writers struggling to leave heroin behind them.
The clamor in the waiting room was coming through the walls of the bathroom. It was so noisy out there, you’d think it was someone’s birthday party. Not just a day when the clients got their housing vouchers and their GA.
Someone in a toilet stall began to make quite a racket herself, starting to smell the place up, prompting me to bury myself in a cloud of tobacco smoke. She must have wiped her tush with an entire roll of that brown institutional paper we used here. From the sound of it, she had to flush the toilet three times.
The stall door swung open and Eldon strolled out, more world weary than ever with a local newspaper folded under his arm. Upon seeing me, he got testy and took on the stance of a martyr.
“What are you doing in here, Eldon? Can’t you read the sign on the door? It says this room is for ladies only.”
“The toilets are clogged in the other bathroom. I couldn’t help it. What could I do?”
“I don’t care. Don’t do this again, or I’ll have to report you.”
“Sorry. Say, you going out to Clooney’s on Friday night?”
“Who told you about that?”
“Simmons did. He invited me to come along. We went last week, too.”
“You’re one of the gang. You should be pleased with yourself.”
That dig sank into his febrile mind. Giving me a cold shoulder, Eldon went over to the sink, turned on the tap, and using plenty of soap, he whipped up a lather in his hands.
I gave the rest of my cigarette the attention it deserved. But Eldon couldn’t leave it alone. I could see it in his face, reflected in the mirror at the sink. His lower lip was quivering. With anger? I didn’t know.
“Don’t you like Simmons?” he asked. “I’m not a scientist, but hey, I get the distinct impression that he rubs you the wrong way. Would you like to tell me what it is? I happen to like the guy.”
Not wanting to take the bait, I kept my mouth shut.
“He tells me you used to hang out with him, Matt Vukovich and Rubio a lot more before you got married again. They say you’re funny when you drink. That when you get tipsy, you get into shit like white on rice. Didn’t you get eighty-sixed from the Chameleon on Valencia Street along with your husband? I think Simmons misses you. I know Rubio does. I like getting smashed with them, and Clooney’s ain’t such a bad bar. Kids, you know. Not too many assholes.”
About that night at the Chameleon. I don’t like drinking in public anymore; there’s always some cretin who wants to instigate combat. A dusted blue-haired punk rock junkie had been obnoxious to me at a poetry reading in the bar. Frank said to him, hold your lip, brother, or I’ll cave your head in. Frank loves literature and he is protective of me, like a husband should be.
Later that morning after helping one of Lavoris’s clients with a GA form, I found a memorandum on my desk. Someone had placed it there when I’d gone for another refill of instant coffee. I picked up the memo, nettled by it.
You must see me, it said. If you don’t, I’ll visit you. Signed on the paper, almost illegibly, was the scrawl of Gerald Petard.
Our führer’s signature was affixed to every paycheck that came out of Otis Street. Whether it was my wage or Mrs. Dominguez’s benefits, Gerald had his name on it. The directive in his message meant several possibilities. A recognition of our present impasse. A hope for reconciliation. Or just when you thought the shit was dying down, the threat of another imbroglio.
I crushed the note into a ball and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Petard was on the decline, tweaking and confused, losing vim. My strategy? Simple. Let him come to me.
twenty-four
T he Pinkerton loomed in the doorway to the cubicle. I opened my mouth to tell him to wait there, to take his problems somewhere else. But nothing came out. Here we go, I said to myself.
The security agent did his job and was presumably mature enough
The clamor in the waiting room was coming through the walls of the bathroom. It was so noisy out there, you’d think it was someone’s birthday party. Not just a day when the clients got their housing vouchers and their GA.
Someone in a toilet stall began to make quite a racket herself, starting to smell the place up, prompting me to bury myself in a cloud of tobacco smoke. She must have wiped her tush with an entire roll of that brown institutional paper we used here. From the sound of it, she had to flush the toilet three times.
The stall door swung open and Eldon strolled out, more world weary than ever with a local newspaper folded under his arm. Upon seeing me, he got testy and took on the stance of a martyr.
“What are you doing in here, Eldon? Can’t you read the sign on the door? It says this room is for ladies only.”
“The toilets are clogged in the other bathroom. I couldn’t help it. What could I do?”
“I don’t care. Don’t do this again, or I’ll have to report you.”
“Sorry. Say, you going out to Clooney’s on Friday night?”
“Who told you about that?”
“Simmons did. He invited me to come along. We went last week, too.”
“You’re one of the gang. You should be pleased with yourself.”
That dig sank into his febrile mind. Giving me a cold shoulder, Eldon went over to the sink, turned on the tap, and using plenty of soap, he whipped up a lather in his hands.
I gave the rest of my cigarette the attention it deserved. But Eldon couldn’t leave it alone. I could see it in his face, reflected in the mirror at the sink. His lower lip was quivering. With anger? I didn’t know.
“Don’t you like Simmons?” he asked. “I’m not a scientist, but hey, I get the distinct impression that he rubs you the wrong way. Would you like to tell me what it is? I happen to like the guy.”
Not wanting to take the bait, I kept my mouth shut.
“He tells me you used to hang out with him, Matt Vukovich and Rubio a lot more before you got married again. They say you’re funny when you drink. That when you get tipsy, you get into shit like white on rice. Didn’t you get eighty-sixed from the Chameleon on Valencia Street along with your husband? I think Simmons misses you. I know Rubio does. I like getting smashed with them, and Clooney’s ain’t such a bad bar. Kids, you know. Not too many assholes.”
About that night at the Chameleon. I don’t like drinking in public anymore; there’s always some cretin who wants to instigate combat. A dusted blue-haired punk rock junkie had been obnoxious to me at a poetry reading in the bar. Frank said to him, hold your lip, brother, or I’ll cave your head in. Frank loves literature and he is protective of me, like a husband should be.
Later that morning after helping one of Lavoris’s clients with a GA form, I found a memorandum on my desk. Someone had placed it there when I’d gone for another refill of instant coffee. I picked up the memo, nettled by it.
You must see me, it said. If you don’t, I’ll visit you. Signed on the paper, almost illegibly, was the scrawl of Gerald Petard.
Our führer’s signature was affixed to every paycheck that came out of Otis Street. Whether it was my wage or Mrs. Dominguez’s benefits, Gerald had his name on it. The directive in his message meant several possibilities. A recognition of our present impasse. A hope for reconciliation. Or just when you thought the shit was dying down, the threat of another imbroglio.
I crushed the note into a ball and threw it into the wastepaper basket. Petard was on the decline, tweaking and confused, losing vim. My strategy? Simple. Let him come to me.
twenty-four
T he Pinkerton loomed in the doorway to the cubicle. I opened my mouth to tell him to wait there, to take his problems somewhere else. But nothing came out. Here we go, I said to myself.
The security agent did his job and was presumably mature enough
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