(Derek Raymond)
‘Yo, fool …
This was Fenton’s introduction. He’d arrived at SFIP (San Francisco International Passport) and breezed through Immigration. Manners and a British accent being a passport all their own. The official had even said, ‘Y’all have a good day now.’
He was having one … sort of … ish.
Until:
Waiting on his luggage a black guy had shouted the above. Fenton turned, saw the guy dressed in an impoverished Mr T style. Lots of gold bracelets, medallions, but of a distinctly tin quality.
Fenton asked, ‘Are you talking to me fella?’
‘Whatcha think? Y’o be a fool, then I talking to you, mother fuckah.’
If this had been the Oval, he’d probably have dropkicked him for exercise. Instead he smiled and got, ‘Wha’cha smiling fo’ bro’? Yo be laughin at de brother?’
Fenton got his case, turned and said, ‘Get me a taxi — sorry — a
This stopped the guy dead. While he was figuring it, Fenton breezed past him. ‘Jeez, before Tuesday, OK?’
On the other side of the United States, the band-aiders were finding that the BIG APPLE was not exactly the good apple.
Still wearing the Farah pants, the guy said to the woman, ‘This place’s a hole.’
‘Was your idea to come.’
‘Was not.’
‘Was too.’
They seethed a while, then the woman said, ‘Let’s mug some fuck and go to California.’
He liked that, said, ‘I like that. Yeah. Let’s kick the bejaysus outta a Yank.’
‘Yeah … and tell ’em to have a nice day.’
In my last darkness there might not be the same need of understanding anything so far away as the world any more
(Robin Cook)
Roberts was an hour early for his radiation treatment. Got to wait three more. Eventually his time. He said, ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Huh?’
The radiation, you know, during the … ahm … process …
The technician, with a distracted air seemed to have trouble concentrating. Roberts wanted to grab him, roar, ‘For fucksake, focus!’
The guy wasn’t actually wearing a walkman but he might as well have been. Worse, he was humming … and humming ‘Vienna’. Not an easy task, but definitely irritating. He said, ‘Imagine yer on a sun bed, topping up for yer hols.’
Roberts felt this was in particular bad taste in light of his complaint, but said nothing. It wouldn’t do to antagonise the hand on the machine.
It didn’t take long. Roberts asked, ‘Is that it?’
‘Yup, yer toast.’
Roberts felt a rush of elation and wanted to hug the fuck, but the guy was already humming a new tune. Sounded like the Eagles’ ‘Lying Eyes’, or was it ‘Dancing Queen’?
Roberts said, ‘I’ll be off then.’
‘Whatever.’
Roberts had been a cop so long, it was difficult to surprise him. But every now and again …
Outside, three winos were sitting against the wall. All were shoeless. A pair of black shoes sat in front of them. Mid-way polished, they stood in near dignity and in reasonable condition. A hand-written sign said,
FOR SALE
Only one owner.
?5 or nearest offer.
Full MOT.
He smiled from way down. One of the winos copped him, said, ‘Size 9, Guv?’
Reaching in his pocket, he encountered a melted Club Milk latched to his keys. Finally, he located some coins and handed them over. One of them said
‘God bless you, Guv.’
Further along, a young woman pushed a collection box in his face, demanded, ‘Buy a flag.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘Racquet Club in Hampstead.’
‘Well that’s badly needed — another sports club in bleeding Hampstead.’ He gave her the remains of the Club Milk.
At the Oval, to complete his trilogy of street encounters, he bought a copy of
Castro
The Castro in San Francisco has been called ‘The gayest place on earth’.
Fenton was headed there. He knew it would be the centre for activists. Now that Stell, his ex-wife was with a teacher, she’d be politically active. A dormant radical, she’d blossom in the Castro.
He had the cab cruise through Market and Castro Streets. It reminded him of Camden Lock on a pink Saturday. Same sex couples strolling openly. The cabbie turned and drove along Church, 22nd, and Duboce.
‘You figger on stayin’ here, buddy?’
‘Naw, I just wanted to see it.’
The driver checked him in the mirror, ventured, ‘You gotta get down here in the evenings, catch the action then.’ He let the question hang in the air —
Fenton didn’t help and kept staring out the window. He half believed he’d see her on the street. Just like that! After all the years, all the hate, there she’d be. She wasn’t. He got a mental grip and said, ‘I’ve seen enough, take me to the El Drisco.’
‘Say again?’
Fenton consulted his guide book, nodded and said, ‘It’s 2901 Pacific Avenue.’
‘Gonna cost you, buddy.’
‘Did I ask you for a financial opinion?’
The cabbie took another look and decided to let it slide. ‘You’re the man.’
‘So they tell me.’
The constables had organised a knees-up in The Greyhound for Brant’s departure. They had the back room and the booze was flowing. Word had got to Bill about the function so he’d relinquished his usual place. He could wait.
Sometimes, it was what he did best.
