What do you care? Do you want to fuck things up for me?
I take a swallow.
No. I’m just in a sociable mood.
Have you been in a program?
I have, I say, lowering the bottle.
What do you do in them? I mean, how do they work? I guess if they figure out I’m not a drunk they’ll just kick me out, right? And I’ll be back in my car. But I really want a halfway house and a job.
Listen, I tell him. You just sit around and go to AA meetings and talk about your emotions and stuff and how to deal with shit without drinking. You admit alcohol calls all the shots in your life, and you promise to swear off it a day at a time. They’ll talk about a higher power. Go all in on that. When they ask you stuff, just talk about times you’ve been drunk and make it sound like it was a daily thing. Don’t trip. It’s easy.
Do you know the one in Redwood City?
I was there. It’s nice. Lots of woods around it. Guys only. That’s kind of a drag. But all in all, it’s not bad. Good food.
Let’s see. I was at Redwood a year ago, maybe a little more. I graduated and got into Hospital Center, a halfway house in the Mission. I was doing good for almost two, no, three weeks. Yeah, three, and it was the strangest thing that happened that fucked things up. I’m out and about one afternoon, had gone by Fresh Start to show Katie how good I was doing, and then I left to go back to the Mission. I got to the corner of Van Ness and Golden Gate to catch a bus when I heard, Stop him! and this dude ran past me shoving people out of his way and tossing a purse I guess he’d snatched. Everyone kind of pulled back like, What the fuck? and he just barreled through us and then all these people chased after him. They crossed an intersection, stoplight flashing don’t walk, and knocked down a woman in a purple dress, and her purse fell and bounced off the sidewalk and onto Golden Gate, and I saw two twenty-dollar bills spin out of it, rising on currents, and I caught them, those twenties in my hand like pennants, and I’m so happy that I started running, like I don’t know what, man, I’m just so happy, I mean two twenties, who would’ve thought? But then some guy saw me and shouted, What’s he doing?, and the crowd took off after me, and man, I couldn’t run fast enough. Turning a corner, I plowed right into a cop. Whoa! he said, and then all these people came up behind me shouting shit about me, and I tried to explain I’d done nothing, but it was me against all those people who said they saw me steal money from a woman’s purse and some of them even said I stole the purse, and I’m going, The worst thing I did was take money from a fallen purse, but I was outnumbered and the cop wasn’t going to listen to me. I spent two nights in county before someone sorted things out and I got released. But by then I’d been kicked out of Hospitality Center for being absent without permission. I told my counselor what happened, but he wouldn’t let me back until he spoke to the police and verified my story. I could’ve stayed in a shelter and waited, but I was pissed off and bummed out and pissed off some more. Maybe I was relieved too. I had a hell of a good reason to start drinking again and I took it. When my counselor saw me on the street a few weeks later, he said, Walter, you live down to peoples’ expectations. He’s probably right, but I did have a good three weeks.
Trust me, I tell the guy. Do what I said. Tell some war stories about when you’ve been drunk, talk about how you’re turning your life over to your higher power and you’ll be cool.
My what?
It’s like God. You’ll see. Just do it.
OK, he says.
No one’s on the bandstand now. I feel a little chill, shiver, squint up at the sky. Blue mostly. Some haze coming in from the Richmond. I stretch and make a face at the ache in my chest. A doctor gave me pain pills but I left them in my room. He said they’re good for those special kinds of headaches. Hangovers I guess is what he was getting at.
Are you married?
Yeah, the guy says. I mean when I lost my job things got kind of bad between me and my wife. We started fighting and stuff. We were doing that before, but we really got into it when I didn’t have any money coming in. I mean good money, not what I was getting from Uber and Lyft. When we couldn’t afford our apartment, she left me to stay with her mom. But we’ve been talking and texting. If I get right with a job, I think she’ll come back.
And then you’ll just have regular fights.
Yeah, he says.
We both laugh.
That was a good one.
Redwood lets families visit on weekends, I say.
OK, he says.
He gets up. I raise my bottle but he shakes his head.
Good luck, I tell him.
See you.
I’ll be here.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away. I thought maybe he’d reconsider, look back, turn around, and have a swallow, but he doesn’t. I guess he really doesn’t drink. Or he’s stopped for now. He’ll do his thing, his little scam, and I’m thinking he’ll pull it off too. I hope he does. I’m for anyone who can get over with some shit. He was OK. I guess I enjoyed talking to him. Enough anyway, but he was kind of an asshole. I mean, even if he wasn’t going to drink, he could’ve stuck around so I wouldn’t be left just sitting here.
The couple I stole the wine from are holding hands, their heads tilted, touching. Too late now, but I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d returned their wine. You know, I could’ve taken it and walked a few feet behind them and put it on the ground and pretended to stumble over it or something. Shit, I’d shout, and they’d turn to me and I’d hold up the bottle and say, Someone left their bottle and I almost broke my neck. That’s ours, they’d go, and I’d say, Oh, and give it to them. I could sue you, I’d say, making a joke. They’d laugh and thank me and laugh again wondering how it rolled off their blanket, and the guy’d shake my hand and she’d hug me. I’d feel every part of her and I’d hold her for as long as she’d let me, absorbing that feeling.
People around me start moving. No one’s followed that last group onto the bandstand so maybe this thing is over. I take another hit from my bottle. I wonder if anyone is watching me, like they do when I go through trash looking for to-go boxes with half-eaten McDonald’s and Chick-fil-A. I hate it when they stare and look sad for me. It makes me feel so alone and small. In a few months the guy who was just with me might be doing the staring. He might have a job and a place of his own again and be back with his wife. I bet he’s a drinker. I wonder if he’d recognize me. I don’t think so. Or maybe he would but he wouldn’t want me to see him. I’d be in on his secret.
I wish I hadn’t ruined the cork. I’ll stopper the bottle with something and go to my room and finish it there. I’d wanted to get out, but now that I’m here I’m thinking that if I’m going to be alone, I’d rather be alone out of sight. But I’m a little buzzed and don’t want to move. I close my eyes and see myself in my room nodding out. I wake up a couple of hours later, take one of those special pills and get out of bed and watch the sunset over the East Bay. In the fading light, shadows hide the fucked-up sink and cracked walls that remind me of the attic in my mom’s house with its cobwebs and mildew. I take out my Penthouse and speak to the foldout. I tell her about the guy I met and how he’s playing the system and how I hope he pulls it off, and about this young couple in love whose wine I took and how the woman reminded me of this girl I danced with like a hundred years ago in the Déjà Vu and how I can still feel her in my arms.
Miss June listens patiently, holding a bottle of wine between her tits. I’ll look after you, she tells me, tapping the wine with a finger. Surf bubbles up in surging foam around her ankles, and salty ocean air puffs up her hair carelessly, thick and wild about her face. She holds a wet, blond strand with her tongue and smiles. Shhh, she goes, but I keep talking. I apologize for the cockroaches and the rats. I tell her that before inviting people over I normally sweep the floor, clean the hot plate, pots, everything, leaving not a crumb to attract bugs or pests. I won’t be here long, I say. My referral will be up soon. Besides, living in a room is not me. With every breath I feel the silence. The walls hold the emptiness. I want to cry but I can’t reach that far down in me for the tears.
Miss June looks concerned. Then she smiles. Her eyes beckon me with a wink. I lift her above me toward the columned skyline. The reflected glow of city lights burns gold across the evening sky, tanning her body. She puckers her lips over the bottle and blows me a kiss. I lean forward, crying. I don’t know why but I’m carrying on like a child and she wipes my eyes and presses her fingers against my mouth and whispers, Shh, let’s not worry about anything now.
Tom
I’m sitting at the Department of Family Services with this Iraqi guy and his family. Refugees. Fresh out of Baghdad. Arrived in San Francisco last night. I need to connect them with Social Security, SNAP benefits, and Medicaid.
Welcome to America.
His wife holds two kids and he cradles a baby girl. He points to the restroom and then himself and lifts the baby for me to hold. I shake my head no. Liability. If something were to happen while I held your baby, well, it’s not going to happen.
Sorry, man, I say.
He shrugs, takes the baby with him to the men’s room.
They speak no English. I need a cigarette. How do I say that? A translator at the settlement agency explained to them what we’d being doing today. He should have come with me, but, typical nonprofit, it didn’t have enough staff to spare him from the office.
