DOWN THESE MEAN STREETS. The Bad-ass Biker strides massively down the street in his leather jacket, looking pimps, whores, and crack dealers straight in the eye, walking around the occasional body with gunshot wounds, exchanging in passing a cautious look of mutual respect with a cluster of cops hassling some low-life -- we're all bad-asses and we know enough to keep out of each other's way.
Crowds don't slow the Biker down much. He just focusses his attention down the street beyond the people coming towards him and charges ahead. Despite this, he rarely actually collides with anyone. Although it was really funny one day on Stockton Street in San Francisco. A crowd of half a dozen Chinese were coming toward him spread out across the whole sidewalk shoulder to shoulder and they weren't about to squeeze together even a little bit to let anybody past, just expected people to walk out into the street around them.
So the Biker picked a crack between two of them and charged into it. The only thing was, he hadn't noticed that the woman on one side of the crack was holding hands with a small child and the point he picked to charge into was right where their hands joined. So he wound up tangled in their arms, with the kid looking distressed and the woman yammering away in Chinese. And he just looked at her. Didn't say a word, just stood there and looked. Goddamn fuckers ought to learn that they're not in rural China any more, this is a city and people need to learn some minimal consideration for each other.
It's not really a heavy biker jacket he wears -- no chains or heavy flaps. (In fact, one of the reasons I bought it was because it was light enough that I knew I'd be able to wear it in Honolulu in the winter.) But the Biker's aura weighs the jacket down, makes it heavier on his shoulders, just as it makes him heavier himself with power in his chest, shoulders, and upper arms.
Entering a tough bar, even one he's never been in here before, he strides in with the attitude that A) he belongs here and B) he's not looking for trouble but if trouble comes his way he'll handle it. (The only thing I know about fighting comes from six months studying aikido. But so far, I've never been put to the test.)
There is a ponderous courtesy to the Biker. He'll stand at the bar waiting patiently, not feeling slighted if it takes the bartender a while to get around to him -- he can see that the guy's busy and he's not asking for special consideration.
And if he flirts a bit with a little lady sitting next to him, he does it without making her feel pressured, says something to make her laugh, letting her know that it's her choice whether she wants to play or not, making it safe for her to be excited by the aura of danger he carries. And he also understands the importance of paying attention to the boy friend, looking him straight in the eye and being really interested in who he is for a moment. Because guys like attention too, and it's not so much that most of them have a problem with other men paying attention to their women, what they have a problem with is being ignored.
He finishes his drink and strides up to the front door, yanks it open and goes on his way.
A PROPOSITION RESPECTFULLY DECLINED. In a strip joint, he sits at the bar and is about ready to leave when one of the dancers comes up and starts talking to him.
He's ready to reject the request for a drink he knows is coming, but she just keeps making conversation, being friendly. Finally, he orders another beer for himself and at last she says, ``So are you going to buy me one?''
``Why would I want to do that?'' he asks with a smile.
They both know that this means Yes, but you have to put up with a little teasing first.
``Because of my beautiful body,'' she answers. ``Because of my vivacious personality and because I'm worth being friends with. And because I'm going to be dancing next.''
``Well, maybe it's time for me to go then.''
``WHAT?''
He grins. ``If you're going to be dancing, I figure there's no point in sticking around. Sounds pretty boring to me.''
She grins in return, reaches up and pulls down a side of her tube top to expose one medium sized tit. ``You think this is boring?''
He looks at it with the appreciation she expects. ``Well, maybe I'll stick around just to see if you're any good or not.'' They both understand this game. They've reached the point where he has to buy her a drink. ``But only one until I find out whether you know how to dance or not.''
At the end of her set on stage, he stuffs a $20 bill in her garter and says ``I'm going to have to leave soon, but talk to me for a minute first.''
He moves to one of the booths and when she joins him he asks, ``Do you ever accept cash to go home with customers?''
She says ``The answer I always give to that question is that we're always waiting for that offer we can't refuse.''
``That sounds like it would probably be out of my price range.''
He gives her a $10 bill, saying, ``This is because I can't stay to buy you another drink.''
Then, as he stands up to go, he stops and says ``That offer you couldn't refuse. Just how much would that be?''
``Well, they always tell us to start from $1,000.''
``That sounds like a bit less than you're worth but a whole lot more than I can afford.''
She laughs, then says seriously, ``I'm a nice girl. I take off my clothes for money but I only go to bed with the men I choose.''
He hadn't expected her to say yes. He's not even sure he'd wanted her to. He'd just wanted to ask.
``Suppose I just asked you for an ordinary date, then. We could go out to dinner or something and I could spend some money on you. But just a date.''
``That could be good. After I get to know you a little better.''
He knows that this girl is going to become very expensive for him and he also knows that they're going to become good friends. Whether that friendship will go beyond seeing her at her job and buying her drinks remains to be seen. She'll have a boy friend already, of course, she's not the type not to.
When he leaves, he walks down to the nearest bus stop, sits on the bench and waits. Walking and buses are how he gets around. (I have a brother who lost half a leg in a motorcycle accident and I'm not about to ride one.)
THE BEAT OF A DIFFERENT BONGO. The North Beach Hipster gets off the bus in Waikiki, where the sidewalks are jammed with tourists.
The leather jacket is lighter now, and so is his body -- a bit on the short side and definitely skinny because the Hipster doesn't really eat all that much. A little cold cereal or anything that's left in the refrigerator when he wakes up at noon, maybe a bowl of chile or some noodles in a cheap Chinese restaurant (where he can eat at the counter) later in the afternoon, and then probably a light dinner around midnight to soak up the alcohol and give him fuel for several hours of writing before he finally goes to sleep around four or five in the morning.
But it's prime time now. The Hipster glides down the street, swaying a little from the hips with a touch of a jazz rhythm. He doesn't fight the crowds jamming the sidewalk but slips lithely in between them. The Hipster thinks of tourists as a sort of mobile street furniture, urban sheep wandering around with their mouths open and faces hid behind cameras, unable to see what's right in front of them. You don't want to make the mistake of thinking of them as being self-aware. Being a tourist, you see, doesn't have to do with whether you're visiting a place or not. It's an innate characteristic. These people are tourists in their own fucking lives, for Christ sake.
Slipping into City Lights Bookstore to check the bulletin board and see if any new literary magazines have come in. Maybe even looking for a specific book by an author nobody's ever heard of. If City Lights doesn't have it then nobody in the city will.
Then into a beatnik bar. The bartender is a fellow writer who shares the Hipster's taste in obscure music. The Hipster is drinking white wine at the moment -- German, for sure, probably Liebfraumilch. Riesling is okay, too, as long as you don't think about yuppies drinking it in fancy restaurants. You shouldn't deprive yourself of good things just because stupid people also like them. Later in the evening he will switch drinks. Tonight is starting to seem like a Pernod night. Unless he gets in one of his strange moods and starts drinking something totally off-the-wall. A few nights ago he fell into a Janis mood and drank Southern Comfort all evening. He once got into a really bizarre Maigret mood and was ordering Calvados all evening -- although when he finally found a bar that had it, he discovered that it tastes like shit.
If somebody offers to buy him a drink later, he'll ask for a Remy. It's easy to get away with that. All you have to do is say, ``Sorry, I was only too kidding, I'll order something cheaper,'' and then they insist on getting you the Remy.
He walks over and watches the chess game for a few moves. White is in big trouble but the Hipster doesn't stick around the see the slaughter. It's jazz time.
It would be so great to be able to go to the Blackhawk or the Jazz Workshop. But they've long since joined the snows of yesteryear. (Even when I was living in San Francisco in the Sixties, the Blackhawk was already gone. And the Jazz Workshop seemed too expensive to go to more than a couple of times and I was too dumb then to know that experiences are worth more than money.)
Here in Waikiki the only jazz place for the Hipster is the New Orleans Bistro. It's not a place where you can expect to hear Mingus and Miles and Keith Jarrett, just a female singer and a piano player who are competent but predictable. And a bunch of tourists will probably be eating dinner and talking and not even listening. But it's the best Honolulu has to offer.
A JEST TOO FAR. As he walks in the door, Mr. Nice Guy says hello to Jay the the Bistro's owner. One seat is open at the bar, all the way at the end where the credit card machine is. The bartender tonight is Sharon. Like most of the bartenders and waitresses, Sharon likes him. She usually forgets to charge him for any of his drinks after the first. Mr. Nice doesn't know whether this is intentional or not.
As usual, he orders a Hurricane -- a strong drink with light rum, dark rum, and vodka. It's not that he wants to get drunk -- he'll only have two or three tonight, although three is a lot, actually. He's no longer young enough to spend the whole evening drinking hard, especially with classes to teach tomorrow.
He asks Sharon how her life has been going and when she asks about his he just says ``Same old thing,'' or something of the sort. He's a good listener but doesn't talk much about himself.
It's his bad luck that a woman named Alicia is sitting next to him tonight. She says hello in the hoarse whisper that is all her throat can produce and will keep up a steady line of unwelcome chatter all evening. Nobody at the Bistro likes her very much -- all she ever does is complain about everyone and everything. But Mr. Nice Guy smiles and listens attentively. Alicia likes him a lot.
Later on, a small disaster with Sharon. She comes over and says ``I am so damned bored. What's been happening with you? Really, tell me something, tell me anything, tell me a lie.''
And as soon as she says ``Tell me a lie,'' the mind starts working really fast, running through all the lies that men customarily tell women, looking for something that will make her laugh. And it's only an instant before Mr. Nice Guy says ``You're beautiful.''
Immediately her face takes on a look of utter shock, as if he'd slapped her hard. ``Fuck you!'' she says and walks away.
He tries to recover. ``I'm sorry, I screwed that one up. You said to tell you a lie and that was the truth.'' Doesn't she realize that he would never have made that joke if he didn't think that she's good looking?
But it can't be fixed, and she pointedly ignores him the rest of the evening until he leaves.
At least that settles the question of whether to stay for another drink or not. Just as well, considering the absurd amount of money I spent on that dancer earlier in the evening.
HONOLULU NOCTURNE. By the time I leave the New Orleans Bistro, it's much too late to get the bus home but not late enough to really justify a cab. It's only about half an hour's walk. Walking through the dark mostly deserted Honolulu streets I see lights in windows here and there and sometimes hear the sounds of a television or voices. I enjoy being aware of the people in these houses and apartments going about their lives (mostly sleeping) and not knowing I'm out here.
Tomorrow I could be in San Francisco. Have a croissant and double espresso for breakfast at a literary cafe in the Mission then take BART over to Berkeley and spend the day going to bookstores.
Coming into the apartment, I click on the television to check Bob Costas. Costas is interviewing a comedian I've never heard of, but as usual his questions are drawing the guest out so effectively that I get fascinated and wind up watching the whole interview, washing the dishes and flossing my teeth during commercials.
When I finish my shower, the water is standing five inches deep in the bathtub. It will all run out by morning but I'd better do something about it soon or one day it won't drain at all and then I will be in trouble.
I take a moment to decide what music to go to sleep by. Coltrane or K.D. Lang. I decide on K. D. because of the nourishing quality of her voice.
Stacked beside the bed are books by Rebecca Brown, Alice Munro, T. Coraghessan Boyle, Charles Bukowski, Lawrence Ferlighetti, Sandra Cisneros, and Jimmy Buffet(!) not to mention more than a year's worth of unread science fiction and mystery magazines. God, I really want to read some of this stuff sometime. But not tonight, obviously. It's 2:30 already and I have a 10:30 Number Theory class to teach tomorrow. It seems almost impossible to get to sleep earlier.
SOCIAL NOTES FROM ALL OVER. Arriving at my office the next morning, I have half an hour before my first class. I click on the computer to check my mail and see if anybody has flamed my latest articles on the internet. There's a letter from the woman in Tennessee I have a strange and intense email relationship with. I am helping her with a personal problem which is so close to my own situation that each time I write her I have to stop and wonder, ``How come I'm not applying all this good advice to myself?''
Excuse me for taking so long to answer your last message. The truth is that I've spent the past day being almost obsessed with some of the questions you asked me, and yet every time I try to write down answers for them I find my fingers almost paralyzed, unable to type.I want to tell you that I really am trying very hard to do the exercise you suggested -- doing something nice for someone every day. I go through the day looking all around me for opportunities to do nice things, but somehow I just can't seem to see them. It's a little like being tone deaf, I think: I'm "nice deaf."
But something really strange is happening in my life and I think it may be some kind of effect the Nice Exercise is having on me. Because people are responding to me differently. Yesterday my boss said "Something's changed about you, Susan. You've become softer or something. I can't but help wonder whether you've found a new lover."
As to that, it will be a while yet. Although an extremely nice looking guy has just started working in the lab....
Immediately I start drafting an answer, then as so often realize I have more to say than I'd expected, and barely manage to finish it before time for my class. Walking into the classroom, I realize that I have no idea what the fuck I'm going to say.
THE SQUARE OF THE HYPOTENUSE. Then it's time and Professor Lady begins lecturing. Words pour out of his mouth. He's inspired. He's giving his students more than the mere mechanics, he's showing them the ideas behind the mechanics and the type of thinking that led to those ideas. He's attentive to their responses and can tell from their faces when he's going too fast or taking something for granted. He cares about his students and wants to share with them all the insights it has taken him so many years to figure out for himself.
And he talks about himself and the way in which he learned mathematics. He realizes that this very personal approach to teaching, really sharing himself in his teaching, is sometimes at first rather bewildering to some of his students. It's not what they expect from a mathematics teacher. (One of my student evaluations once said ``His teaching is definitely non-standard.'')
After class, there is the usual sensation of coming down again. This must be a little bit what a rock performer feels like after a concert is over.
The Professor lingers a few minutes in the mail room, postponing the moment to deal with the horde of students he knows will be waiting for his office hours. There's an Number Theory assignment due next time and it's fairly predictable which students will come by asking for help with some of the problems.
The student at the head of the line is my favorite, an older woman who is apparently Indian, although she speaks fluent American English. We can talk to each other as two adults. The material is not easy for her but she works at it very systematically and is willing to do whatever it takes to master it.
``I thought I was finally getting the hang of these proofs. But now, with this new material on congruences, it's like I'm starting all over again. I look at these problems and I just don't have any idea where to start with them.''
``You did really well on the previous problem set.''
``I know, and that's why it's so frustrating that all of a sudden nothing makes sense any more. I think I must have missed the main idea or something.''
``Well, were you able to do anything at all on any of the problems?''
By general consensus, this is the part of teaching the Professor is really good at -- working with students on an individual basis.
Finally he chases all the students out of his office, takes a minute to write down a homework assignment for his calculus class and to see what the topic for today is. Then off to teach again.
The Professor manages to struggle through calculus, making something like a dozen errors on the board today. (Presenting the sheer mechanics has never been his strong point.) One of his least favorite calculus students wants to see him after class.
I stop by the mailroom again. There's a letter from my daughter. But first I have to deal with this unpleasant student.
This guy is far from the dumbest in the class. Much as I'd love to give him a C, he's going to earn himself a B and feel slighted that I don't give him an A.
For some reason that I don't understand, he is physically repulsive to me, although by any objective standard his appearance is quite presentable. He always tells me how much he likes mathematics, but he manages to ask the type of questions that take forever to answer because they are so obvious that it's impossible to figure out what it is that he doesn't understand.
I want to say to him ``If you like mathematics so much why don't you ever think about it instead of coming to me as soon as you get hung up on some triviality?''
I sit there with him, being Professor Lady and just wanting him to be gone. But I understand that there's no point in trying to rush him or will him out of my office, that will only cause him to resist the pressure and stay even longer. I'm halfway in the mode of the caring Professor Lady and at the same time I'm trying and summon up an aspect of myself I call the Zen Master. The Zen Master understands the rhythm of life and can understand that this student's presence is what life is all about for the moment and in itself is neither good nor bad, and that the best thing is to just surrender myself to the experience.
It doesn't work very well, though. Although I slow my breathing and try to let my mind relax, I keep trying to escape from the moment. The Zen Master is never that easy to call, mostly he shows up unexpectedly. There ought to be a word like SHAZAM! that would summon him.
Finally the student leaves. I have no idea whether I've actually helped him understand something or whether he's just accepted the fact that I've told him as much as I know how to. I'm not going to let it worry me.
A DOG NAMED SEBASTIAN. The letter from my daughter starts out thanking me for the money I sent her last time.
We just got the car out of the shop and I'm afraid next time we take it in they're going to tell us it has to be put on life support and they'll ask whether we're authorizing heroic measures or would rather let it die with dignity. So we spent last weekend going to used car lots. Thanks to the money you sent, now we can actually afford to buy one.Your letter didn't upset me. I thought it was kind of interesting, in fact. It reminded me of something I've always sort of wanted to mention to you. There's a book that Sam & Josh like to have read to them. It's about a dog named Sebastian (like Sebastian Dangerfield, I wonder?) who during the week dresses up in a business suit and teaches classes at the University. But then one day the Dean sees him after hours knocking over garbage cans and chasing cats and he gets fired. (No tenure, I guess.) At the end, there's a picture of him running off somewhere with a poodle. I always think of you when I read them that story.
ADMINISTRATRIVIA. Okay, it's my choice whether I spend the rest of the afternoon being Professor Lady or not.
Bring up my story on the computer screen. I'm committed to writing this sucker by the end of the month so I'd better keep reminding myself that I'm being a writer this semester.
Boy, how dreadful! This junk is never going to turn into a story. I ought to start over again on something new.
A knock on the door. I could just be very quiet for a few minutes and pretend I'm not here. I wonder how much fuss the University would make if I drilled a hole in the door and installed on of those spy eyes so I could see who was knocking.
Curiosity always overcomes good sense in me. Blank the computer screen and open the door. Damn! It's my Chairman. Okay, smile, we are friends after all, but we both know that whatever he's here for will be unwelcome.
``I wanted to tell you what the hiring situation looks like. As usual, nobody in the Dean's office will tell me anything for sure but we have to act on the assumption that we may have a slot to fill so I'll have some applications for you to look at later in the week. There won't be as many as last year, because I'm only passing on the ones that look really good to me. Unless,'' he says with a grin, ``you want to check them all out for yourself.''
``I trust your judgement,'' I say. I think that he understands what I really mean, namely that I don't give a fuck who we hire and that I'd be perfectly happy to have him make all the decisions on his own. But of course neither of us can acknowledge this.
``There's one other thing,'' he says, and somehow I can sense that this is the really bad news.
``This is your year for post-tenure review.''
``I know, I'm already writing up the statement.''
``Well, good. You know, I always enjoy your annual Activities Summaries. Your is the only one I actually look forward to reading. The only thing is, some of the people involved in this post-tenure review process don't have much of a sense of humor -- people outside the department. So try to make it look a little substantial. Because your bio-bib doesn't show any recent papers, and an outsider is probably going to wonder about that. I know that you're probably working on something right now and of course you've been writing your book, but just say something that will show outsiders that you're still active.''
He didn't actually say ``Just lie about it.'' He would deny it if I'd suggested that's what he meant, but the message was there. After he's gone, for a minute it flashes through my head that I could have said the same thing I did to Sharon last night -- ``You're beautiful.'' But of course he wouldn't have had any way of understanding the joke.
Goddamn it all, I don't want to take time right now to play mathematician.
I bring the story back up on the computer screen. Damn, every story in my life I've ever finished has come about by some incomprehensible miracle. What the hell makes me think I can write one on demand? But if I can't write two stories for this workshop then I should just make a commitment to forget this nonsense of being a writer for good.
I need to go home for the day, just get off this damned campus. What would really be satisfying would be to smash a few things as I leave. Or get smashed myself, that's what they call sublimation. Go in Moose's where nobody will know me and have several whiskeys.
WORDS OF WIDSOM AND A PUBLIC EMBARRASSMENT. Halfway across the campus, I see Janice, a friend from Anna Bannana's. She's a graduate student in the drama department and also does interpretive dancing and takes beautiful photographs. And she's actually published a book on blues. Less than thirty years old and already having books published.
Tired as I am, I can't just walk by without saying hello. Friendships like hers are important and need to be nourished. I sit down on a bench beside her and we exchange looks of mutual weariness.
``I've thought a lot about what you were telling me the other night,'' she says. ``I can see that a lot of it really applies, and I was wondering if you had anything to add.''
The trouble is, I don't actually remember a thing about the conversation she's talking about.
A little thing like that never stops the Betazoid Empath, though. ``I can only tell you things that seem to make sense for me.'' That seems safe. ``It's only the things you figure out for yourself that can really help you. But sometimes people can suggest new directions to look in.''
``Yeah, when you said that the other night I realized that I keep asking other people to tell me what I should do and what I really need is to learn to pay attention to what's in my own heart.''
``All you have to do is to take time to listen,'' the Betazoid says, ``and you'll realize it's been telling you things all along.''
``And the thing about challenges, that was important too.''
Janice, Janice, give me a bigger clue. I have no idea what you're talking about now. ``Which thing specifically about challenges?''
``When you were saying that the times in your life that turned out the most worthwhile were the times when you took on some challenge that was so difficult that you just felt hopeless about it.''
``Right. It's so easy to take the safe path and only do the things that you're sure you know how to. But then eventually you wind up looking back and saying `So what?'''
``I want to really thank you for all the times you've listened to my problems. You've really made a big difference in my life and helped me get it back together again.''
And then, as we're about to get up, a voice says ``Is there any way that you would possibly be willing to spend the night with me?''
And immediately her face becomes stricken.
No, no, no, I couldn't have said that! Oh please God, hit the backspace button and let the last two minutes be erased. Let it be unsaid.
``I'm so sorry,'' she says, ``I wish there were a way. You mean so much to me, I admire you so much, I respect you. You're so much more to me than just some one night stand or even...'' She doesn't quite say it: a lover.
Okay, okay, I made a horrible mistake but all we can do now is shut up about it. We both want my words to be unsaid, but that's not possible and no amount of talking will fix it. All the talking will just detour around things that can't be said. And I certainly can't say that I don't even want to be her lover, I don't want... anything. I'm too exhausted right now to want things. It's just that for a moment it seemed that it would really help out if I could just be in bed with a woman for a little while.
She says ``You're such a wonderful person, so intelligent, and creative, and caring. And wise. There are so many women who would be so lucky to have you. And you're the one who taught me about how important love is. You made me realize that having someone like Alex, who is willing to love me and cherish me, is so much more important than all the bullshit I used to get caught up in. And so I'm committed to him, totally committed. No more catting around like the way I used to, I don't even understand why I ever wanted to be like that. But you, you're attractive, you're really attractive, you know that don't you? And you have so much to offer.''
And in the midst of all this, suddenly I am crying. I mean not just a few tears in my eyes, but uncontrollable sobbing, tears flowing down. For Christ sake, sitting in the middle of the goddamn campus with students walking by and I'm bawling my head off. And to top it all, I have to figure out how to deal with this damn woman who thinks it's all because of her.
Janice says, ``Look, we could go Anna's for a while. I have to wait half an hour because I'm meeting Alex, but we can just sit here and talk until then and the three of us can go to Anna's together.''
No thank you, I don't want to go to Anna Bannana's with Janice and fucking Alex. And I don't want to sit and talk any longer, we've already talked way too much. Way too much. I just want to find a way to stop her trying to make everything all better again.
Somewhere within me I find a memory of how to smile. ``I'm fine,'' I tell her, ``I'm just really tired. I was awake all last night for some reason.'' Right, give her a lie she'll be willing to believe. ``You know one of my best-kept secrets now. I don't let many people find out how easily I cry. It can be embarrassing to go to movies with me.
``Actually, you've just helped me quite a bit,'' I add. There, that should end the conversation. ``I just wish I'd been able to manage without causing you so much distress.''
``It's okay,'' she says, uncertain. ``You've helped me so many times, this time it was your turn.''
THE RETURN OF THE ZEN MASTER. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! WHAT A STUPID FUCKING THING TO DO! At least it wasn't one of my students. Jesus, that would have been a total disaster. I must be coming completely unglued. If I don't get myself in hand, next thing I may be running across campus naked.
I stop in the bathroom, wash my face in cold water, and continue on my walk home. And in a little while, I'm surprised to discover that I'm almost cheerful. How very odd. Maybe there was really some truth in the lie I told Janice about her helping me.
Sometimes the lies you tell are the truest things you ever say.
Now where the hell did that come from?
The Zen Master! The Zen Master has suddenly showed up for real.
This morning's rain has gone, the sky is blue, the sun is warm, and it's all only a job, only money, only a little loss of face. Life will go on in any case and the things you try the hardest to avoid are sometimes exactly what you need the most. Challenges. I'm glad Janice reminded me of that.
Now where can I find a poodle to run off with?
1993