Chapter 8: Flush

…Someone celebrates his fortune, while Riley returns to Civic Center…


The barkeep looked across at the guy in the tracksuit sliding onto the stool. He smiled. She didn’t, waiting for his order.

Bud.

She moved a few steps to the right, bent to retrieve a bottle from the refrigerator and uncapped it. She pushed it to him. She took the two bills from the counter and turned to the antiquated machine. She pressed hard on the keys, then slammed her fist on the return to register the purchase. Two tabs, like tombstones, popped up indicating the amount. The till sprung open.

She dropped his change on the counter and moved down the bar, thinking, “All that for a dollar and a quarter”.

It was mid-afternoon in the Tenderloin bar a few steps from Market. From outside, she heard the bustle of activity, but inside the mood was dark and drowsy. Two men, regulars on their third round, sat in stony silence near the entrance. Another regular sat at a table with a newspaper, nursing a gin and tonic. The jukebox was silent.

“God, my head hurts.” Grabbing a pack of cigarettes and sunglasses, she made her way outside. As she did, she looked at his shoes.

She liked to say she could tell about a man by the condition of his shoes. Good laces and even heels meant a job. Unpolished with scuff marks meant he didn’t care. Falling apart meant desperation. Nikes. Like his black tracksuit, just out of the box.

After finishing her smoke she came back in. Another customer had entered. He sat two stools away from Tracksuit. She served him.

Tracksuit wanted a beer and a shot. She brought it as he bent his head to look inside his jacket, like people do when carrying small dogs. He had a brown paper bag.

He fished out a twenty, old and worn. She pinched the bill between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it on the way to the register. In the meantime, Tracksuit tried to start a conversation with the new guy, but he didn’t want to talk.

She returned to the end of the bar to watch. Tracksuit bubbled over about something he wanted to share. He raised his voice, talking nonsense about the weather. No one responded. He was starting to take it personal.

He was flush, she decided, but not for long. You didn’t broadcast good fortune without the wrong sort taking note. She concluded she’d have to “86” him if he didn’t settle down. It wasn’t her business what happened to him, as long as it didn’t happen in the bar.

She thought about the double shift she had to work that night.

“My god-damm head!”

***

Riley felt an electric jolt, stepping onto Civic Center Plaza for the first time since the protest. He looked across two columns of trees, rectangular strips of grass and the children’s playground, towards stodgy Brooks Auditorium. Beyond that, Market Street was busy with buses and pedestrians going downtown.

He headed to the spot where Susan attempted the interview and Martin plowed into him. It had been a raucous scene. Now it was serene. He looked down at the pavement, perplexed. He couldn’t tell where he had fallen and where the blood had pooled around his head.

The concrete rock surface conveyed blank uniformity, one portion similar to the next despite irregularity of the rocks. It bothered him there wasn’t any sign that Robert Martin ended his life there, no bleaching suggesting difficulty erasing the red stain, no indentation telling a man had fallen hard at that very place.

Over his shoulder, granite faced City Hall bore witness, but revealed nothing. Somewhere, perhaps in records stored within, there was mention of his passing. But where was it recorded that he, Riley Turner, had been detained, accused, ignored, and then, as if an afterthought, released? He pointed to his head. There was remembrance.

He wanted his thoughts to impact the external world. He looked around, then went to the base of a nearby tree. He searched for something to score the pavement, a rock, anything. Unable to find anything hard, he scooped a handful of dirt. Returning to the spot, he poured it from cupped hands, forming an outline of Martin’s head. Riley bowed to the modest tribute.

“It isn’t fair.”

Startled, Riley looked up

“It just isn’t fair. The thing he did to Robbie isn’t right.”

Ten feet away a man stood, looking at the outline on the pavement. He had a wild, bushy brown beard and red, overexposed skin. He wore jeans and a stained green field jacket. An overstuffed duffle lay beside him.

“What isn’t fair?” Riley asked.

Underneath shaggy hair, the man’s face took on a sterner aspect and an angry, aggressive voice. “You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”

Riley backed away.

Resuming a normal tone, he said, “He told you that he did.”

He edged from the man’s line of sight, circling around. He wanted to talk to him, but worried he was psychotic.

“What did you say?”

He blinked and looked at Riley as if for the first time, then returned his gaze to the dirt outline.

Convinced the man knew something, he sat cross-legged on the pavement determined to wait until he heard something more. After awhile, the man sat, resting his back against the duffle.

***

The cop walked towards them from the edge of the plaza, where his partner stood beside the black and white car.

“You have to move along.”

Even before he finished speaking the bearded man stood, took his bag and walked away. Riley remained seated, looking at the cop.

“You, too. No loitering.”

“I’m sitting.”

Hands on his hips, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he said, “You giving me trouble?”

“I’m just sitting.”

“I’ll tell you one more time.”

In the distance, the other officer moved in their direction.

Riley scowled and rose to follow the man. Years ago, he knew, a homeless encampment congealed in the plaza. The mayor, reluctant to use force, did nothing. In time, everyone else avoided the place. Finally, the city got the nerve to disperse them but was squeamish ever since about the homeless lingering too long.

With a few quick steps, Riley caught up to the man whose figure tilted left, counterbalancing the weight in his right hand. His shuffle suggested motion but argued against arriving anyplace soon.

“What’s your name, friend?”

His voice was gruff. “Joe.”

“Where you going, Joe?”

He kept walking.

“Did you know Robert Martin?”

Riley adjusted his pace, taking half steps but still walked too fast. Drooping his shoulders, he regulated the motion of his thighs. His body telegraphed his mind they weren’t going anyplace in particular and settled into a pattern, on hold for the rest of the day.



The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted May 16.