Taste of Tenderloin Page 11

  Of course it was long past the five o'clock dinner hour up at Napa State Hospital, and he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Even though he'd been released from the hospital before noon, there'd been no Greyhound service out of Napa. He'd waited and bummed a ride with one of the psych techs from his ward who got off at four o'clock and lived in Vallejo. He'd caught a bus out of there at six-thirty, making long stops in Richmond and Berkeley before finally heading west on the last leg across the Bay Bridge and into the city.

  He turned and climbed the remaining front steps, and then rang the manager's bell---apartment two, main floor. Cecil Robinson had been eating, but he answered the door quickly. He wiped his mouth, introduced himself, and gave Micky D his key along with all the "dos and don'ts" before directing him up the stairwell.

  "'Member, mon, no smokin' inna buildin'," the manager repeated in his lilting Caribbean English. "Go up on de roof if ya gonna blow one, ya hear me?"

  He nodded and slipped past the heavyset black man, through the strong smell of curry that clung to the walls of the dingy hallway.

  "That's all ya stuff?"

  Micky D looked back over his shoulder and said, "Yeah, that's it." He held up his old training bag, no larger than the normal airline carry-on. He hadn't accumulated much in his six-month stay at the state hospital.

  He climbed the narrow staircase to the sixth floor, checking the apartment numbers on the doors to the left as he walked down the hallway. His place, number sixty-six, must be the last one near the roof stairs.

  Just after he had inserted his key and fiddled with the sticky lock, a woman came along the hall leading a young man. She paused in front of the door across from Micky D, number sixty-five, and smiled. "You must be my new neighbor," she said, her voice strangely accented and smoky.

  He nodded.

  The woman held out her hand. It was cold to the touch. "Nice to meet you," she said warmly, handing her key to the young man behind her. "Go on in, sweetie," she instructed the guy, who glanced away shyly as he slid by, unlocked the door, and disappeared into her apartment.

  "I'm Jen-na," she said to Micky D, dividing the name into distinct syllables.

  He nodded back. "They call me Micky D," he said, letting her hand slip from his fingers.

  She was tall, at least six feet, heavily bundled in a greyish overcoat and thick black scarf. Her buzz-clipped hair was almost white, her face pale and gaunt but not unattractive, and her eyes were her most distinctive feature---almond shaped, almost Asian, but with nearly colorless irises. Just a trace of blue, like clouded ice. Even though the woman was smiling in a friendly manner, Micky D couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled because her unwavering gaze was aggressive and penetrating, almost predatory. Usually people were less assertive when first meeting him. They found his rugged, prize-fighter features with the prominent scar tissue over both eyes and his badly broken nose scary. He knew it was a face that didn't encourage argument.

  As if privy to the unnerving impact her own unusual appearance and gaze aroused, she chuckled and said, "Nice to meet you Micky D," then spun gracefully on her heel, glided to her door, and added, "but now I have a guest to, ah, instruct." She followed the young man into her apartment, leaving Micky D staring at the number sixty-five on her door.

  Wonder what exactly she teaches? he asked himself, finding the woman's exotic features, elegant movement, and gravelly voice very attractive. Her peculiar accent added to the intrigue because he couldn't quite place it. Surely not Asian...perhaps Eastern European. One thing he was certain of: even though he'd never met her before, there was something vaguely familiar about Jenna. His nerves were strung too tight after the wearing trip and unsettling encounter; he wasn't thinking clearly. It would come to him.

  He unlocked his door and checked out the small furnished studio. A bed, a closet, a dresser, and a tiny toilet with shower and sink were all it contained. Spartan, but surprisingly clean.

  He fumbled through his duffel and found his pill bottles. Cupping a drink of water in his hand, he washed down two meds: lithium and the substitution for chlorpromazine---olanzapine. Dr. Gee had thought the new combination would have fewer energy-sapping side effects. So far the psychiatrist was wrong. The psychotropic drugs made him sluggish both mentally and physically. After another gulp of water, Micky D went to the only window and looked down on busy Jones Street. He was pretty familiar with this location; six months ago he'd lived around the corner and down two blocks on O'Farrell in a residential hotel.

  Yeah, there was the laundromat up the block on Jones where he'd been picked up by the cops, staring fixedly for almost four hours at his laundry tumbling over and over in a dryer, moving only to stick a steady stream of quarters in the machine, coins he'd apparently scooped up from the bill changer he'd battered. A concerned Vietnamese lady had finally called 911. He vaguely remembered the cops bringing his caseworker from social services, Ms. Fingerson. Then time had gotten fucked up, flashing by in a blur, like his life had been continuously on fast-forward. He had come around briefly several weeks later up in Napa, locked down in a secured ward at the hospital with mostly PCPs---penal code patients---from San Quentin and Atascadero.

  He took another deep breath. At the moment he needed to wash off the clammy grime, get a grip on himself, and catch some needed rest. Tomorrow he'd find out about Jane, then he might check out the Harrison Street Gym and look up his old manager. He probably should go over to the Mission and meet his new caseworker, Mr. Rollo. He needed to see about food vouchers, because he only had about ten bucks in cash.

  Oh yeah, the meds were kicking in on his empty stomach, making him feel fuzzy-headed and drifty.

  With the numbing effect of his pills, Micky D dropped off to sleep fairly quickly, but only after listening for a few minutes to whispering, giggling, moaning, and groaning sounds coming from across the hall. Then there was the drawn-out, throaty, "Oh yeah..." when he got up to go to the bathroom at three or so. Sexually stimulating sounds. Something Micky D hadn't felt in some time.

  When he finally roused himself from deep sleep, it was mid-morning. He decided he'd first go out and run down his partner, Blue, before heading over to Harrison Street. As he was leaving his apartment the door opened to number sixty-five, and the appearance of the man that exited surprised Micky D. It wasn't the shy young dude from the previous night; instead, an old man, slumped-shouldered and grey-headed, shuffled off down the hall. What the hell was he doing at Jenna's? Certainly not making any of those panting and moaning sounds. Maybe she was really teaching something to an early morning student, Micky D decided as the old guy disappeared down the stairwell. For just a moment he debated knocking on the young woman's door, checking out how she looked this morning after all her noisy instruction. But he couldn't come up with a good excuse, so he just smiled dryly as he trucked on out to the street, thinking he might need some of whatever she was teaching for himself.

  It was a great San Francisco morning, bright and clear, quiet with most everyone still inside and off the street. The lingering smell of bacon frying somewhere nearby made his stomach growl. He hoofed it down to Homeboy's near the corner of Leavenworth and O'Farrell, but it was boarded up, apparently out of business since Micky D had been away. He thought for a minute, then turned and climbed the hill back up near Van Ness to the Korean's, where he finally spotted Blue, hanging out in front of the liquor store.

  The thinly-built Army Ranger veteran, a long-time fight fan, had been Micky D's closest friend for over two years, ever since Blue had come to the 'loin after getting out of the VA hospital over in Martinez. He'd lost part of his lower right leg to a mine in Afghanistan, but after being released from the hospital, he'd received a pretty good disability pension and some other benefits like counseling and prescription drugs from the VA clinic near the Presidio.

  "Hey, man," Micky D said, walking up to his tall, black friend, who still wore the same skimpy goatee and old Army fatigue jacket with the Ranger patch he'd worn when Micky D had last
seen him. "What's happening?"

  Blue, grinning broadly, tapped Micky D's closed fist, shook his hand, and hugged him tightly. "Yo, dude, when did the 'rales raise you?"

  "Got in on the bus late last night," Micky D answered, checking his buddy out. Blue was still too skinny, but his eyes were clear, his gaze steady, and he looked healthy. He looked like he was doing okay. "I appreciate you dropping the bread in my canteen account at the hospital. It helped, man, but why didn't you ever send me a card or letter?"

  Blue rubbed his nose, looking a little sheepish, and said, "Oh, you know me, dude. Actually, a couple times I considered rounding up the boys and cutting a disc at Trey's, but I wasn't sure they would even let you hear it up there."

  "Well, thanks anyhow," Micky D said, sighing and pushing his hands deep in his pockets as he looked down at his feet. He'd put off the question he dreaded long enough. "Say, Blue, you seen Sweet Jane around? Both my letters addressed to our old place down on O'Farrell bounced back marked 'Moved Left No Forward.'"

  Blue's grin quickly changed to a hurting frown, like someone had suddenly whacked his stump just above his prosthetic lower right leg.

  "Ah, man, guess you ain't heard. Things got real bad with Janey soon after you left. She really got strung out. Kept talking about getting back on methadone, you know. Instead, she lost her dancing gig and your place, ended up over on Capp Street, maybe three months ago."

  At that, Micky D stiffened slightly. Capp Street was the absolute end of the line for someone like Jane with a serious habit and out of work. Cheap hooker city.

  Blue cleared his throat, his expression still pained. "But there's more bad news, man," he continued in a husky tone, "and I hate to be the one to drop this on you, pal, but Janey OD'd 'bout eight weeks ago." Blue looked down at his feet, smiling thinly. "Few of us had a little memorial after the city put her down, you know. We went over to Trey's, slammed down a few of them Polish vodkas she liked when she was flush. Everybody did a little rap about her biting wit, or great wheels, or cool dancing and all---kinda nice, you know, considering," Blue paused, then looked his friend in the eye and held his hands palms up with an apologetic shrug, as if to say, What else could we do?

  "I know, I know," Micky D mumbled. He nodded, trying to examine his feelings like he'd been taught in group at Napa.

  He wasn't really surprised about Jane. He'd suspected something like that had probably gone down. To be honest, he didn't really feel all that torn up, just sort of numbed except for a twinge of guilt for not being there. She hadn't written after his first month, and when his letters had started coming back, he'd assumed she'd gone out again. They'd lived together on O'Farrell, and at first he'd done pretty well, keeping her away from the junk, on methadone maintenance. Until the end, there. Jane, with all her problems, had probably kept him on the street six months or so longer than he'd deserved, paying most of their bills from her exotic dancing gigs up at the Mitchell Brothers after the last of his boxing money ran out. But she'd been unable to permanently prolong his slide. A month or so before that last day, he'd been having funny spells, wandering around in a daze, getting paranoid, getting involved in several dust-ups with the law. But it had been an awkward relationship with Jane from the beginning, constant fighting over everything, both of them stubbornly clinging to their dreams: Micky D getting back his boxing license, Jane hooking up with a musical in the legit theater. Up and down for three years, a relationship of habit and convenience more than love, knowing it would probably end badly for one of them. He'd expected it to be him. Jane had been so tough, a survivor. But now he realized it had been slipping away from her, too, as he'd gradually sunk down into his own black despair.

  He stared off idly down O'Farrell, watching a derelict hold a conversation with a parking meter, still thinking about the doomed relationship with Jane. He'd actually been doing both their laundry at the Jones Street Laundromat when he'd slipped into the abyss. Funny, as screwed up as he'd been that day, he could still remember every item of her stuff flopping around in that dryer: five pairs of panties, one blue, one black, three white; two University of San Francisco faded green T-shirts; a white bra; three pairs of socks; and her raggedy-ass grey sweat pants and shirt.

  "Sorry, man," Blue said in a respectful whisper.

  It was quiet for a few minutes after that as Blue gave Micky D some space and time to process the bad news.

  A guy wearing the greasy, multi-layered attire of the homeless limped up, opening and extending his dirty hand, which was full of small change---mostly pennies. "Can ya guys help me out this mornin'?" he asked in a defeated tone. "I need another ten cents to catch the bus over to the free clinic."

  Blue pulled a quarter out of his pocket and dropped it into the guy's hand, shooing him away.

  "Thanks, man," the bum said, grinning and clutching his fist full of happiness tightly. Then he hurried into the Korean's to pick up his morning taste.

  Finally, Micky D blew his nose, sucked in a deep breath, and suggested in a hoarse voice, "So, Blue, maybe we should go over to St. Anthony's. I haven't eaten since sometime early yesterday, and I'm starving but almost broke."

  "Hey, let me get you a sandwich here at the Korean's," Blue volunteered.

  At the end of the month, when they were low on cash, the two friends had worked out a good hustle. Blue would dig out his old, battered silver sax, then they'd truck on down to Pier 39 in the afternoon when the wharf was thick with tourists. Blue would take off his prosthetic leg, sit, and play some funky blues or jazz and Micky D would pass the hat. The soulful music by a disabled vet and Micky D's no-nonsense face encouraged the tourists to dig deep. Usually in an hour---sometimes less---they would have a hundred bucks in the hat, enough to get them by until the first of the month. But it was a gig they could only manage to organize when seriously pressed for cash.

  It didn't take long this time before the hat had enough to get what they needed and they were sitting on some cardboard in the nearby alley with a couple of ham and egg sandwiches and a bottle of wine. Blue liked to drink white port, squirting in a taste of lemon juice from one of those yellow plastic bulbs. When he first passed the bottle and a Styrofoam cup, Micky D hesitated, hearing Dr. Gee's stern admonition: No booze, Michael. And absolutely no street drugs.

  But after what he'd confirmed about Sweet Jane, and especially his shameful lack of real feeling about it, he cut off the medical advice and took the bottle, trying to drown the lingering trace of his guilt.

  They ate the sandwiches, caught up on old times, and drank wine for the rest of the morning.

  After they scored a hundred and forty-seven bucks with their sax gig on Tuesday afternoon, Micky D sank into a pattern as the next few days rolled by: sleep late, find Blue, then hang out and drink more and more. He put off plans to see his new caseworker until Friday. Taking his meds only at night helped keep his thinking clear during the day and restored a little attitude to his walk. After talking it over with Blue, he had every intention of going over to the Harrison Street Gym and getting back in shape...real soon. He was only thirty-four, and with proper medical clearance there was a good chance he could get his license back from the state. Who knew, maybe he had another championship fight still in him.

  Friday, Micky D made it over to see Mr. Rollo at Social Services. He filled out the forms to get temporary assistance until his SSI kicked back in, picked up some rent and food vouchers, and came back to the 'loin feeling pretty good. He still hadn't checked into psychiatric outpatient services at UCSF Hospital as he'd promised Dr. Gee, but that could wait. Shoot, his head was even clearer than before the MRI had revealed the cerebral bleeding after the championship bout three years before. No weird thoughts at all, and he sure as hell wasn't hearing or seeing anything strange...at least nothing stranger than the normal weird shit in the 'loin.

  His key stuck, and he rattled his door impatiently. Across from him, Jenna cracked her door and peeked out into the hallway, all bundled up in her coat and scarf.
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  "Ah, Mr. Micky D," she said, extending her hand. "My current guest just disappeared out the door a moment ago. Their coming and going at all hours bothering you?"

  When he took her hand, he felt an electrical jolt; his whole arm tingled. It reminded Micky D of a ninth-grade science experiment when they all held hands in a circle while the teacher cranked up a magneto hooked up to them. Back then, a tingling electrical charge had run up one arm, across his shoulders, and down his other arm to the next person. This was the same jazzy feeling, only kind of sexy, too. Jenna smiled as if she knew, the nostrils of her finely shaped nose sort of pinched like she was peeking outside into weather below zero. Her lips were full, sensuous. And her beautiful eyes...Jesus, it'd been a long time.

  "Micky D, you didn't answer."

  "Oh," he said, blinking and stammering. "I-I...no, your guests aren't bothering me." But the late night moaning...

  Unobserved by Micky D, someone had walked up on them from the direction of the roof stairwell: a young guy wearing a black and silver Raiders jacket, a thick mop of unruly red hair, and an expression full of confident attitude. "Hi," he said to Micky D, grabbing one of Jenna's hands. "Fog's coming in, babe, it's getting too cool for the roof," he announced to her.

  She nodded and shivered. "Let's go back in, do something to warm up." She backed up and cracked the door wider. A humid gush of tropical air escaped and hit Micky D in the face almost as hard as a left jab. "Bye," she said as she disappeared with her redheaded guest.