Taste of Tenderloin Read online

  He shook his head. "No sandwich," he answered in a husky, under-used voice, placing the dollar and a portion of the change on the counter with a noticeably shaking hand. "Only a half pint," he added, swallowing dryly.

  The clerk took a step toward the back display, found the correct half pint, and placed it on the counter. Then he scooped up the money, carefully counting the coins before ringing up the sale.

  The Ugly Man cleared his throat and asked, "A favor?"

  The clerk frowned slightly. "What kind of favor?"

  "Use one of those," the Ugly Man said, then added a barely audible, "please." He pointed at a triangle of dusty souvenir shot glasses stacked on the counter, but mostly hidden behind the plastic cigarette lighter display.

  The clerk just stared at him with a kind of puzzled expression after glancing at the stack. He tentatively picked up the shot glass from atop the pyramid.

  "Now fill it, please," the Ugly Man said, nodding toward his half pint of whisky. "I can't."

  Understanding finally flooded into the clerk's face and dark eyes after glancing at the shot glass and then down at the Ugly Man's badly trembling hand. He shook his head and explained in a bureaucratic monotone, "I am sorry, but we are not allowed to uncap any bottle, open any can, or dispense alcoholic drinks of any kind on the premises, because we would jeopardize our off sale liquor license."

  "It'll only take a moment, then I'll disappear," the Ugly Man pleaded in a pitiful whisper.

  The clerk, looking uncomfortably torn, glanced out the doorway and then back at the Ugly Man. Despite his obvious misgivings, he uncapped the bottle of whisky and poured out a generous portion, filling the shot glass right to the top. He pushed it across the counter and whispered, "Quickly," glancing nervously again at the empty doorway. "You poured it, if anyone comes in," he warned. He left the counter and stepped back into the rear of the store, near the cold cases, wiping his hands as if disowning any part of the illegal transaction.

  The Ugly Man breathed in and out deeply, gathered himself, then reached down and encircled the glass ever so carefully, keeping his shaking hands firmly grounded against the counter as if he were attempting to gently restrain a baby bird from flying off. During the process, his coat pulled up, exposing the lower several inches of his tattooed sleeves, the mosaic badly disfigured by thickly layered burn scars. Sucking in another breath to further steady himself, he leaned over and slurped from the glass, which still rested firmly on the counter between his grounded hands. He closed his eyes, swallowed the raw whisky, and held his breath as the fiery liquid made its way down to his stomach. After a moment, he blinked, shuddered, and carefully lifted the shot glass with his still slightly trembling hands. He only spilled a few drops of the precious liquid before downing the remainder of the poured drink. Licking his dry lips, he nodded toward the clerk as he set the empty glass back down. "Thanks, man," he said. He picked up and carefully capped the remaining half pint of Wild Irish Rose.

  Stepping into the doorway, the Ugly Man looked about furtively while secreting his purchase in the pocket of his scruffy sweatshirt. He could already feel the "medicine" beginning to take effect, settling his stomach. A warm glow slowly worked its way out to his extremities, even quelled the almost constant ache in his lower right leg.

  Feeling better, he made his way back up the street, heading home to his cardboard tent.

  As he neared an apartment entryway just before reaching O'Farrell, the Ugly Man heard a loud skin-on-skin smack, followed by snuffled crying.

  He stopped, tilted his head, and cautiously peeked into the back of the deep, darkened doorway.

  There was Mad Marco, the badass bald-headed pimp, dressed in his expensive black leather coat, holding up and waving a pair of wrinkled ten-dollar bills in his left hand. "I warned you earlier, you lazy bitch, didn't I?"

  A scantily dressed young woman fingered a bloody nose. She shivered visibly in the cold, nodding contritely.

  "Now, you get your raggedy ass out there and hustle up at least another hundred bucks before morning, you understand me?" Mad Marco said, pulling up his leather coat and pointing at a wide metal-studded belt. "If you don't, you know what I'm gonna have to do?"

  The bleeding woman nodded, murmuring, "Don't do that, Marco. I'm sorry."

  "Sorry?" the scowling pimp repeated angrily. "Sorry don't hack it, girl. You get out there and shake your lazy-ass booty, get them johns' noses opened up, attract some bidness, you hear?" He paused a moment, then ordered, "Here, clean yourself up."

  The young woman took a powder blue silk handkerchief from the pimp and wiped at her bloody nose. Stoically, she sucked it up, trying to smile and put on her game face while still shivering. She looked to be sixteen years old at best. Most others like her would be begging for spare change over in the Haight or maybe streetwalking on Capp Street. There were few fresh-faced, bright-eyed hookers in the 'loin. She should be making a ton of money, the Ugly Man thought. Maybe that was what pissed off Mad Marco. The girl might be too timid to really exploit her innocent assets and hustle up customers. Could even be her first night on the street. He didn't recall having ever seeing her before, but he usually paid little attention to the hookers, regardless their ages or innocence.

  It was none of his business anyhow. Glancing away, the Ugly Man slipped past the darkened doorway unnoticed.

  Maybe sometime in the past he would have intervened, back during the good times when he'd practiced the Seven Virtues and still had some self-respect and his night watchman job over at the warehouses in China Basin. But he'd been fired nine or ten years ago, after the accident, when he'd been discovered asleep and drunk on the job. He smiled wryly to himself as he limped along, shaking his head. Thinking about it, he wasn't sure he'd have said anything, not even back then. Probably just idle fancy.

  He glanced absently up the darkened street, reflecting back.

  Even as a child in the Napa Valley he'd been reclusive, avoiding most interpersonal conflict. In his heart, he knew it wasn't in his nature to have risked Mad Marcus's wrath any time in the distant past, much less the present. The pimp was scary tough, always carried a straight razor, and was known to use it with the least provocation.

  No, the Ugly Man admitted to himself, slinking off into the fog like a cowardly dog with its tail between its hind legs. Mind your own business, stay invisible, take care of number one, stay out of harm's way. That was his credo now. He hadn't even thought about the Seven Virtues for years.

  After leaving the two in the entryway with only the briefest twinge of guilt, he turned up O'Farrell and spotted Shaky Jake; the old man's Parkinson's disease twitched his hands and head almost out of control.

  "Man, I take anything, even a penny," the Vietnam vet said in a slurred voice, trying to panhandle change from a hooded, out-of-service parking meter. He obviously hadn't been over to the VA clinic recently to renew his meds.

  Impulsively, the Ugly Man dug out the remaining change from his pocket---a dime, four nickels, and seven pennies. In an uncharacteristic charitable move, perhaps stimulated by his lingering guilt at not helping the under-age hooker, he slipped the coins into the trembling hand of the hallucinating old man. "There you go, Jake," he said, before limping off up the street.

  A few moments later, he became acutely aware of a sharp tingling and itching sensation all over his skin. At the time, he didn't recognize it as anything special. He figured it was just another symptom of alcohol withdrawal, like the shakes, or maybe it had something to do with the drying up of his clammy skin. He told himself that the discomfort would disappear as soon as he had a chance to drink the remainder of the Wild Irish Rose and towel off. He hurried along, ignoring both the funny skin sensation and the nagging ache in his right leg.

  Safely back in the cardboard tent at the dead end of an alley just down from Van Ness on O'Farrell, the Ugly Man drained the remainder of the Wild Irish Rose in three long, satisfying pulls. He wiped the tears from his eyes. The effects of the cheap whisky kicked
in immediately, warming him to his core and lifting his spirits.

  Slowly, he undressed to the waist, exposing the frail, undernourished body of an old man to the night chill. He was only thirty-eight. As he wiped down his naked skin with an old towel, he paid little attention to the tattooed mosaic that decorated his arms and body. It had been badly disfigured by the burn scars, but he was concerned only with the itching along both arms and across his chest and back. It was driving him nuts. He rubbed the towel briskly along his right arm, some of the skin sloughing away onto the towel. The Ugly Man stopped and stared incredulously at his arm. Remarkably, the scars appeared to be fading away, the brilliant colors of the once-blemished tattoos seeming to again take prominence. He checked the other arm: same thing, the scars shrinking away. But that couldn't be. The doctors had said he was permanently scarred. He took out a cracked mirror remnant from his meager pile of belongings and examined his face, where he'd been most badly burned.

  Jesus, he swore silently. The heavy scar tissue had indeed diminished noticeably. Impossible.

  Maybe he'd finally gone around the corner, after all the years of heavy boozing and not taking care of himself. He peered intently into the mirror again, confirming the startling change and fingering the shrunken disfigurement.

  The Ugly Man stood and hastily stripped off his double pairs of pants. The lighter scars overlaying the tattoos on his legs were almost entirely gone. Shivering in the unheated cardboard tent, he hesitated only a moment before pulling his pants back on. He hurriedly slipped on his shirts and sat back down, stunned. Something strange was going on, some kind of transformation; his skin was changing back to like it had been before the fiery attack in the park in the Haight, looking exactly as it had when he'd been elegantly tattooed by his friend Rembrandt. So long ago...

  When he finally left the Napa Valley in his mid twenties, he moved to a studio apartment on Stanyon in the Haight, found a night watchman job, and fairly soon thereafter met the famous dwarf tat-master, Rembrandt. They both ate in the late afternoon at the Crescent Cafe on Haight, soon becoming unlikely friends---the backward, shy young man from the country listening, the outgoing, hip dwarf from the city talking. Rembrandt was so artistically talented he'd spent the previous eighteen months in Tokyo doing full-body tattooing at the exclusive Red Crane. In his off hours, he studied Japanese history, focusing on the Samurai period.

  In those first few months after becoming tight friends, the tat-master covered his awed friend with traditional Japanese-style mythological tattoos. He used intricate, colorful floral designs interlaced with strange creatures and demons on the young man's arms and legs. A work of art that would have cost tens of thousands of dollars at the Red Crane, the center piece finished last on the young man's back was an iridescent dragon that wove in and out of chrysanthemums and long-nosed, wide-eyed demons, looking back squarely with a fearsome red-eyed frown.

  "I've accurately captured the ancient pattern, dude," Rembrandt said reverently, finally setting down the tattooing needles after the last session. "Now you must adhere to Bushido." He bowed formally. "Follow the Way of the Warrior, observe the Seven Virtues like I do: Rectitude---right dealing, Courage---respect and caution replace fear, Benevolence---aiding others, Respect---courtesy to all, Honesty---conscience, Loyalty---responsibility to self and others, and Honor---above all. If you can maintain the Way, your life will be transformed."

  He bowed again, and as an afterthought, whispered, "Your spirit is eternally protected by a magical web now, the dragon vigilantly guarding your back."

  Remarkably, the prophecy started to come true. The young man began to emerge from his shyness, meeting people more easily---even girls---gaining confidence and self-esteem. He even received an outstanding performance report at work.

  Then, the terrible accident.

  The young man was driving himself and the tat-master home after a wonderful party on the peninsula with a group of Rembrandt's fans. He suddenly lost control on Highway 101 near Candlestick Park. The Volkswagen Bug flipped over and over, shearing off a highway sign, crashing against a power pole, and igniting into flame. Miraculously unhurt, the young man scrambled from the car, leaving his unconscious friend trapped in the burning wreck. Too frightened to risk a rescue, afraid the vehicle was going to explode at any minute, he stood by and did nothing.

  Rembrandt never regained consciousness. Six hours later, he died from the injuries at UCSF Hospital.

  Even after so many years, the guilt-ridden Ugly Man had a catch in his tightened throat when he thought about his only true friend. He'd squandered so much in his cowardice. He sighed, wishing he had another half pint to help him get through the night, and crawled under his raggedy blankets, trying to relax and fall asleep. But his rest was disturbed by the memory of his own fiery attack in the park.

  Soon after his friend had died and he'd lost his job and apartment on Stanyon, the Ugly Man had been forced to move into a pup tent in Buena Vista Park in the lower Haight, living near the other homeless people back in the heavy brush and trees. One night, six months or so after moving there, he had been attacked by a gang of teenage thieves, robbed, beaten with a baseball bat, doused with barbecue fluid, and set afire. His right fibula had been shattered, his face and most of his body covered with third-degree burns. In a haze of pain and disorientation in the ambulance, he had realized the thieves had caught both him and the dragon off guard and smothered his protective web with a blanket of agony.

  He had recovered to a degree only after nine long months of hospitalization, skin grafts, and intensive therapy. His wonderful tattoos had been badly disfigured by burn scars, his friend's masterwork practically destroyed. Perhaps most heavily scarred was the Ugly Man's soul. He'd eventually ended up in the 'loin, living in a cardboard tent and spending most of his monthly SSI on "medicine" from Wild Bill's. Avoiding all unnecessary human contact, he had become fearful and paranoid, just another one of the nameless, forgotten derelicts shuffling the streets. He had remained convinced, in his few lucid moments, that the fiery scarring was undoubtedly a kind of retribution for abandoning his friend in the flaming car wreck. The accident had ended his attempt to live the Seven Virtues.

  In the late morning, the Ugly Man awakened with a start. Something was noticeably different. Sucking in a deep breath to clear his head, he realized he wasn't covered with sweat. No, and his skin wasn't hurting either. He felt okay. The best he'd felt in years. His hands weren't shaking, and he didn't feel sick to his stomach at all. He held up his arm and examined his skin. Amazingly, the scars were almost completely gone. The tattoos were becoming brilliantly alive again.

  Early that evening, he walked down O'Farrell with a little spring in his step. He still didn't have the shakes, despite the fact that he'd had nothing to drink all day. He'd even risked the proximity of others by eating over at St. Anthony's---put away the whole meal and didn't get sick. Once he had picked up his SSI check and cashed it over on Haight, he even hesitated to retrace his steps to Wild Bill's.

  Eventually he decided to buy a half pint for backup, just in case he needed something later. He often awoke in the early morning hours, badly needing another drink even after his nightly pint. He headed for Wild Bill's.

  A block from the liquor store, he stopped, spotting a pair of mean-spirited drug dealers attacking a skinny young guy. Big Foot, a heavyset huge man wearing a Raiders black pullover with the silver number 77, and his thinly built, equally creepy sidekick, Sleepyboy. The two thugs were pummeling their victim with lengths of bicycle chain, pounding him unmercifully right in the mouth of a nearby alley, completely visible to passing traffic.

  "Ya gonna come up wif da bread now, white boy?" Big Foot growled. He was almost out of breath, but continued his flailing exertions.

  For a moment, the Ugly Man just stood rooted to the spot and watched, wincing with each delivered blow until Sleepyboy took out a large can of lighter fluid and a cigarette lighter and aimed the makeshift flamethrower at the hapless, bat
tered victim. With a newfound surge of courage, the Ugly Man stepped into the alley and shoved Big Foot from behind. "No," he rasped, stepping closer to Sleepyboy and slapping the can from his hand.

  Big Foot turned to face him, amazed anger written all over the dope dealer's pudgy features. "Hey, hey, whatcha doin', muthahfuckah?" the huge man sputtered. "You buttin' into our bidness?" He lashed out viciously with his piece of bicycle chain. The Ugly Man ducked nimbly. The chain just grazed the top of his hood as the bludgeoned victim scrambled up to his feet and darted past him out to freedom.

  "Lemme light the ole fool up, Biggie," Sleepyboy said, picking up the lighter fluid and flicking the cigarette lighter. "Fix his burnt-up ole raggedy ass for good."

  The Ugly Man backed away, staring at the lighter flame fearfully, questioning the wisdom of his impulsive act.

  "Yo, go 'head, torch him, Sleeps," Big Foot ordered.

  The Ugly Man spun around and fled quickly up the street before Sleepyboy could spray him with fire. Ignoring the ache in his lower right leg, he ran almost as fast as he had when he'd been a young man playing soccer, dodging skillfully in and out of the crowd, reaching his block in less than a minute and a half. Pausing to catch his breath, the Ugly Man glanced back. He could see neither of the dope dealers in pursuit, but he knew they'd be coming for him soon. No question about that.

  At that moment he saw a ball bounce out into the busy street, and from the corner of his eye, he saw a youngster dart into the street after the ball.

  "No!" he cried out hoarsely. Time seemed to slow as several thoughts rushed through his head: You can't get involved here; they are coming; they will probably kill you.