"Bag and tag it?" said Big Hairy.
"A dog? That's a new one on me."
"I don't give a shit. Do what you want."
"Well," Tommy interrupted, "you guys have a good day." He hurried away to the bus stop. As the bus pulled up he looked back and saw the two coroners tucking the little dog into the woman's body bag.
Tommy got off the bus at a coffeehouse near Chinatown where he had seen guys in berets scribbling in notebooks and smoking French cigarettes. If you were looking for a place to sit and stare into the abyss for a while, always look for guys in berets smoking French cigarettes. They were like road signs: "Existential Crisis, Next Right." And the incident with the body bag had put Tommy in the mood to contemplate the meaninglessness of life for a few minutes before he started hunting for an apartment. They had treated that poor woman like a piece of meat. People should have been crying and fainting and fighting over her will. It must be some sort of protection mechanism, more of that ability that city people had for ignoring suffering.
He ordered a double mocha at the counter. A girl with magenta hair and three nose rings frothed it up while Tommy searched though a stack of used newspapers on the counter, separating the classified sections. When he paid the girl she caught him staring at her nose rings and smiled. "Thought is death," she said, handing him the mocha.
"Have a nice day," Tommy said.
He sat down and began flipping though the classifieds. As he read through the apartments for rent, the money in his pocket seemed to shrink. Here was the reason why people seemed so distracted. They were all worrying about making rent.
An ad for a furnished loft caught his eye. He was a loft kind of guy. He imagined himself saying, "No, I can't hang around, I've got to get back to the loft and write." And, "Sorry, I left my wallet in the loft." And writing, "Dear Mom, I've moved into a spacious loft in fashionable SOMA."
Tommy put the paper down and turned to a beret guy at the next table who was reading a volume of Baudelaire and building up a drift of Disc Bleu butts in the ashtray. "Excuse me," Tommy said, "but I'm new in town. Where would I find fashionable SOMA?"
The beret guy looked irritated. "South of Market," he said. Then he picked up his book and cigarettes and walked out of the cafe.
"Sorry," Tommy called after him. Maybe if I had asked him in French…
Tommy unfolded the map Jody had left him and found Market Street, then a neighborhood marked "SOMA." It wasn't far from where Jody had marked the Transamerica Pyramid. He folded up the map and tore the loft ad out of the classifieds. This was going to be easy.
As he prepared to leave, he looked up to see an enormously fat man in a purple velvet robe enter the cafe carrying a leather sample case decorated with silver moons and stars. He sat at a table near Tommy, his bulk spilling over either side of the cane chair, and began removing things from the sample case. Tommy was captivated.
The fat man's head was shaved and there was a pentagram tattooed on his scalp. He covered his table with a piece of black satin, then placed a crystal ball on a pedestal of brass dragons in the center. Next he unwrapped a deck of tarot cards from a purple silk scarf and placed them by the crystal ball. Last he removed a sign from the sample case and set it up on the table. It read: "Madame Natasha. Palmistry, Tarot, Divination. Psychic Readings $5.00. All proceeds go to AIDS research."
Madame Natasha was sitting with his back to Tommy. As Tommy stared at the pentagram tattoo, Madame Natasha turned to him. Tommy looked away quickly.
"I think you need a reading, young man," Madame Natasha said, his voice high and feminine.
Tommy cleared his throat. "I don't believe in that stuff. Thanks, though."
Madame Natasha closed his eyes as if he were listening to a particularly moving passage of music. When he opened them again he said, "You're new to the City. A little confused and a little scared. You're an artist of some kind, but you don't make your living that way. And you've recently turned down a proposal of marriage. Am I right?"
Tommy dug into his pocket, "Five dollars?"
"Have a seat," Madame Natasha said, waving him to a seat at his table.
Tommy moved to the seat across from Madame and handed him a five-dollar bill. Madame Natasha picked up his tarot cards and began shuffling. His hands were tiny and delicate; his nails painted black. "What shall we ask the cards today?" Madame said.
"I've met this girl. I want to know more about her."
Madame Natasha nodded solemnly and began laying the cards out on the table. "I don't see a woman in your near future."
"Really?"
Madame pointed to a card on the right of the pattern he had laid out. "No. You see the position of this card? This card rules your relationships."
"It says 'Death. »
"That does not necessarily mean physical death. The Death card can be a card of renewal, signifying a change. I would say that you recently broke up with someone."
"Nope," Tommy said. He stared at the stylized picture of the skeleton with the scythe. It seemed to be laughing at him.
"Let's try again," Madame Natasha said. He gathered the cards, shuffled them, and began laying them out again.
Tommy watched the spot where his relationship card would fall. Madame paused, then turned the card. Death.
"Well, well, what a co-in-kee-dink," Madame Natasha said.
"Try again," Tommy said.
Again Madame shuffled, and again, when he laid down the relationship card, it was Death.
"What does it mean?" Tommy asked.
"It could mean a lot of things, depending on your other suits." Madame waved to the other cards in the pattern.
"Then what does it mean with the other cards?"
"Honestly?"
"Of course. I want to know."
"You're fucked."
"What?"
"As far as relationships?"
"Yes."
"You're fucked."
"What about my writing career?"
Madame Natasha consulted the cards again, then, without looking up, said, "Fucked."
"I am not. I'm not fucked."
"Yep. Fucked. It's in the cards. Sorry."
"I don't believe in this stuff," Tommy said.
"Nevertheless," Madame Natasha said.
Tommy stood up. "I have to go find an apartment."
"Do you want to consult the cards about your new home?"
"No. I don't believe the cards."
"I could read your palm."
"Will it cost extra?"
"No, it's included."
"Okay." Tommy held out his hand and Madame Natasha cradled it delicately. Tommy looked around to see if anyone was looking, tapped his foot as if he was in a hurry.
"Goodness, you masturbate a lot, don't you?"
A guy at a nearby table spit coffee all over his paperback Sartre and looked over.
Tommy pulled his hand away. "No!"
"Now, now, don't lie. Madame Natasha knows."
"What's that got to do with an apartment?"
"Just checking my accuracy. It's like zeroing out a polygraph."
"Not a lot," Tommy said.
"Then I'll have to adjust my reading. I would have rated you a wankmaster of the first degree. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Considering your relationship card, I'd say it's your only option."
"Well, you're wrong."
"As you wish. Let me see your palm again."
Tommy surrendered his palm reluctantly.
"Oh, good news at last," Madame Natasha said. "You will find an apartment."
"Good," Tommy said, pulling his hand back again. "I've got to go."
"Don't you want to know about the rats?"