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Judy B.
Clang, Clang, Clang
ONE
She was riding the California Street line. The driver recalled the svelte, pale-skinned woman wearing cat-eye shades, in her twenties or so, with shiny black hair caught at the nape of her neck in a thick braid that reached half way down her back. She had crossed California from the south side and hopped on to a running board at Sansome, a couple of blocks before California begins to slope up Nob Hill. Just after the car crossed Kearney St., she appeared to lose her balance, according to a woman from Baltimore who had watched the young woman rummage through her shoulder bag with her free hand. Perhaps she was searching for a Kleenex, the bewildered, pink-faced, gray-haired lady surmised aloud to no one in particular as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, the arm of a passerby slung across her ample, rounded shoulders.
The car lurched, the woman gave a little squeak, tipped back, and let go of her purse, the strap of which slipped from her shoulder to her forearm. The bag must have been heavy: the weight of it appeared to loosen her handhold. The woman from Baltimore said she would never forget the look on the falling woman's face: she appeared to be puzzled, more than frightened, when she tottered back, her left hand sliding as if the pole were greased. She flapped and flailed both arms, grappled for the pole, a hand, a bit of someone's coat, but by the time observers realized what was happening and reached out to her, she had already landed on the hood of a green Honda Accord that was speeding in the opposite direction to make the light at Kearney.
The driver slammed on the brakes when he saw the body flomp onto his car, heard the dull thud, felt the shock resonate through the vehicle into the seat of his pants, and the woman was thrown into the intersection, into the path of an SUV that rolled over her right leg without stopping. Witnesses said the driver was talking on a mobile phone and would have plowed over the woman's torso, had he not swerved to pass a red Beetle that was waiting to make a left turn onto California. No one noted the license number, though all agreed the driver was young, good-looking, and sported a goatee. As the Beetle driver passed behind the cable car the catastrophe unfolded in her peripheral vision: she saw the woman's flimsy frame fall from the cable car onto the Honda and in the rearview mirror followed her trajectory into the path of the SUV. Several other cable car passengers corroborated the two motorists' accounts, even some who were sitting on the north side of the vehicle, their backs to the scene.
The woman's purse strap had stayed hooked in the crook of her arm throughout the flight, and the bag's contents spilled onto the street when she hit the pavement, catching the attention of a tall, burly man who was buying flowers at the edge of the Bank of America plaza on the southeast corner of Kearny and California. His left hand, cragged with dirt, fisted a bouquet of pink Gerbera daisies, and a glistening track lined his dusty right cheek from his eye to his bushy red beard as he recounted for reporters how he had heard screeching tires and screaming voices in the intersection behind him, how he had turned toward the commotion only to see a bullet-shaped tube of lipstick and a crumpled white tissue roll and tumble past him, ushered along by cold, gray swaths of fog.
TWO
Jennie Jennings does not need to glance in a mirror to know that her hair, her lipstick, her powder is perfect. She has already checked it seven times and the young woman who is her production assistant knows she will lose her job if she lets Jennie go on air with so much as a fleck of lint on the back of her jacket. The last PA got booted on a breath charge: at a city hall spot she didn't have any gum or mints, and the mayor correctly named—during a live interview—what Jennie had eaten for lunch. The girl was gone before the crew returned to the station.
The other passengers are long gone, and the weeping burly man has been done to death. If they could find out the girl's name, they'd have a scoop. But nobody knows anything; these people are no help. Inside herself Jennie slumps her shoulders, lets her arms hang lifeless at her sides, drops the microphone to the ground, then ravages her wavy, shoulder-length blond hair (accented with chestnut low-lights) with her fists, and screams, "Why can't I get any decent fucking help?" But she is wearing linen and can't afford any extra movements that might wrinkle her look. She stares at the rod in her hand, touches the big ball of foam on the tip and twists the microphone to read each side of the box: the station's call letters, alternating with its winking icon. KWNK. Wink. KWNK. Wink. K-Wink. Kwink. Field reporter.
Two months into this, and she is still reporting from the scene of accidents and street fairs. Her father is an executive at the station, and she was promised an anchor job—on condition that she go through the motions of paying her dues. They said as soon as old white hair retired, they'd put her behind the desk. Raymond Carlisle had supposedly been on the verge of leaving since the day she was offered the job. Now the would-be retiree is eking out a little more time until the market recovers and his funds are secure, so Jennie is stuck standing around while some inept intern screws up another story for her.
The San Francisco State student pumps her arms to propel her up the incline to the Bank of America Plaza, where Jennie stands, so poised that the young woman panics, thinks she's on air. The cocktail formed when the adrenaline shooting from her brain meets the espresso's caffeine in her blood propels the young woman to run the last half block in just three seconds. She slows herself so her footsteps cannot be caught on the sound track and strides noiselessly around to behind the camera operator.
"What are you hiding for? Did you get me an interview or not? I'm not going to stand around here all day." Jennie manages to deliver the rebuke without moving her body or even but scarcely her face. The one thing over which she maintains absolute control is her voice. It does exactly what she wants it to do.
The intern is unruffled. She has already outlasted two others, and she is determined to go the distance. She needs the credit and the line on her resume. "I got you the barista at the coffee shop where she had a cappuccino before she stepped onto the cable car."
One would not have thought it possible for Jennie's posture to be any straighter, but she straightens. "Well it's about time. Let's go." The intern starts back down the hill. "In the van, missie. I'm not walking in these shoes."
"But you're wearing linen."
Jennie considers the remark. "How far is it?"
"Just at Sansome. And it's all downhill."
Jennie heaves the sigh of someone reluctantly granting a favor, shoves the microphone at the assistant, follows.
"I think this is going to be a good one." The assistant is determined to make this work. "It's a chance to show her before the accident, give people a glimpse into the real person, not dwell on her as a victim."
"Yes." Jennie says the word slowly, almost adds, "Good work," but holds back. No need to give the girl too much too soon. Keep her hungry. She'll need to stay in touch with that feeling. It's part of the business. "So, who was she, before the accident?"
The girl takes a deep breath, not just for the extra seconds it affords her to clear her head and organize her thoughts, but also because her body is trembling from nerves, adrenaline, and caffeine, and she needs to calm down.
"She's a double decaf low-fat, low-foam mocha; no whipped cream, dash of cinnamon."
Jennie slows her pace. The PA thinks she's going to stop walking to yell at her, so she quickly adds, "The table where she sat hasn't even been bussed yet. We've got the cup. And—" she pauses for effect, then spills her revelation. "I think the barista kind of dug her. Sounds like she kind of flirted with him. Very human."
What gave Jennie pause was the coffee order. She is herself a double decaf low-fat, low-foam mocha, although on occasion she will take a spot of whipped cream on top, and she prefers nutmeg to cinnamon. In spite of herself, she does see this young woman as a real person, sees herself on that streetcar, grappling for a firm purchase, watching the ground she had trusted to stay beneath her slip away. "All r
ight," she says, as much to herself as to the crew. She nods slowly as she stares straight ahead. This is it. She feels it. This is the story that will put her behind the desk. She has paid her dues, and now it's time for the payoff. "All right, then. Let's talk to the barista." Yes.
The barista is standing outside the café, draped over a mailbox, smoking. His brittle, dull-black hair falls into his face, frames his dark eyes, which don't blink when he sees the blond stick walk toward him. Jennie tends to be attracted to her likes, but her empathic episode continues and she finds herself drawn to this slouchy, misshaven young man. After she introduces herself and offers the young man a cordial handshake, the PA ushers the pair inside to a table on which a crumpled napkin sits beside a tall glass mug with dried bubbles around its rim. "I thought we could do the spot here," she says.
Jennie does not take her eyes off the barista. She cocks her head over her right shoulder. "OK, let's set it up." The crew flurries around them, moving tables, adjusting lights and verifying sound levels. Jennie looks past the straggly locks of hair into the young man's eyes, rests a hand on a forearm that is crossed before his chest, and says, "I know this all seems terribly banal, but we do need to give people the details. Especially in a situation like this one, which could have happened to any of us, people want to know exactly what happened, retrace the person's steps, you know, to understand. We want to show them the real person who suffered this unusual ordeal." He indicates his agreement with a nod.
When the stage is set and the PA has brushed her shoulders, smoothed her lapels, and primped her hair, Jennie Jennings, field reporter, slowly seeps back into her skin beside her compassionate counterpart. Together they guide the barista through recounting the last drink the woman had before her fall: her decisive order (she knew exactly what she wanted), her friendly manner (she wasn't chatty but had a kind smile), and her generosity (she left a hefty tip). In her earpiece Jennie hears the director tell her to wrap it up; the studio needs to cut to a crash on the Bay Bridge, where a vanload of teenagers nearly plunged to their deaths.
Jennie Jennings holds the microphone in her left hand, the empty coffee cup in her right. She stares into the spent drink, the remains of what could have been her beverage, her destiny. She swirls the cold, murky fluid, smells the cinnamon, feels the grit of the last gulp on her tongue. She tilts her head up, looks directly into the camera lens, where she can see but not quite make out her own inverted, mottled reflection.
"If only she had taken this last sip," Jennie touches the napkin on the table. "She would be here with us right now."
Jennie does not realize the inanity of this remark. First off, the woman is not dead, as Jennie's dramatics imply. Second, if she hadn't fallen off the cable car, the woman most certainly would not have been in the cafe, she'd be on the other side of Nob Hill. Her producer, a documentary filmmaker by night who works in news for the money and because she believes she can lift it from the morass of sensationalism it's slipped into in the last 30 years, will ream her. And although the production assistant will do her best to cajole her, may even keep her job, Jennie Jennings is done with paying dues. Finished.
THREE
Jason is hungry. Not for a scone or a croissant or a madeleine. He wants lunch: a big sandwich at least, if not something hot, with a salad on the side. Paychecks won't come in until 3 p.m. at the earliest—more likely it will be 5—and his shift mates know better than to float him lunch money in the meantime. Someone looted the tip jar during the morning rush—not him, this once—so he'll have to wait, who knows how long, until there's enough to buy him a sandwich and then until he can pocket it without being caught.
In the last twenty-four hours he has opened his refrigerator thirty times. Last night, after having a fried egg on toast with a jar of pickles on the side, he sneaked his roommate's leftover mac and cheese one forkful at a time until so little was left he had to finish it off and wash the casserole so Jimi would forget it had been in there. Jason continued to gravitate to the fridge, hopeful each time he opened the door that he would find some forgotten morsel he had missed. But after he made a ketchup sandwich with the last heel of bread, there was nothing but a jar of tomato sauce overtaken by a mold culture, a jar of horseradish, a loaf of tofu, two unexposed rolls of film, and Penelope's macrobiotic wheat germ concoction, which made him gag even when it was just sprinkled on beans tossed in olive oil. His six-three frame is starving.
As Jason wonders if he might be able to scrounge up some protein powder, make some kind of smoothie with the wheat germ and tofu and some honey, a woman a head shorter than himself walks in. Her shiny black hair is caught in a loose braid that hangs a little below the middle of her back. She seems to be a little nervous, or perhaps just energetic. Her hands rest on a fat brown wallet. Her thin, pale fingers taper to pointy oval nails painted a glossy beige. Her fingers look incredibly soft, are wrinkled only at the knuckles. She can't keep them still. They drum the counter, flip and spin the wallet around. She doesn't remove her sunglasses. The wallet bulges with more receipts and business cards and bills and credit cards than there are slots and compartments allotted for. Jason nods a hello, juts his chin in her direction to invite her to place her order.
"Hi. I'd like a double decaf low-fat, low-foam mocha, please. No whipped cream, but a dash of cinnamon on that, if you would." Jason bobs his head twice, slowly, to let her know he's registered all that. Her phone rings.
This woman is perhaps the only person in the world capable of speaking on a mobile phone so discreetly that her words are unintelligible. Jason can't even tell whether the call is business or personal. She could be ordering a hit on him, or describing him to a girlfriend, he thinks, staring at her face while he steams the low-fat milk, then he realizes she could also be watching him watch her, for all he knows, as her eyes are obscured behind her shades. She abruptly turns away from him, leaving her wallet on the counter beside her. She continues to spin it with her free hand. Business is slow enough that Jason can take his time concocting her drink. So he does, all the while watching the wallet and willing the bulging mass to spring open, for that stack of credit cards to spill onto the counter, so he can slip one under the register as he helps the distracted woman reassemble her affairs. Then he realizes this won't work if she has an Asian last name. His gothness couldn't pass for being her husband without showing ID. The best he can hope for is a big tip.
Just as Jason is running out of ways to draw out the drink-making process, she taps her phone off and turns to him. He slides the coffee across the counter to her, along with a plate on which he has placed a biscotti, and points her to the condiment station, where she can garnish her beverage. She retrieves a five-dollar bill without compromising the rest of her stash and hands it to him, then sees the biscotti.
"Is that mine? I didn't order it."
"It's on me. Special today." He places a napkin on top of the plate with a casual wink. She just smiles at him and dumps whatever change he returns to her into the tip jar—as he knew she would. Her phone rings again, so she grabs the plate and the coffee and hurries over to a table to take the call.
A buck-fifty-seven in the jar—not a bad start. Two more of those, and he can get an egg salad from the sandwich truck; three more, and he can add a cup of soup. As long as he makes the dough in the next forty-five minutes, before Angelina comes in. Anyone else he can scam, but not her. The first thing she does is count the jar. She may not need the money like Jason does, but she wants it just as badly. She's a stickler for dividing it fairly.
The next two customers are an elderly white couple: the woman, short, round, and rosy; the man, tall, drawn, and peaked. She does all the talking, orders them both hot chocolates, one croissant to share. When he pushes their drinks to them, Jason makes sure to accidentally jostle the tip jar. The woman doesn't appear to notice, but does drop her coinage into it—all of thirty-five cents. The next two customers have exact change for their orders. Rarely do people bother to fish in their pockets to tip
. Jason sees he has fifteen minutes on the clock. His stomach barks a plea.
A man wearing what appear to be brand-new athletic shoes and a woman carrying a large Gumps bag and a Lonely Planet guide enter, arguing in a foreign language. Two types of people who never tip are arguing couples and foreigners. What Jason does not realize is that they are not arguing, merely animated, and they had read in the book that it is considered rude not to leave a tip in an American restaurant. They leave him a dollar for each drink and all their coinage, eighty-seven cents. As they turn to go, the woman shoves something toward him and says, "Someone forget." Jason looks down at the bulging wallet, slides it behind the register, and nods a solemn thanks.
He feels just one crisp note in the billfold. On second thought, it's two twenties stuck together, born together from the ATM. He removes them and folds them in one deft flick, pushes the wallet deep under the espresso machine with one hand as he slides the other to his pocket, seemingly to remove his lip balm, which he nonchalantly applies just as Angelina comes in the door. She doesn't pause to ask her question or even look at him as she saunters behind the counter.
"You skim your tips yet?"
"Oh, that's right." Jason leans around the register, plunges his hand into the jar and retrieves four singles and four quarters, leaves one single and a mound of pennies, nickels, and dimes. "I almost forgot," he says to the cloud of perfume Angelina has left behind her. "It's been pretty slow."
FOUR
He waited longer than was necessary. Then he waited longer than would be expected and stayed past what would be considered reasonable. He was waiting when the ambulance passed and the wailing crescendo and diminuendo of the siren did not distract him from his waiting, although he was staring into the street when the flashing red and white blur sliced through his field of view. He waited until his second coffee—which he forced himself to sip slowly at first but then lost interest in halfway through—grew cold. He waited until he was sure.
He had begun the waiting resolute: after three months of occasional coffees and movies he was going to ask her to dinner. Ask her out on a date. But during the waiting his certainty slipped into hopeful excitement, which transitioned into nervousness, which shifted into anxiety, which in the dampness of errant thought warped into cold fear, which mutated into an anger that smoldered and grew hotter the more his coffee cooled.
When his last hopes finally desiccate and ignite, the anger morphs back into anxious anticipation, which fizzles into a dull resignation, which now rises from the ash as the following thoughts:
She is not coming.
It's just as well.
He is hobbled by his lack of a cellphone. She could have called to let him know she was running late. After waiting 30 minutes he did call her from a payphone outside but she didn't pick up. Then he checked his messages at home; there were none. He waited 15 minutes and called both numbers again. Nothing still. She simply isn't coming. She decided not to come. Perhaps she had heard the twitch in his voice when he asked her to meet him, noted a different tone from his other calls, a hesitance, and she sensed what was coming and was avoiding it. Why else would she not call? The plan was to grab a coffee and walk to the bay. He will continue, as planned. He will walk. On his way out he passes a large, loud man walking in but does not hear the man ask the room:
"Hey, you hear someone fell off a cable car?"
He follows California Street up and over Nob Hill. The climb does him good. When his lungs heave his attention is forced out of the past and his thoughts are pulled back from the future he had imagined there. Exertion eclipses embarrassment. He doesn't pause to catch his breath when he reaches Huntington Square Park at the top of the hill. He keeps walking. He goes faster going down. When he reaches Kearny he does not notice the skid marks and remnants of a flare on the pavement. He does not glance across the street at the Bank of America building and so finds nothing remarkable in the lethargic movements of the flower seller and the crowd still gathered around the kiosk at the corner of the plaza. He misses the TV news vans. As he approaches Montgomery two cable cars crisscross so even if he were looking across the street he would not see the café on the other side, the one with the same name as the one where he'd just spent over an hour. Because he doesn't see it he doesn't go in and doesn't hear the woman behind the counter telling a customer that she was supposed to have been on the a.m. shift but had to trade because her daughter had an orthodontist appointment or otherwise she would have been the one on TV.
He is glad to have walked. He is seeing more clearly now: He sees how it is all in his head. It was nothing, really, she is just a friend. He almost ruined it. Overreacting. He is infatuated with a woman who enjoys his company, nothing more. Why does he have to make it more? What was he thinking? He was waiting a long time. He shouldn't have waited such a long time. Even if she did feel the same way, waiting that long can't be attractive. Or wise. But she doesn't. Feel the same way. He won't call again. He will walk until he doesn't want to call.
A Russian widower whose English is shaky and whose phone number is one digit off from his is hearing this message: "Hello, this is Saint Francis Medical Center. Could you please give us a call? We have a patient here who arrived with no identification except her agenda book. Your name and this phone number are written in for today and circled twice so we're hoping you know her. She could use a friend…"