty on his head? And how about the little girls who traipse up our stairs to get their cunts sewn by the resident charlatan? Let me tell you about a client I’m counseling.”
We were sharing oven space. I was heating up the last slice of a soy-cheese, artichoke and clam pizza, and Linda was roasting herbs guaranteed to lower blood pressure. Loco Larry was in our upstairs kitchen too, defrosting the fridge with a mallet and a spatula, but he had on his Walkman. Like the blonde with the DEVI vanities at the state line, Larry knew to make himself the center of the world that mattered.
“Just a normal kid,” Linda went on. “Pacific Heights. Nice parents, nice siblings, decent grades. But in his previous life he was an Indian from India. The kid threw bombs, shot up cops, gave the British Raj a tough time. Such a hard time that the British shipped him off to a convict island and hanged him. Last winter the family finally took a trip to this island. The Andamans? Heard ofit? It’s a tourist trap now. Lots of fat Germans with fancy cameras checking out the empty prisons. But here’s the
“I’m not going home.” That part was true. “I’m meeting a friend.”
“I’ll drop you where you need to be. No trouble.”
“I don’t mind taking MUNI.”
“If you don’t want the person you’re meeting to run into me, say so.” He grabbed my wrist, and twisted it, but not hard enough to hurt. “Be straight with me, hon. Otherwise there’s no relationship.”
Relationship sounded so dated. “It’s nobody you’d be interested in, Ham.”
“Let me be the judge.”
“It’s nobody you’d want to meet. This guy’s weird, really weird. He lives in my building. Loco Larry.” My plan was to barge into the Vulture office and check out the latest fax.
“Loco as in ‘crazy’?”
“Hates immigrants, hates feds. Hangs an I ‘HEART’ MY ARSENAL on his door.”
“Is that the guy in army surplus on your stoop?”
“Not surplus. He’s shown off knife slits and old blood.”
“Poor fucker! Guys like him had their brains fried.”
“Was it your baby? Did you love Jess, Ham?”
“What baby?”
“The abortion. You said something about an abortion …” Abortion, abandonment, adoption: all options in Bio-Mom’s era had begun with the letter a.
The waitress came back with Ham’s change, but didn’t stick around for the tip.
“You mean the fetus?” He made expense account notes on the back of the receipt. “I’m no chauvinist, that’s too easy. You can’t be that lazy.”
Embarrassed, I backed off. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
I showed my gratitude by asking for a new favor. Ham liked being asked, so we were trading favors. “Get me together with Jess? It’ll bring me one step closer to your Berkeley times.”
“Just be yourself and she’ll come to you,” he said. But he looked pleased. “How’s Thursday night? Vito’s, after nine.” He made a note of it on the restaurant receipt.
Getting into clubs like Vito’s was a breeze if you had Ham. Hanging with him meant your life was in the commuter lane, no waiting, no hang-ups, zipping right along while taxpayers sat fuming. Clubs were free; movies were seen months before release; musicians worked his name into songs. Everybody owed him. He needed to be owed. He was lonely. The loneliest is the person with the largest entourage.
I joined the debtors. That’s as far as I could go in the commitment business.
“I’m not saying you aren’t special, Devi,” Linda, my psychic neighbor, warned. “But so’s everyone. Take anyone in our building, take anyone in the universe. You think that poor schmuck from that Van-whatever place isn’t special when there’s a bounty on his head? And how about the little girls who traipse up our stairs to get their cunts sewn by the resident charlatan? Let me tell you about a client I’m counseling.”
We were sharing oven space. I was heating up the last slice of a soy-cheese, artichoke and clam pizza, and Linda was roasting herbs guaranteed to lower blood pressure. Loco Larry was in our upstairs kitchen too, defrosting the fridge with a mallet and a spatula, but he had on his Walkman. Like the blonde with the DEVI vanities at the state line, Larry knew to make himself the center of the world that mattered.
“Just a normal kid,” Linda went on. “Pacific Heights. Nice parents, nice siblings, decent grades. But in his previous life he was an Indian from India. The kid threw bombs, shot up cops, gave the British Raj a tough time. Such a hard time that the British shipped him off to a convict island and hanged him. Last winter the family finally took a trip to this island. The Andamans? Heard ofit? It’s a tourist trap now. Lots of fat Germans with fancy cameras checking out the empty prisons. But here’s the
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