here?”
“What,” Frankie asked. “You in a rush?”
Klinger lifted a shoulder. “No, I …”
Frankie raised his hand and, like magic, a green taxi glided silently to the curb. “Gotta keep up appearances,” Frankie winked.
Frankie ducked into the back seat of the taxi, closed the door, and the machine glided soundlessly away. Clean Air Vehicle, it said on the cab’s trunk, and Gentleman’s Club. A block back down Hyde at Bush, which is one-way going east, the taxi forged a left through a crosswalk full of wheel-chairs and crutches and disappeared.
Breakfast and lunch on the same day, Klinger marveled, as he contemplated the front door of the café.
Two and a half hours later, Klinger was holding at arm’s length the full-page ad for an unputdownable thriller on the back of the Arts section when Frankie slid into the booth opposite him.
“I was just wondering,” Klinger said, as he refolded the section and dropped it onto the stack beside his perfectly polished plate, “how long it’s been since I read two articles in a row on the subject of narrative ballet.”
“Yeah …” Frankie managed to respond. Despite the word’s containing no fricatives, in Frankie’s mouth it sounded like slurry running down the chute behind a cement truck. His lower lip hung a bit slack, and he appeared even more relaxed than the last time Klinger had seen him.
Even though the
Times
had fired up aggressive West Coast coverage of late, Klinger had found no mention in it of a San Francisco convenience store clerk getting his head bashed in by ten pounds of frozen chicken. Either way, he saw no reason to mention it to Frankie.
“Everything come out okay up the hill?”
“Beautiful …”
A waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and asked Frankie if he wanted anything.
“I’m …” Frankie managed to say, “I’m good …”
She indicated Klinger’s cup. Klinger shrugged. As she poured the refill she asked, “Ever heard of a poet called Jim Gustafson?”
Frankie didn’t bother to answer that one, but she wasn’t talking to Frankie.
“Can’t say as I have,” Klinger responded politely.
The waitress parked the knuckles of her spare hand on her hip. “The night he read the line to a thousand people in the Exploratorium, about sitting in Malvina’s and drinking coffee till your hands shake like the wings on cheap jets?” She smiled and nodded. “I took him back to my place and fucked him till he puked.”
This got even Frankie’s attention. “
Yeah
…”
“Didn’t take long,” she added.
“I remember Malvina’s,” Klinger said. “Over there in North Beach. Next to Washington Square.”
“Jim was talking about the old Malvina’s,” the waitress told him. “On Union at Grant. Before it moved to Washington Square.”
“Is it still there?”
“Beats me,” she said. “I live in Bernal Heights.”
“What about the poet guy?”
“Deader than a letter to Santa,” she said. “The sauce got him.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“We had our fun.” She gathered up Klinger’s empty plate with her free hand. “Then I threw him out. Anything else?”
Frankie looked as if he were about to manage a shrug, but the gesture eluded him.
“I think that’s it,” Klinger told her. “Let’s have a check.”
“You got it.”
Klinger watched her walk away.
“Yeah …” Frankie’s eyes were barely open, and he smacked his lips once in a while, ever so slightly.
Klinger folded his hands on the Formica and waited. Not two minutes later, the check came. The total was $9.87, in return for which Klinger had more food in his belly than any day in recent memory. Plus, he’d been taking up real estate for two and a half hours. He laid a ten and two ones on the tray. “Keep it.” Eleven dollars and sixty-nine cents entered the ruled ledger of his mind.
“Appreciate it,” the waitress said. If she noticed that Klinger’s table-mate was on the nod, she made not a sign. Instead, once more,
“What,” Frankie asked. “You in a rush?”
Klinger lifted a shoulder. “No, I …”
Frankie raised his hand and, like magic, a green taxi glided silently to the curb. “Gotta keep up appearances,” Frankie winked.
Frankie ducked into the back seat of the taxi, closed the door, and the machine glided soundlessly away. Clean Air Vehicle, it said on the cab’s trunk, and Gentleman’s Club. A block back down Hyde at Bush, which is one-way going east, the taxi forged a left through a crosswalk full of wheel-chairs and crutches and disappeared.
Breakfast and lunch on the same day, Klinger marveled, as he contemplated the front door of the café.
Two and a half hours later, Klinger was holding at arm’s length the full-page ad for an unputdownable thriller on the back of the Arts section when Frankie slid into the booth opposite him.
“I was just wondering,” Klinger said, as he refolded the section and dropped it onto the stack beside his perfectly polished plate, “how long it’s been since I read two articles in a row on the subject of narrative ballet.”
“Yeah …” Frankie managed to respond. Despite the word’s containing no fricatives, in Frankie’s mouth it sounded like slurry running down the chute behind a cement truck. His lower lip hung a bit slack, and he appeared even more relaxed than the last time Klinger had seen him.
Even though the
Times
had fired up aggressive West Coast coverage of late, Klinger had found no mention in it of a San Francisco convenience store clerk getting his head bashed in by ten pounds of frozen chicken. Either way, he saw no reason to mention it to Frankie.
“Everything come out okay up the hill?”
“Beautiful …”
A waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and asked Frankie if he wanted anything.
“I’m …” Frankie managed to say, “I’m good …”
She indicated Klinger’s cup. Klinger shrugged. As she poured the refill she asked, “Ever heard of a poet called Jim Gustafson?”
Frankie didn’t bother to answer that one, but she wasn’t talking to Frankie.
“Can’t say as I have,” Klinger responded politely.
The waitress parked the knuckles of her spare hand on her hip. “The night he read the line to a thousand people in the Exploratorium, about sitting in Malvina’s and drinking coffee till your hands shake like the wings on cheap jets?” She smiled and nodded. “I took him back to my place and fucked him till he puked.”
This got even Frankie’s attention. “
Yeah
…”
“Didn’t take long,” she added.
“I remember Malvina’s,” Klinger said. “Over there in North Beach. Next to Washington Square.”
“Jim was talking about the old Malvina’s,” the waitress told him. “On Union at Grant. Before it moved to Washington Square.”
“Is it still there?”
“Beats me,” she said. “I live in Bernal Heights.”
“What about the poet guy?”
“Deader than a letter to Santa,” she said. “The sauce got him.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“We had our fun.” She gathered up Klinger’s empty plate with her free hand. “Then I threw him out. Anything else?”
Frankie looked as if he were about to manage a shrug, but the gesture eluded him.
“I think that’s it,” Klinger told her. “Let’s have a check.”
“You got it.”
Klinger watched her walk away.
“Yeah …” Frankie’s eyes were barely open, and he smacked his lips once in a while, ever so slightly.
Klinger folded his hands on the Formica and waited. Not two minutes later, the check came. The total was $9.87, in return for which Klinger had more food in his belly than any day in recent memory. Plus, he’d been taking up real estate for two and a half hours. He laid a ten and two ones on the tray. “Keep it.” Eleven dollars and sixty-nine cents entered the ruled ledger of his mind.
“Appreciate it,” the waitress said. If she noticed that Klinger’s table-mate was on the nod, she made not a sign. Instead, once more,
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