Knucklehead, page 16
I told her about it over breakfast.
“We were together in a past life. At least one.” She crunched on her toast.
That was how it started.
Fuck the Police.
Sunday, February 12, 1995
I made an illegal turn. Possibly. It’s confusing—sometimes left turns off Mission are permitted and sometimes they are not. Like, from 4:00 to 6:00 p.m. they are permitted. Or maybe that’s when they’re not. The sign is too verbose and cryptic to grok in the few seconds it takes to drive past it. Anyway, I made a left. I had no idea what time it was. Claire’s clock was broken.
Then I saw them. The Cop Car Spotter in my brain has been 250% more sensitive since about five seconds after I made my sketchy turn and saw the cruiser. Which didn’t help me at all right then.
They didn’t flash their lights. They didn’t hit their siren—not even the little bloop that says: You know what’s up. Let’s do this. In no way was I instructed to pull over. They just followed me. For a block, then two. Then three. When I turned, legally, onto Harrison, they turned too. They never passed me. And we were driving slow.
This is important: I would have taken the ticket. I didn’t care about money any more than I cared about time. Maybe I would have gone to comedy traffic school. A ticket was nothing.
But I did not feel like taking a beating. Once a cop gets you, you have no control over how far it goes. I kept seeing the LAPD video playing in my head. That Klan mob beat King until they were exhausted. Half a dozen grown men wore themselves out beating one dude with clubs. I glanced in my rearview again. They’re probably calling for backup right now. Who knows why they are so afraid of us, but they are. I was unarmed.
I made another turn. They did too. Again, if the worst thing on the table had been a traffic ticket, I’d have pulled over without them even asking. I’d have followed their directions and answered their questions and I would have signed the citation and accepted my copy and probably just paid it. But I would not be degraded because two guys were bored.
Still behind me. A short, slow parade up and down the deserted wide streets south of Market. I knew that any search of my plates would turn up nothing. Nothing that they could use. But they could see my head. In a year or two someone would coin the term “Driving While Black.”
I sped up a little. Perhaps, if they weren’t really following me, if they just happened to also be driving down the street at 15 miles an hour, then if I sped up to, say, 20, I could slowly leave them behind. But they sped up too. They had been maybe three car lengths behind me, and then they were still maybe three car lengths behind me.
They are baiting me. They were trying to get me to run, to do something stupid. Why my illegal turn wasn’t enough, I didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t illegal. Maybe I just had a guilty conscience. Cops knew about that. They counted on it, used it. They laughed at people and how easily manipulated we are. And it was happening to me right now. I need to be cool. I need to stay cool. OK.
I made a leisurely right turn onto some side street. I signaled first, to see if they would signal. They didn’t. But they didn’t have to.
As soon as I was around the corner I hit it. The side streets in that part of the city are crazy little mazes, complete with dead ends. All I cared about was increasing the distance between myself and some guys who might have been looking to boost their self-esteem at my expense.
I zoomed down a little side street. The narrow road veered left; in every other direction there were buildings. I glanced into my mirror and didn’t see them. They hadn’t hit the corner yet.
I made the left, fast. All that recreational action driving was paying off.
This one wasn’t a side street. It was an alley. Complete with vagrants. They were milling about in what appeared to be their living room. They seemed surprised to see anyone, let alone someone in a car that was now going maybe 50. I tore into them, praying that a hobo’s minimum skill set included the ability to evade a speeding car on short notice. It did. It was close, but even the old ones moved pretty good.
In the faces of the vulnerable men I shot past, I caught a glimpse of myself. I am in a car chase. With the police. I am evading arrest. Those moments of clarity always came at a bad time.
Now they are really gonna beat me. “Aw,” I said out loud. For sure, now. They beat you if you run. Everybody knows that. That turn probably wasn’t even illegal. But they baited you, and you let them, and now they are chasing you. And you are headed toward a dead end and it’s about to happen to you now. It’s your turn.
This time, all I could do was make a right. If that was a dead end, I’d turn Claire off and hide. Maybe try to climb a fire escape. I’d watched enough episodes of Cops to know exactly how that would go. But the thing about fleeing is that, once you start, you really can’t stop. Your body won’t let you.
But the alley let out onto a wide, sunny street. I forced myself to slow down. No cops anywhere. My right hand trembled. I took deep, slow breaths.
Her Dad.
Friday, February 17, 1995
We were up late talking and she told me what her father used to do to her when she was a baby. I mean a baby. And for years. I won’t repeat it here. I’ll just say that part of me still believes that that is impossible. That nobody would do that. But, unfortunately, I know she was telling the truth. At least I’m pretty sure she was.
After she was done, we sat there for a long time.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t say it. I left it to her to say it.
Let’s go. That’s all it would have taken. We would have gone to where her father was and I would have put him in my trunk. That was the extent of my plan. My very worst ideas come to me on a need-to-know basis. Let’s go, and 15 minutes later we would have been on the road, and an hour after that her father would have been in my trunk. Fact.
I knew she knew this. She knew, sitting cross-legged on her kitchen floor in the wee hours, she could have done something. She chose not to. But, even now, I hope that having the option brought her some comfort.
I Suggest.
Saturday, February 18, 1995
This was before going to clubs became a stupid thing to do. There was still a good chance of having a night of dancing and making out that didn’t end with watching someone get shot. Back then, most people went to clubs to have fun, not to act like fucking idiots.
We didn’t spend every moment glued together. One or the other of us would see something interesting and wander off. We danced solo, we danced with each other, we danced with other people. I enjoyed that feeling of recognition when we would come together again. It was like we had known each other a long time, and I still thought that feeling meant something.
I came out of the bathroom and “Set It Off” was playing. That’s my jam. Sarah was dancing with some prep near the middle of the dance floor. I bobbed in the corner and closed my eyes and lost myself in the throb of that beat. Set it off. Setitoff. Setsetsetsetitoff . . .
Y’all want this party started quickly . . . right? Strafe asked rhetorically.
I heard something. Maybe there was something between us, something cosmic, because I heard Sarah’s voice, clearly, over the music. My eyes opened already pointed in her direction. I didn’t make out any words, but her voice was not happy. And this motherfucker—this preppie fop motherfucker with a sweater draped over his shoulders and sunglasses on his forehead in a nightclub at night—had Sarah by her wrist. And they were not doing the hustle.
I was moving through the crowd. On the left! The floor was packed, but I don’t remember feeling any other bodies. On the right! He still hadn’t let her go. Her face was rage. On the left, I suggest, while we’re left . . . I could no longer feel my body. I could only feel my eyes. They felt hot. My field of vision had narrowed down to an oval, like a scuba mask. I only had eyes for dude.
Setsetsetsetitoff.
I came at them from the flank. I nudged Sarah aside a bit and gave the preppie rapist a big smile and I slapped him across his face with my right hand just as hard and as fast as I could. Sarah took her wrist back.
This is the thing about when a man slaps another man: it is a sign of intense disrespect. We all know that. It says, “I don’t take you seriously enough to use my fist.” But the real thing about a slap is that it hurts like fuck. It is still a hit. Even though it is supposedly kid gloves or lady treatment or whatever, done properly, a slap can rock you.
I hit the dandy with the very bottom of my hand, the palm heel. There’s more padding there than over the knuckles, but otherwise it’s a striking surface like any other. And I caught him on the jaw, where, if I had used my knuckles, he’d have woken up on the floor. My hand flew up from my side with no windup, while he was still staring, confused, at my smiling face. Total blindside.
It was a nice hit. After a little initial resistance his head swung up and to my left. Sweat sprayed off his face like he was a boxer. The shades were gone. A gold chain jumped; a pink club light hit it, and I saw a tiny medallion hanging off the chain with the name Rich written in cute flowing script. Of course. Rich. In 10 years he’d be just another Dick downtown somewhere, taking credit for someone else’s work. But here, now, Rich was mine.
Rich didn’t roll with the blow like he might have if he really were a boxer, and that was a mistake. He tried to stop his head from reeling back, thereby allowing me to deliver all of my energy. Then he settled for trying to whip his head back down, as if that hadn’t just happened. When our eyes met again, his were blinking a lot.
So I waited. I didn’t know what he was going to do. But as soon as he did it, I was going to clamp my jaws around him and ragdoll him like a dog would a squirrel. I didn’t know what human movements that would translate into.
Rich blinked at me some more and then glanced away. I peeked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching a buddy creep up on me. No. We were still surrounded by dancing strangers. Some were staring. But Rich and I were alone together in the way that mattered. I could feel my face again; my smile was too wide, too toothy. I was a predator. A storm. I was Rich’s misfortune.
He still wouldn’t do anything. I considered slapping him again, and maybe he sensed that, because he slowly backed up and quickly walked away. Never said a word.
I turned to Sarah; another one of our little reunions. “Hi!” I was smiling for real.
“Hi yourself!” She pressed up against me; I threw my arms over her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.” I scanned the room for Rich or anyone else looking for payback. “Look, I know you didn’t need me to—”
“And I know that you know that,” she interrupted. “I thank you because you probably just kept me out of jail.”
There was something pointy in my side. “Word?” It was the punching dagger I’d bought her the night we met, gripped in her right fist, the tip gently pressed up to my guts.
“Oh, that is so sweet!” I cried. “You know, if it’s like that, I kinda think dude owes me a thank you . . .” I started searching for Rich again.
Sarah removed the knife from my guts and got on her tiptoes and kissed me. “Dude owes you more than thanks.” Kiss. “Dude needs to name his firstborn after you.” Kiss. “Because if he ever reproduces”—kiss—“you are the only reason he ever got to.” Kiss. “He was about to get neutered.”
That’s when I knew I loved her.
The music stopped for a full five seconds. And then:
Who you tryna get crazy with, ese? Don’t you know I’m loco?
The crowd let out a collective OH! and immediately started bouncing. My first thought was that I should take the DJ’s selection of “Insane in the Membrane” personally. My second thought was that I was being paranoid. Then I looked up at the DJ booth; a Latin cat in a fuzzy Kangol and Adidas sweatsuit was pointing at me and laughing. I had to laugh too. I know a displaced Nuyorican when I see one. He meant it as a compliment. If he was spinning in North Beach every weekend, he was probably more tired of Rich than I was. They behave a little bit better in the office.
Then Sarah unzipped my fly and I forgot about the DJ and Rich and everybody. We pretty much fucked standing up right there. She still had the knife in her other hand. The bouncing crowd gave us a lot of room.
Breach.
Monday, February 27, 1995
We were in love, so, naturally, I broke my lease.
Mr. Fred Meadows:
This letter is to inform you that I will be vacating my apartment effective 11:59 p.m. on Friday, March 3.
The lease that you and I entered into purports to run until the end of September. However, I advise you to forgo any contractual claims you may think you have.
As you well know, on February 1 of this year I injured myself on your property. This injury occurred as a direct result of your negligence. The full extent of my damages has yet to be determined.
Any adverse action on your part—including, but not limited to, an action to enforce the putative lease—will be construed as an act of retaliation. Such retaliation, in response to my injuries, claims, and possible disabilities, would violate the California and United States constitutions, several state and federal statutes, and public policy. (See, e.g., Civ. Code, § 1942.5; Civ. Code, § 51; Gov’t Code, § 12900 et seq.; Bus. & Prof. Code, § 17200; see also Gomes v. Byrne (1959) 51 Cal.2d 418.)
We could engage in protracted litigation to sort out our claims. This would mean many thousands of dollars in attorneys’ fees on your part. I of course would represent myself. But I would like to propose an alternative. We could each agree to waive any and all claims we have or may have against each other, including but not limited to any funds allegedly due under our lease. This would be my preference, and frankly it is the best you are going to do under the circumstances. I guarantee it.
Consider my offer. A failure to respond will be taken as agreement.
I’ll drop my keys in my mailbox on the 3rd.
Very Truly Yours,
Marcus Hannibal Hayes, Esq.
That’s how much in love we were.
The Age-Old Question.
Thursday, March 2, 1995
I went to Animal Farm for litter and cat toys and when I came back out a UPS truck had thoroughly blocked me in. It was double-parked right next to Claire and the cars in front of and behind her.
I stood there a few seconds, taking it in, and then homeboy came out of the drycleaners next door to Animal Farm. A brother, about my age, in tiny brown shorts. He was walking briskly, but when our eyes met he stopped dead.
I held his gaze for a while. Then I leaned back, slowly, and lifted my head until my face was pointed to the sky. And I asked God, loudly: “Why is ev-ry-bo-dy always dissin’ ME?”
At “ME” I stood up straight again and gave dude my biggest, wildest, googliest crazy eyes.
I read the sad story on the brother’s face: Born to good parents of modest means. Stayed out of trouble. Finished high school. Watched people fall off the edge all around him. Got himself a job. A good job, with benefits. Paid his taxes. And now, this. All for naught. I almost felt bad.
I prolonged the moment a bit longer, then let the smile break across my face. “I’m just messin’.”
He stared at me blankly for two seconds, and then started laughing. He laughed very hard. And also maybe cried a little bit. We shared the laugh. It felt good, and it seemed like it felt good to him too, mostly.
He was still cry-laughing when he climbed into his big brown truck and got the hell out of my way.
I got into Claire still smiling. Homeboy had a new lease on life. Maybe I was his guardian angel. Either way, he shouldn’t have blocked me in.
The Boom Box.
Friday, March 3, 1995
With her four dogs and my three cats, we were the Brady Bunch, San Francisco style. Her house was bigger than my apartment, but it couldn’t hold us all. It was simpler to give up both of our places and move the whole operation into a big four-bedroom house we’d found on the outskirts of the city. The owner required a one-year lease; we asked for two. That she and I would be together forever was a given. Only I signed the lease; Sarah was “off the grid.”
I hadn’t seen or spoken to any of my friends or family in weeks; neither had she. (Did I stutter? In love!) Come moving day, there wasn’t really anyone we could ask to help. So, after we rented a truck, we hired a couple of day laborers outside the U-Haul lot.
Generally, I think of these men—the ones who stand outside of U-Hauls and Home Depots and such, waiting for work—as honorable people, doing unenviable but honest work to survive. And for the most part that’s probably right. Maybe there were plenty of honest men there that day and we didn’t see them. Maybe we ignored the honorable men and went straight to the felons. At the time, it felt only like we were passing on the older men and approaching the two strongest.
I don’t remember their names. Maybe we never even got them. We just walked up to a crowd of dudes, caught one’s eye, and said, “How much to help us move? You and your friend? One day’s work.” Sarah did the talking.
The four of us squeezed in the big truck’s only seat and drove it from the U-Haul to my beautiful Haight Street flat, emptied it into the truck, drove to her place in Berkeley, loaded that in, and then headed back to the city to the new love nest.
We had a lot of stuff. Our movers, who presumably had less stuff, were openly checking it all out. Moving has often made me uncomfortable. Moving men (1) are physically strong; (2) apparently have few options; (3) see and handle everything you own; and (4) know exactly where you live.
But that day I didn’t care. I didn’t care generally. I had cared too much for too long. If I discovered something that mattered to me, I let it go immediately. Sarah was helping with that. A lot.
