I was very hungover and there was a line at the café. I needed my goddamned coffee more now than ever, but of course there had to be a line. Usually the place was pretty empty by this time, but it was a Saturday and the rules changed on weekends. Other than the football I don’t like weekends. Everybody is out wandering the streets, clogging up the supermarket aisles, standing in line at my favorite café. I prefer weekdays. Everybody is at work. There is always plenty of personal space on weekdays.
She saw me first. Her eyes widened and a smile of recognition emerged on her face. That’s how I noticed her, by her reaction. But she didn’t approach, not yet. She pretended she hadn’t noticed me, looking away at first, feigning distraction. This short amount of time enabled my dull sense of recognition to kick in also.
I knew her but couldn’t remember from where. This always happens to me, and I hate myself for it. Too many brain cells burned, probably, only myself to blame. Once, at a friend’s wedding, I got drunk and introduced myself to the same girl three times. On the third try she said,
“What’s wrong with you? We graduated from high school together.”
“Oh that’s right, I’m sorry. My memory is all screwed up.”
“I know that,” she replied, disgusted. “Everybody knows that about you.”
But what could I do? Some people are bad with names but great with faces. For others, it’s just the opposite. I’m bad with both. But I knew this chubby face, the curly, deep brown hair and black eyes, the semi-dark skin. I knew that gap in her teeth, the wide hips, sloppy dress and more than ample breasts. I was so close to the answer I could taste it on the tip of my tongue. At this very moment, she approached.
“Hey babe, it’s been a really long time.” We exchanged a friendly embrace.
I blurted out what felt right. “Hey Miranda; God, it’s great to see you.”
She stared at me and looked annoyed. I awaited the inevitable castigation. “No, Miranda was my sister. I’m Bonnie, remember?”
Submerged in a flood of memory, it took me a moment to regain my composure. Of course I remembered her. How could I forget? The years had not been kind to her, but I never expected they would be.
It was seven years ago to the month and I was moving into a studio apartment in the city. I remember the date because it is impossible for me to forget that month now, the month where I lost ten out of the twelve bowl games I played and was in the hole three grand to my bookie, the month I broke up with my girlfriend of two years, the girl I was going to marry, the month of my transition to a strange new life, the month I could barely afford first, last and deposit on an apartment in the dubious Western Addition neighborhood of San Francisco. A cheap place, filled with mice and roaches and residual misery which reflected perfectly, though I did not know it at the time, the prospects of my immediate future.
The room was packed with boxes which contained those possessions I was able to extract from my failed relationship. The only thing that was set up was the flimsy futon bed I had purchased from a recently graduated college student who was moving back home and was no longer in need of temporary furniture. Things were looking pretty grim when the knock came at my door, a welcomed interruption.
There she was standing in my doorway, full of youth and attitude and sex. She was chewing gum the way bored kids do, smacking loud, mouth open, teeth chomping hard. There was a look in her eye, a look of indifference. She sized me up for what I was right away, or so it seems to me now.
“Hello,” I said, confused but expectant.
“What’s up? I saw you moving your stuff in from my place upstairs. You all finished?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
She walked in and sat on one of the many boxes, pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of a raggedy jean jacket she was wearing and lit up, exhaling smoke around the room as if it was her intention to spread it around as thin as possible. For a few moments she just sat there, looking around the apartment.
“Our place is way nicer than this one.”
“No doubt,” I replied. “Do you live with roommates, a boyfriend?”
“Naah, I live with my sister, fool.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Usually when somebody calls me a fool I’m offended, but her tone had the implication that her verbiage was of a colloquial nature, an urban lingo thing. “Oh. That’s cool. Are you in college or something?”
“Naah fool, I’m a senior at Washington High.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, but I turn eighteen next month, only twenty-three days now before I’m an adult.”
“Where are your parents?”
She paused and stared at the ceiling for a moment, a wry smile on her face. “They’re dead. My sister is my guardian. She’s twenty-four.”
“Oh. I’m so…sorry. How did they…you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Whatever. When I was a kid we lived in Philadelphia. My Dad was a heroin junkie real bad. He got Aids and gave it to my Mom. He died and she died a year later. My sister and I went to live with relatives for a few years, but the moment she turned eighteen we moved out. We’ve been living together ever since.”
“Ever since you were eleven, it’s just been you and her?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.”
“You got any bomb?” she asked.
“What?”
“Any dope, you got any dope?”
“Weed?”
“Yeah, fool.”
“Um, sure. I’ve got some weed.”
“Well, pull it out, nigga.”
“I’m not your nigga, yours or anybody else’s.”
“Ahh, you know, it’s just what people say, fool. Pull some out and let’s smoke it. I haven’t gotten high in like two days.”
“I thought only black people were allowed to use that term. You look at least part white to me. What are you, Italian?”
“A hundred percent Sicilian; how’d you know?”
“I know my own. But back to my point. Why do you talk like you’re from the ghetto?”
“I am from the streets, G. I only date black guys, gangsta’s. So I can use that word if I want to.”
“If you say so.”
I searched through a couple boxes and pulled out a bag of good marijuana and a small glass pipe. We smoked in silence for a while, she taking huge hits off the end of the pipe. The glory of the teenage years, I mused, deep lungs. We were soon finished.
“Hey, that shit’s pretty good,” she commented.
“Yeah,” I responded, retreating as always into my stoned bubble.
“Well,” she said offhandedly, “I got to go, fool. See you around.” And she left as unexpectedly as she came.
I was once again alone, unnecessarily high and unhappy, bored but not wanting to do anything. I lay on the ground for half an hour, staring at the frayed ends of carpet that covered the floor.
She returned the next day, announcing herself with the same impetuous knock. She was wearing a short skirt and one of those half shirts that were popular back then, showing off her dark midriff. Although her stomach was in fine condition at this point I could see the eventuality that lay within her, the slightly bulging flesh simply waiting on the slowing of her youthful metabolism to expand. But at this point she was still a looker. And she was still seventeen.
Having nothing better to do with my day, broke and depressed and craving some conversation, I let her in. She walked in like she owned the place and sat down on the futon. She lay back on her elbows, her thick but firm legs spread slightly. I could see her bright yellow panties on underneath. And she knew I was looking, even though she pretended not to notice.
“So I met this nigga the other day,” she began. “He’s pretty cute, you know, and I broke up with my old boyfriend a couple a weeks ago. So I need a new man. Anyway, I thought this guy was into me, but today he told me he wants to pimp me out.”
I chucked. “So what did you say to that?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“He says I can make some good money out on the track. He says that all those Oakland ho’s are beat, that I’d make a bundle out there looking the way I do.”
“He wants to pimp you out in Oakland? Do you know where they do that?”
“Yeah, on International Ave.”
“And you’re seriously considering this?”
“I need the money.”
“You don’t actually think he’s going to let you keep any of the money you make, do you? That’s, like, the first rule in pimping. The bitches don’t get to keep any of the dough.”
“How the hell you know that?”
“Believe me, I know. The deal is this: you walk up and down that dirty ass street all day and night, fucking old Hispanics and Chinese dudes, sucking them off and swallowing their cum, then you take all your money to your pimp, who spends it on his clothes, partying and Cadillac. In return for risking your life and sacrificing every shred of decency, he gives you what is called “protection,” he maybe pays your rent, and he bails you out of jail when you get busted. That’s the deal. You don’t keep any of the cash. You’d be better off working in a strip club.”
“That sounds like a shitty deal, fool. He made it sound so much better than that.”
“Really? How so?”
“He made it sound like it was gonna be me and him against the world, making money and living large. He drives a clean Lexus and carries an ounce of the bomb everywhere he goes. I find that so sexy, when a man has a lot of bomb around.”
“Listen, I’m not a racist,” I began, even though I know in my heart that I harbor certain prejudices against people that talk, dress and act a particular way. “But you have to know what these guys, these gangsta’s as you call them, think when they see you. They see a pretty young white girl who is an easy fuck, or in this guy’s case a possible whore. This isn’t good. You should be avoiding these types. If you want to date a black guy, date a nice one who goes to school and gets good grades. Date a football player or something, a guy who is somebody.”
“Those guys don’t ever want me, fool.”
“Why should they? The way you parade around attracts a certain type. Try to have a little class, maybe even some self respect, and perhaps down the line a nice fella will come along.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, fool?” she said, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t need your fucking advice on my life, motherfucker.” She stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.
I sat down on one of the many boxes that remained unopened in my room. It broke under my weight, but still barely worked as a perch. I put my head in my hands.
She was right of course. I was nobody to be lecturing others on the virtues of self respect or living a good, clean existence. The story of my life had been defined by the errors I had made, not the successes I had cultivated. I had no right to tell anybody else what to do or how to act. Let her prostitute herself, I thought. What difference did it make to me? I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and drank down half of it in one swig. I hoped she wouldn’t return.
A couple of days later I was awakened at four o’clock in the morning by the ringing of my cell phone. I looked at the incoming number and didn’t recognize it, but answered it anyway. This was a mistake.
“Hello.”
“Hey, this is Bonnie.”
“How the hell did you get my number?”
“I took one of your business cards off a pile when I came over to your apartment that first day,” she responded.
“Oh.”
“I need your help,”
“It’s fucking late, Bonnie.”
“I know. But I’m in big trouble, for real.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m stuck on International Ave. I had a fight with my pimp and he just left me out here. I’ve got no money and no way to get home. I need somebody to pick me up.”
“Call your sister,” I said, unconcerned. “It’s not my problem.”
“I can’t call her, fool. She told me if she catches me doing anything like this again she’ll kick me out of the house when I turn eighteen.”
“Why are you bothering me?”
“Come pick me up and I’ll suck your cock.”
I thought about it. My ex had left me for another guy. She was fucking him, had probably been even before she took off. For some reason the thought of her having sex while I masturbated everyday really bothered me. It was as if she somehow had the upper hand. Of course, in this respect all women have the upper hand on men. But nevertheless I resented this fact and was yearning to reconcile what I believed was a cruel disparity.
“Okay,” I said. “Where you at?”
“Do you know Quarter Pound Burger?”
“Yeah.” I had stopped there once, before attending a Warriors basketball game. They served the greasiest burger and fries I had ever consumed.
An hour later I pulled up in front of the place and there she was, dressed in that same short skirt and a leather jacket, face covered in makeup, talking in an animated fashion with two big brothers who didn’t look very friendly. I got out of the car which was still running.
“Bonnie,” I said loudly. “Let’s go.”
“Whose this mothafucka?” one of her companions remarked.
“I think you lost, white boy,” commented the other. He was right.
“I’m not looking for any trouble,” I responded. “The car leaves in thirty seconds, Bonnie, with or without you.”
She looked uncertain as to what to do. She obviously liked the company. But after a moment or two she realized that there was no choice. She ran to the car and got in. We were off. As I drove away I could hear one of the men yelling:
“You don’t come into the Oaktown and take one of our bitches, boy.” I understood his point and was sorry to have invaded his domain.
As we drove home she babbled about her adventures. I wasn’t really listening, but was transfixed on the smooth slope of her brown legs. I wondered what the age of consent was in California, what would happen if anybody found out I let this girl give me head. I thought of my parents and what they would think if they knew what I was doing with my life. I pondered medieval kings and thirteen year old brides, the course of history and the changing mores of society. In ancient Greece old men fondled boys and it was considered normal. Roman legionnaires buggered one another before battle. So-called “uppity” Negroes used to be hung to death by large groups of hooded men in the deep South. Now it was morally wrong for a twenty-eight year old man to want a seventeen year old girl, a creature at the height of her beauty and fertility.
As we crossed the Bay Bridge I noticed that the tone of the darkness was changing slightly, becoming lighter. Dawn was only about half an hour away. I hate seeing the dawn rise. It makes me nauseous.
I parked in front of the building and we both went in. She walked with me to the door of my apartment and waited while I finessed the key into the lock. It opened and I turned to her.
“You don’t have to blow me, Bonnie. Just go upstairs and get some sleep. And stay away from those people you’ve been hanging out with. I’ll never pick you up on that street ever again.”
She hugged me genuinely. “Thank you so much. You’re a good person, I can tell.”
I closed the door and got into bed. A good person, I thought. What a joke.
A couple of weeks passed, and Bonnie continued visiting me on an almost daily basis. During this time, I did my best to try to convince her of the error of her ways, but she never really listened. To her, I was an old man at twenty-eight, with little real insight on the problems of her age and time. Maybe she was right.
But nevertheless, she needed me for something, or she wouldn’t have kept coming around. Sometimes she wanted weed. Other times she wanted booze. But most of the time she just wanted to tell me about her life. I could tell she was lonely. The world is a cruel place, not least of all for teenagers.
And then the day came of her eighteenth birthday and that unmistakable knock came at my door. I let her in.
“You know what today is?” she asked.
“I sure do. I even got you a little present.”
She gasped slightly and blushed. I handed her the poorly wrapped rectangular box. The wrapping was blue with a Santa Clause pattern on it, completed by a shiny red bow. She opened it excitedly and saw what lay inside: a carton of menthol cigarettes.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, “this is so great. I’m not going to have to buy a pack for like a week.” She ripped open the carton, removed a pack, pulled off the cellophane and interior wrapping, withdrew a cigarette and lit it, inhaling with satisfaction.
“Yeah, well…you’re always running out of cigs and I didn’t really know what else to get you, so…”
She inhaled again, saying in a nasally tone, “No, really, this is perfect. You are such a sweetheart.”
She finished her cigarette and looked at me with a strange countenance.
“What is it?” I asked.
“My sister’s gonna kick me out, fool.”
“Why?”
“Cause I been goin’ out to the track with my pimp and she found out.”
“Oh.” I didn’t feel like lecturing her on her birthday.
“So, like, I had an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I thought maybe I could move in here.”
“What?”
“Just hear me out. I’ll move in here and be, like, your girlfriend. I’ll fuck you whenever you want, suck your cock, do anything. You can even put it in my ass if you want to. I just need a place to call home, you know what I mean?”
“What about your pimp? Won’t he provide you a place?”
“I don’t want to do that anymore, fool.”
“You say that now.”
“Naah, nigga. I mean it, for real.”
And for a moment I gave it real consideration. The things she said brought forth obvious images in my mind, scenes from pornographic videos I had taken in over the years. Of course I wanted to fuck her. What straight guy wouldn’t? I thought about the wetness and warmth, that magical place between her legs, that bloody, sticky, dank interior, the primordial essence, the birthplace of all mankind.
But in the end I knew what I was going to do. The truth is I was afraid: afraid of the people she would bring over to my apartment, afraid of catching a disease, afraid of who I would become if I allowed myself this forbidden pleasure. Ultimately, I was and am a coward. But that’s okay.
“I’m sorry, Bonnie, but that just can’t happen.”
“Oh come on, fool. I see the way you look at me. I know what you want.”
Her logic was undeniable. But so was my fear. She left very upset and I didn’t see her again, not for seven years.
I got my coffee and waited for her. She had ordered a latte, which was taking too long. Finally she got it and we walked outside. I didn’t even know what to say to her. My head was pounding and there was no sexual attraction left.
“So tell me, Bonnie, what are you doing with yourself?”
“I’m trying to get back into school, JC, but it’s hard with three kids.”
“Three kids? Damn.”
“Yeah.”
There was a deep, dark pause. I’d call it a pregnant pause, but that word seems trite given the details of the story. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes.
“What is it?”
“I think about you sometimes. You’re the only person who ever took a real interest in me, who treated me like a human being. Everybody else just fucked me over. I should have listened to you, but I was just a kid. If you knew what I’ve been doing for all these years you’d puke.”
I hugged her - careful to avoid spilling coffee or latte - with all the sincerity I could muster. “I know what you’ve been doing all these years, Bonnie. And it doesn’t make a bit of difference to me.”
Her sobs exploded on my shoulder. Suddenly I felt an overwhelming urge to flee. I wrote down a fake number on a piece of paper and gave it to her, telling her to call me anytime. She told me she would and I knew it was true. I made my escape seem as natural as possible.
I turned the corner and relaxed, glad to be free of her presence. I would never go back to that café ever again, I told myself: too risky now. My heart was overwhelmed with grief and pity for her, for me, for humanity. But I just couldn’t be bothered.
I probably eat two thirds of my meals out. And although I love nothing more than an exquisite dining experience, especially in San Francisco – a perfectly medium rare steak at Morton’s, the multi course tasting menu at Coi, the sophistication of Bix – ninety-five percent of the time what I really need is simple fuel to keep my motor running. But let this fact not lead you to believe I am indifferent to what food I’m putting in my body. Rather, I look for restaurants where quality meets value, where the portions are monumental and I’m going to get more than my dollar’s worth.
