The last thing that happened before I left for the restaurant was old lady Rhonda holding up a camera and screaming, "Say cheese!" and snapping a picture. She smiled and said, "That one's going on my fridge," which made me think about the pizza-boxpicture on mine and I was happy.
"Are you ready for this?" Handa asked, motioning her arms down her body like she was the grand prize on "Wheel of Fortune," performing a slow pirouette.
"I think so," I said, excited. Nervous.
She looked fantastic: pants hugging the shape of her legs, an inch of skin showing above them, showing those divine black hairs, a wreathe around her bellybutton. Her shirt stretched like a lucky water balloon, holding all of her in there.
We walked to a small Italian place on Valencia, between 23nd and 24th. There were only four tables in the dining room. The owner was the waiter. And the cook. He sat us in the window. We were the only people in the place. He asked us what we'd like to drink.
"Do you like red wine?" I said to Handa, and she nodded, so I said to the owner, "Bring your favorite bottle of red, please," but as soon as he walked away, I told her I needed to use the bathroom and I followed the owner, whispering, "When I said `bring your favorite,' I meant `bring your cheapest."'
"Sparing no expense, huh?"
I didn't have time to care what he thought.
I went back to the table.
We shared an antipasti plate and polished off the wine, while I listened to her talk about her life. And it was weird because I tried, I really tried to listen to what she was saying, but I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd say if she asked about my life, which made my maraca toss and turn, made me feel far away from her, like she was an astronomer looking at me through a telescope.
"Do you like working with your father?" I said.
"No."
"What's wrong with it?"
"He drives me pretty nuts. Not that I can blame that all on him." She stared in my eyes. "I can go a little crazy every now and then."
"Join the club."
"I started the club!"
"But seriously, what drives you nuts about working with your dad?"
"He wants me to get married. Have twenty-five Muslim babies. Do what my husband says."
We flagged down the owner. He brought us a new bottle and opened it. We ordered entrees. We were still the only people in the restaurant.
"What do you want?" I said.
"To have my own life before I'm a mother. To really accomplish something. To get out of that liquor store and do something surprising. Something no one ever thought I was capable of doing." She smiled. "Maybe I'll win a Nobel Prize."
"I believe it."
Handa bit her lip and looked at the ceiling. I'd never noticed before, but there was a small scar on her forehead, in the shape of a wasp. "I don't expect to save the world," she said, "but I'd like people to know that I was in it."
The owner refilled our wine glasses.
"What about your life?" she asked me.
My maraca shook faster. "What about it?"
"Tell me everything."
I drank all of my wine in a big sip, and she stared at me. "I'm not sure what to say. I guess I'd change it all."
"Everything?"
"I'd start all over. New parents. New life. Possibilities."
"You don't feel like you have possibilities?"
"Not really."
"How sad!"
"Is it sad? I don't know I like cooking. Some days that's enough."
"And you take pictures."
"And I take pictures."
"How long have you lived in San Francisco?"
"About ten years. Since I was twenty." Once the words were out of my mouth, I couldn't believe I'd been here that long. It felt like ten months, like ten tiny months ago I'd fled Phoenix. Angel-Hair had arranged for me to get a job after I got out of the hospital, but six, ten, fifteen months later, everything there reminded me of everything I'd lost, and I needed to escape that emptiness. Even emptiness can suffocate you.
"What brought you here?"
"I was working at a drugstore in Phoenix. My boss knew I liked to cook and he had a buddy in SF who owned a restaurant. He phoned in a favor. I moved here, started peeling garlic and potatoes, worked my way up."
"Is that what you do for a living?" She finished her wine. I split the rest of the bottle in our glasses.
"When my arm isn't broken, yes."
The owner brought our entrees, grated fresh cheese on our pastas.
"I want you to cook me dinner. Do you have a secret recipe?"
I nodded. "Meat Trees."
She laughed and said, "What are Meat Trees?"
Hearing her laugh was like she'd taken everything awful and everything I'd squandered and turned it into an ant, one tiny ant that I could barely see, something so small that it couldn't hurt me anymore, and if I held the ant, if I placed it on my skin, I'd feel its tiny weak legs walking all over me and I'd know that everything was going to be all right.
"You'll see. Would you like to take a walk after dinner?"
It was really cold, but we stuck with the plan, combing the streets of the Mission. We got big cups of coffee at Muddy Waters, strolling down Valencia, its unpaved chaos, its sleeping monsters still lined the side of the road. We passed an Irish bar that had "With or Without You" playing on the jukebox. I told Handa that you could go into any Irish bar in San Francisco and within fifteen minutes, a U2 song would come on.
"Why?" she said.
"Name another Irish rock band."
She didn't even have to think about it. "Flogging Molly"
"I think they're Americans."
"No, Irish."
"Irish-Americans?"
"Maybe," she said, "but I doubt it."
"My point stands: fifteen minutes in any Irish bar in SF and U2 will play."
We peered through the bar's foggy window Not a woman in the place. Skinny and pale men singing along with Bono, serenading imaginary lovers.
"Will you play a game with me, Big Boy?"
"Sure."
"I'll show you something I love. And you show me something you love."
I knew right away that I wanted to show her my Rorschach tattoo; she'd stare at it and suddenly she'd see something astonishing. "Can I go first?" I said. "I've got a good one. We need to go to my apartment."
"Ooooh. Trying to take me home already?"
We started walking toward my apartment, but we only took a couple steps.
Then I saw where we were.
Where we were standing.
What was right next to us.
I froze.
This couldn't be a coincidence. No way. I felt the levers of fate steering me in a certain direction.
Look at the facts: Handa and I strolled down Valencia, sipping coffees, talking, and out of nowhere she suggested that we share something that we loved with each other, and now we were in the one place in the entire world where I could really share something that I loved.
Me, Rhonda, her, Handa…
…right in front of the taqueria…
…the taqueria with the dumpster…
…the dumpster with the trapdoor…
And right then I knew that I was supposed to take her down with me, supposed to show her the secret passageway into the sewer system and help her climb down the humungous ladder and help her find her way through all those dark tunnels and show her the puddles, show her that there was one way left for me to see my mom.
"Are you all right?" Handa said.
I still hadn't taken a step.
"Big Boy, is something wrong?"
"Let's go back there," I said, motioning to the alley behind the taqueria.
There were no streetlights down the alley. Just darkness. Just secrets.
"Why?" she said, and I said, "Trust me."
"Too spooky," she said, and I said, "It's back there," and she said, "What is?"