Streetlights (4) Ut oh. I'd better hustle, or Nell would leave without me. The siren song of Marlboros in the sand was stronger than her patience. "I have an agenda today, Alex," I told him, reaching for another bagel. "I'm off to the beach to scavenge and pillage." He handed me the bag of remaining bagels. "Take these, mija. I'm getting fat," he moaned, patting his non-existent stomach. I pictured Nell trying to gum a bagel. It was a painful image, but what the heck. She could suck out the softer middle, and feed the crust to the pigeons. She'd be a shoe-in for a part in Mary Poppins if the community theater wasn't all boarded up. I took the bagels, leaving Alex to his calculations, and giving him a pat on the head. Maybe I was turning sappy; I was not a head-patting type. Telegraph Avenue was jumping. The vastly improved weather was bringing people out of the woodwork. Even my morbid spirits felt lifted, and I spared a half-smile for the dredlocked guy who plays the harmonica on the corner of Telegraph and Alcatraz. He doesn't seem to want any money, just stands there and plays almost every morning. Some people jog when they get up, some go play the harmonica on the corner, I guess. Nell was waiting for me on her corner, with bucket in hand. She looked like someone in the middle of a serious childhood regression, but I assumed the bucket was to hold the pilfered cigs. She hurried me over to the bus stop. "Bus is a block away, girl. We'll be hanging ten in no time." Scary. It felt oddly civilized to be climbing a bus with an actual destination in mind, though I experienced a pang of guilt watching Nell drop coins in the slot for me. I sat down beside her, handing her a bagel. The stench of diesel was making me feel slightly carsick, but it didn't seem to bother Nell, who happily bit into her bagel. I didn't see any teeth fall out, so I figured all was well. After what seemed like eighteen transfers, the bus let us off at the corner of Bay and Shellmound, and we crossed the corner to the beach. Nell immediately started scanning for likely prospects, while I walked down to the water. It felt good to be here; it had been a long time since I'd seen anything much more than traffic. I took off my sneakers and waded in, shrieking as the icy water curled around my toes. Surprisingly, there were a few people on the sand here and there. A couple of young mothers with toddlers further up the beach, and the occasional jogger. I saw Nell beckoning to me, and hurried over to her before she could make the screeching whistle she favors to get my attention. "Over there, see that guy? He's a centennial sunbather. Think he lives in them condos right behind there. Smokes them long brown Mores things." I looked in the direction she was pointing. There was a paunchy man in a speedo, with barbecued-looking skin, lying on a towel. I didn't think he was a hundred though. Maybe Nell meant perennial. "We'll just sit ourselves down here. Wait a while. He'll go for his walk pretty soon." She seemed to have his routine memorized, and I worried that if she recognized him, he might be likely to recognize her. The Tweety Bird bucket was a giveaway. I took out my blanket and we sat down, tossing bagel crusts to the pigeons and watching the boats in the distance stir up tiny waves. I thought about telling Nell I wasn't going back on the bus with her, that I'd just pitch my tent here. The sand was a lot softer than Alex's doorstep, for one thing. Nell, however, had jumped to her feet, and was ready for action. "C'mon, there he goes. Now or never, girlie." I don't think I'd ever seen her move so fast. She was actually running over to his towel before I'd gotten to my feet. She reached down, scooped up the pack of Mores and dashed back over the sand and up onto the sidewalk. I guessed that meant it was time to go. I caught up with her as she rounded the corner, heading for the bus stop. "Not bad. Fifteen left in here. Almost a full pack," she cackled, offering me one. I felt a little strange taking it. But what was one more foray into a life of crime? Poor guy was probably going to be dead of raging melanoma soon, anyway. Nell inhaled deeply in pure satisfaction, her mission accomplished. "Nell...couldn't we have stayed a little longer? I dunno, looked for seashells or something?" Good God, I was whining. "Seashells? Tootsie, this ain't the ocean. Ain't even pretty if ya ask me. We's gotta go anyway. His walks are pretty short." It seemed a little bit of a waste to have spent all that bus money for fifteen cigarettes and twenty minutes on the beach. I am a math whiz, after all. But I kept my mouth shut. I'd had a chance to sit on the sand, and what the hell, Nell was looking like she'd just swallowed a canary. Not a bad morning at all, really. The getaway bus pulled up immediately. Amazing how Nell can even synchronize her cig filching with the bus schedule. I climbed on up behind her, thinking maybe I should look over my shoulder and sigh at the beach, but that seemed a little dramatic. We rode back to Berkeley in companionable silence, a happy but tired pair of felons. That mad dash to the towel must have exhausted Nell; she was snoring in minutes, her head thrown back against the seat, one hand drooping limply into her bucket. I hoped she'd wake up in time to pull the cord for the right stop before we ended up in Arizona. I was left to my thoughts, always an uneasy proposition. I thought about lying on the soft sand. I thought about Alex's concrete doorstep that left dents in my back. And the fact that I was guaranteed a cup of coffee every morning to make up for it. Life's a tradeoff, Helen, I thought, nodding sagely at my wise self. ----------------------- I had surprised myself three months ago by creeping back to the pawnshop that second night. I'd told my internal alarm clock to be gone before dawn. I'd woken up to a hand stretched down to me, and a voice saying, "Here, I'll help you up. It's ok. I'm harmless." So much for internal alarm clocks. I got warily to my feet with his help, wondering if I'd eventually develop a full body callous from sleeping on concrete. I followed him inside, and he pointed me to an armchair upholstered in Early American Tatter. I sank into it, grateful for the feel of fabric against my back, and wondering what I was doing sitting here. This man ran a pawnshop and looked like a hawk, and was given to laughing over odd things. But he was switching on a coffeemaker, and reaching for two mugs. That alone was reason enough to stay put. "So, my lady of the doorstep, what is your name?" he was asking me, perching on his desk and displaying two asymmetrical dimples. Maybe he was harmless, at that. I told him, taking the hand he extended to me as he told me his name was Alex, and that it was a pleasure to meet me. I gave an involuntary snort at that. He'd handed me a mug, chipped on the rim, emblazoned with Mondays Suck on the side. I gulped down the coffee. I'd never drunk a cup of black coffee in my life. I glanced up to see him looking quizzically at me. I sat there holding my breath, waiting for him to ask me my story. I didn't have a story. Maybe I'd have to make something up on the fly. But he didn't say anything, just kept sitting there with a puzzled expression on his face, getting up to refill my coffee. I told him if I didn't pee soon, there was going to be a major puddle. He'd laughed and pointed me to the tiny restroom in the back. I was beginning to like this guy. Maybe I could just take root in his armchair. Then again, maybe I should get the hell out of there. Wouldn't be too good for business to have a homeless woman propped up in the office. I wasn't sure what sort of customers showed up in a pawnshop anyway, but still. I gathered up my dufflebag and mumbled my thanks, probably sounding ungracious and pissy. "Tomorrow, mija, come back tomorrow. I like having company for coffee," he grinned at me. "Uh, ok. But only if you swear not to leave a pile of down pillows on the doorstep," I answered him. "I have my limits." He'd thrown back his head and roared, as I scurried out the door and down the steps. And that was Alex. --------------------------- I discovered on the bus that Nell fortunately is a light sleeper, snoring aside. "Catnaps, tootsie," she cackled. "Bob Hope swears by catnaps and he's a hunnerd and ten years old." I considered cat-napping my way on the streets for the next seventy-odd years. Hopefully I'd be run over by a semi before that happened. She pulled the cord in all the right places and we eventually found ourselves on Nell's corner, walking over to retrieve her cart from Barry White who disappointingly just nodded, not in the mood for chitchat. I helped her settle into her corner, which didn't involve anything more than placing her bucket in front. She handed me a couple of her Mores, and I left, telling her it had been fun, but that I had things to do, which was a lie. Maybe we'd do it again, who knew. Maybe Barbecue Man would turn out to be from Alex's tribe, and next time there would be a carton of Mores with a big red bow on his towel. Maybe I needed to head over to the Wells Fargo Bank four blocks down. On Fridays they set out cookies for the patrons. I didn't look like a patron, but the cookies were damn good. I headed toward the bank, liking the feel of sand in my sneakers. Not much liking the feel of the cement under my holey sole, though. Should have pilfered the beach man's Nikes and become the local clown woman, given that I normally wear size 6 shoes. I pushed open the bank door, hurriedly smoothing down my hair first. God only knew what I looked like. I walked over to the display of bank services on the wall, perusing the mortgage loan brochures like a potential home buyer. Meandered over to the counter and took a deposit slip, filling in my name, and writing in $1130.65 on the deposit amount, my birthdate. I am so clever. I glanced over oh-so-nonchalantly to the cookie table and sauntered over there. Hold the phones, they had gingersnaps, my favorite. I toyed with the idea of swooping my hand over the lot and dashing out of there, but settled for taking two, studiously reading the brochure in my other hand. Two cookies, two cigarettes. Not a bad haul. I pretended to get in line as I munched, thankful that the line was about 430 people long. I made the mistake of glancing up at the screen positioned above the tellers and got a charming image of myself in line. Why banks have those things, I'll never know. Security, I suppose, but it's always made me feel that it's there in case you forget what you look like. Holy Jesus, I had to do something about my hair, I realized. I looked as if I'd plugged myself into a toaster. I gave a deep sigh, and got out of line, just another impatient customer who'd decided not to wait, after all. I grabbed another two cookies for the road, suppressed an impulse to giggle, and left the bank. I started walking up Telegraph, and found myself abruptly stopping. I suddenly didn't want to do this. Didn't want to walk anymore. Maybe the brief beach-sitting had made me momentarily dissatisfied, and this too, would pass. I'd never gone to the pawnshop during the day, but I found myself heading there. You are turning into one weird woman, Helen, I castigated myself. I walked up the steps of the pawnshop, and opened the door. As usual, Alex was alone in there, head bent over some papers on his desk. He looked up, startled to see me in front of his desk, and smiling without missing a beat as I placed two gingersnaps in front of him. "This is a front, isn't it, Alejandro? You're actually some sort of drug-running kingpin," I said, plopping down uninvited into the armchair, and being rewarded with his gutsy laugh. I was really turning into a pain in the butt. "Cookies! Fantastico!" he said, popping both into his mouth. "What brings you here in the middle of the day?" "No reason. I ripped off a barbecued man, robbed the bank, and there wasn't much left to do after that," I told him.
Copyright © 2000 Annie Van Dalsem |