“Taking off, Miss Shirley?”
“I’m the boss.” She smiled ferociously. “Get back to work,” she chided, and swaggered to her car.
He shook his head, confused again by their interaction. Several minutes crawled by before he heard an engine growl to life. She took the intersection at a dangerous speed and drove toward East 18th, not bothering to stop at the light.
Ms. Shirley was a reckless, intelligent, self-made, and selfish Korean woman in her forties, known throughout Park Boulevard as a shrewd businesswoman, a “dragon lady.” She was genuine, not generous, and could diffuse a disagreement with simple totalitarian logic: My bar, my rules.
She was also mindful of her patrons. Sean had seen her help more than one “fly who lost his job” or “friend of fly who needed work,” considering it was mutually beneficial. She was well connected; receiving in return an owed favor, a new body added to the roster of regulars, and more cash in the register.
Sean was considered a “fly who lost his job.”
Six months back he had hit bedrock, his shit job washing dishes at a greasy burger joint making just enough money to cover rent and buy smack. Repeat. Until a scratcher won him five hundred dollars. Cash in hand, he walked straight to the dealer, buying enough black for a two-week spree, enough to disregard responsibility and lose his job. With the change he went to the bar. A week later he woke up facedown under the “borax king’s” train of plastic donkeys in F.M. Smith Park, the late-afternoon sun pressed against his thick field jacket. A plaque within arms’ reach became a crutch as he struggled to his feet: Mules in Oakland? The letters danced across the information board — a brief history of the commercialization of borax. Describing F.M. Smith’s mule teams as they marched to the center of the Mojave and back, so he could be rich
This image of tired mules trudging to their sorry destination forced Sean’s exhausted body three blocks to the bar. He vividly remembered falling into the swinging door with force enough to make the walls shake.
Ms. Shirley was tending the bar, a factor he hadn’t considered. Her disapproving scowl glared up from the well. Slurred, incomprehensible words dribbled from his mouth, and he watched her face distort into perturbed sympathy. She shook her head no, igniting a passionate rage. He flew from his stool, shouting incoherently until a local fly threw him to the floor and gave him a singular punch to the nose. Submitting, the large man picked him up and pushed him out the door. He lay against the wall outside, drunk and defeated.
“I like you.” Ms. Shirley’s voice had a reverberating effect as thick blood pounded in his ears. “But you especially stupid lately. Come back tomorrow when we’re open, or never come back.” She gave a final huff and opened the bar door. “Go home!”
He stumbled toward the “shortcut,” an overgrown staircase designed to connect Oakland’s old trolley system, now forgotten. His final memory of that afternoon was gazing at the city skyline from the top of this stairway, attempting to pick the pocket lint from the last of his black.
The next morning Sean awoke, guts aching; he lay in bed attempting to recollect the evening before. Ms. Shirley’s threat reverberated through his skull. He glanced at the time before pulling on his cleanest clothes. It was two thirty p.m.
The Nitecap had been open for an hour before he timidly pushed his way inside. Ms. Shirley looked up when the door creaked open and greeted Sean with a solemn nod. He slunk to the seat adjacent to her and waited. She dramatically finished polishing a glass, held it up to the light, and said, “Johnny quit. We need a new bouncer, you it. Clean up and come work. You have one week. No show, no work.”
He agreed to the terms, spent a week sweating in bed, and began his new career.
His pipe had one hit left, maybe two if he scraped the bowl. Sobriety made him feel, and weed dulled that edge. It was twelve thirty a.m.: he didn’t want to stick around any longer. The night had been painfully slow, not a full gram sold, not a single argument escalated. Bored and profitless, he felt like a waste of space. An evening like this would keep him awake until daybreak.
A black Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of the bar and turned on its hazards. It wasn’t unusual to see a luxury cab pick up an individual from the Nitecap. A fair number of professional drivers used it for respite, shooting pool and drinking between shifts. Sean shouted through the door, asking if anyone ordered a ride. A small chorus of “No” came back so he remained in his seat, arms crossed. Both passenger doors opened and Ms. Shirley, escorting a gentleman he didn’t recognize, stepped out. Flashing a crocodile smile, she walked past Sean without introducing the guy. Repeating this tactic as they walked through the bar, they strode confidently into the back room. The door shut quickly, fanning an air of intrigue throughout. Sean never asked Ms. Shirley about the significant other that supposedly had part ownership, but he had at least met him, and the gentleman in the office was not her blue-collared Irishman.
The bartender whistled for Sean’s attention. “Th’ fuck was that about, you think?”
“What’m I s’posed to say? Ms. Shirley got friends. Not really my business.”
“She’s never brought another man since I’ve been around. Just seem like something’s up.”
“I don’t know, dude, just ask her later.”
“Hershe and her were in there earlier.”
“You mean like, whenever Hershe stops by? C’mon, man. Look, tonight is dead, lemme go. I don’t have shit to do, but I’d rather not do it here. Fill me in tomorrow?”
“All right, get out of here, I will. G’night, Sean. Everyone say g’night to Sean, lucky bastard’s off.”
He headed toward the door and tossed up his hand, an impersonal goodbye to the few voices that obliged the bartender.
It was too early to go home. The antiquated Casio wristwatch he wore beeped one a.m. as he walked past the Parkway Theatre, an old 1925 movie house still boasting a Wurlitzer and intricate décor. It had been unused for years, leaving a feeling of urban blight in a neighborhood the city recognized as “up-and-coming.” The sign board that used to list what was playing now simply read, We l-ve you Oakland. The feeling didn’t seem mutual.
He turned right on East 18th and made for the “gem” of Oakland — Lake Merritt. It had been recently polished, the water glowing as it reflected the string of Christmas lights hanging between old-fashioned streetlamps. They illuminated the fresh landscaping and two-year-old Kentucky bluegrass. It was a pleasant aesthetic: paid for by us to be enjoyed by them.
Three years ago those lights, had they been there at all, would have shown the bloated corpse of a retired champion pit bull, half-submerged in the shallows by the shore. They also could have revealed the young hood who once snuck up behind Sean and drove a fist into his kidney, a hit that threw him into the dried dirt and used prophylactics. He walked away from that episode with a broken wrist and without the server’s generous fifteen-dollar donation. That type of thing didn’t happen anymore, which he supposed was a positive. It also drove up his rent.
He reached the lake and turned right; he had his beat. Before he was a junkie, the walk would take him past several bars while he meandered home. After he started using, it took him to Hanover Hill, where you could always score. The top of the little hill held a public restroom which no one used but the addicts. It was a storefront the city occasionally attempted to lock, and the doors were scarred from countless boots which had broken the blockade. Sean’s favorite joke: It houses the world’s most effectual plumbing design. He grimaced as the polluted memories bubbled into consciousness, quickening his pace to avoid an imagined silhouette of the dealer. A Town Car passed as he stepped off the curb and crossed Lakeside Drive. He would walk to the tip of Adam’s Point, sit on his bench, and roll a cigarette. It was a fifteen-minute stroll, time spent attempting to breathe through addiction and loathsome nostalgia. His self-developed methods forced him to have patience and a ritual.