Half Read online

  Inside the café, Dixie accosts Michael. “Hi, I’m Dixie. What’s your name?

  “I’m Michael G. Page. Don’t forget the G. or you’ll fuck up my numerology. Girl, what did you do to those glasses"? He points to the two dots of nail polish at the center of each of her lenses.

  “It’s to keep my mind focused.”

  “It’s a great look for you, doll.” Dixie loses focus, and wanders away to her table. James is in charge of the money. When he sees my unexpected guest he panics. “No, sorry, we don’t pay for you, no.”

  Michael waves two tattered dollar bills in the air. “I’ve got my own money, piss off.”

  The cute boy behind the counter gives me an extra-frothy cappuccino and I sit with Michael at our own table, away from the crazies.

  “They finally gave me SSI,” Michael tells me. “I had to appeal twice but in the end they gave it to me. I’m saving to get my own place.”

  “Where do you live now"?

  “Oh, that’s right! You haven’t been to my little palace of squalor, have you? I have a room at the Civic Center Hotel. Here’s my card.” He hands me a homemade business card crafted from a brown paper bag, decorated with glitter. He smiles at me with a faint flicker of friendship. I know the look. It is a safe, non-sexual meeting of the eyes meaning we are friends now. “Call me and we’ll go out.”

  “I have a curfew.”

  “I’m getting old, bitch. I’ll be thirty in November. We’ll go early so we can talk to the boys before it gets too crowded and drunk. Just give me a call and we can hang out, you know, during the day or something. Café Flore or wherever.”

  I study Michael’s nervous hands, his angular features. He wears a leather cap pressing his bleach blond bangs into his eyes, no longer teased to outlandish heights.

  “What are you looking at, girl"?

  “You just look so much more relaxed than you did in New York City.”

  “I’m old, going bald, it’s time to get real.”

  “You look good.”

  "Don't lie to me, bitch. I look terrible. Hey, the cute boy behind the counter is trying to get your attention"!

  I look across the room, and sure enough, he's waving me over.

  "Girl, he's so cute! Go talk to him"!

  I should pretend to be a normal person and just go over there and have a word with the handsome man. I dawdle towards the counter. He gives me a big grin.

  "Dude, who are these people? Are you with them? You guys are here like every Thursday night."

  I hide my inner groan of embarrassment. "I'm not at liberty to say, really. It's part of a secret government experiment." It sounded phony. So phony, in fact, the guy behind the counter laughs and offers me a second cappuccino on the house.

  I am hot and anxious as I return to the table with Michael G. Page.

  "He's straight. Not interested, just nosy."

  Michael frowns. "I think he has the hots for you. He gave you a free cup of coffee, and from where I'm sitting," Michael adjusts his big black horn-rimmed glasses,"I think he's flirting with you and if you would lift your goddamn head you would see what I mean."

  I shrug. "No, he's straight. He made sure to mention his girlfriend,” I lie.

  Michael, unable to resist the flair for the dramatic, points at him and declares, in an outdoor voice, "If he's straight, I will eat my leather hat." A few of the Northeast Lodge residents look up and frown. The boy behind the counter grins and continues to rub a rag up and down the milk steamer in a suggestive manner.

  I crumple into my chair. "Can we go? I'm not ready for this."

  Michael can see the effect he has had on me, and despite his hard shell, he senses the emotion. He grasps my hand. "Ethan, you are adorable. I keep forgetting you're a sensitive Pisces. Will you forgive me? Come over to my new pad and we'll have a real cup of coffee."

  "I have a curfew."

  "Saturday morning. Please, it would be an honor to have such a fabulous young gentleman as yourself to entertain in my parlour." Michael is not pervy, and I know it. He genuinely likes me as a friend.

  "Saturday morning."

  "It's a date! I'll freshen up the place.”

  CHAPTER FOUR - CIVIC CENTER HOTEL

  Saturday morning at 9:30 am I walk over to the Civic Center Hotel at 12th and Market. The man behind the counter hates his job. "What can I do for you"?

  "I'm here to see Michael G. Page in room 504."

  "Michael Page? One second." He raises a black handset to his ear and plugs a jack into the old fashioned switchboard. A few moments pass. I can hear the ring crackling through the ancient receiver.

  "You got a visitor." Pause. "That's right. Here." He hands me the receiver.

  "Whaaaaat"? Michael's voice wails in despair.

  "Hi Michael, it's me."

  "Michael G. Page," he corrects me, "Who in the fuck is this"?

  Before I can answer, he slams the receiver down.

  I hand the receiver back to the front desk clerk.

  "Is he on his way down"?

  "Yes," I lie.

  "Have a seat over there. I'm sure he'll be down." He gestures to a lobby festooned in ferns, with a grimy couch upholstered in a bamboo-theme. An empty bird cage hangs from a hook in the ceiling. Drowsy, I plop on the couch.

  The next thing I know, the hotel clerk is shaking me awake. "Hey, your friend is on the line."

  I walk back to the reception desk and take the receiver.

  "Ethan, doll-face, is it you"?

  "Yeah."

  "What on earth are you doing here at this godforsaken hour of the morning. You disturbed my beauty rest"!

  I must have been asleep for a while, according to the lobby clock. "It's eleven a.m. There isn't much morning left."

  "Touché. Come on up. I didn't have time to clean the place, so don't judge me."

  "You have to come and get me."

  "Let me talk to the prissy bitch behind the counter."

  I hand the receiver back to the front desk clerk. "He wants to talk to you."

  After a few minutes of back-and-forth chatter on the topics of hotel policy and human decency, the front clerk waves me up. "Fifth floor."

  The Civic Center Hotel elevator has one of those metal sliding gates which always makes me think my brooch will be caught in its spokes and I will choke to death like an Italian horror movie villainess. The elevator buttons are replacements of the originals, but they have worn away again from repeated use. I have to count to be sure I pick the fifth floor. I clutch at my throat as the car lurches upward.

  Room 504 is not in sequence. I wander past 502, 503, 505, and far off in the distance I hear Michael cry out "Ethan, over here"! Room 504 is wedged between room 522 and room 513. Michael stands at his door in a pink terry cloth robe and untied combat boots.

  It's tiny, the smallest room in the building. It's not much bigger than my single dorm room was at John Jay, except it has a bathtub, a sink, and a toilet tucked away behind a door.

  Like me, Michael G. Page is not a good housekeeper. His room is piled high with hoards of clothing, fabric, shoes; a rat's nest. Every surface is covered with clutter. But it's beautiful, artistic clutter. Thumbtacked posters from Straight to Hell Night at Danceteria…Hand painted fabric…T-shirts, socks, and underwear. It's an artist's lair. I feel at ease. He makes his bed while talking to me.

  "I completely forgot we had a coffee date, Ethan. I should have specified what I meant by Saturday morning. My morning starts later. It’s really more like 1pm. But no matter, here, sit down." He pats his bedspread, and a cloud of glitter rises and falls. "I'll get the coffee started."

  Below the sign 'No cooking devices allowed,' Michael has created a makeshift kitchen consisting of an electric hot plate on a tiny tv tray. From behind a Rainbow Grocery shopping bag he pulls out an aluminum espresso maker. It comes in two halves. He disappears for a while into the bathroom to rinse out the stains of yesterday's coffee.

  "I like your place, Michael. It's so cozy."
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  "I know, it's surprising what you can still get in this town for $400.00 a month. It doesn't leave a lot for food, but it's a roof over my head and I just love it. I was paying twice as much to live in a broom closet in Manhattan. They had a twin mattress crammed in there, and I just fit. Here in San Francisco, a queen can get a lot more for her money." Michael emerges from the Lilliputian bathroom with the coffee pot, spilling a few drops of water as he shuffles back to the kitchen. It is still stained, but in a permanent way.

  Michael scoops and packs the Medaglia d'Oro coffee into the strainer and screws the assembly together. "Without my coffee, I can scarcely move. In five minutes, I will be human again."

  As we sip the bitter brew, black, no sugar, Michael asks questions. "How long were you in the hospital for"?

  "It was about three months, but it felt like a couple of years."

  "I would have died. How did you survive"?

  "I guess I didn't really have a choice." I pause to think about it. "I am still a bit surprised to be out, really. I can barely tie my fucking shoes."

  Michael cackles with glee. "It was all those nasty drugs they were giving you. Are they still giving you that shit"?

  "Maybe, but I think it's a placebo because I don't feel it anymore."

  "Why would they give you a placebo? It doesn't make any sense."

  "I'm part of a study called the Schizophrenia Project." There is a long, long pause. Michael bursts into laughter like a deranged stroke victim. He can't stop laughing, and neither can I.

  "The Schizophrenia Project? What a glorious name for an industrial band"!

  "I wish. It's a bunch of old ladies with clipboards."

  "Girl, you need to start a new project. It sounds tired."

  I realize it has been a long time since I felt this comfortable talking to someone. Michael accepts me. He pours us each another dribble of coffee. "Shall I start another pot"?

  "No, I'm fine."

  "Let me fuss over you. You deserve it."

  The second batch of coffee has me a anxious, but it's outweighed by the joy of bonding with a new friend. Michael pulls a blue pouch out of his robe pocket. "Want a cigarette."?

  "Yes please, but what kind is it"?

  "Drum. Honey, on my budget, this is the only way to smoke. They give you too much tobacco, so it's really a lot more than 40 cigarettes if you spring for some extra papers."

  Michael deftly rolls me a cigarette and another for himself. They taste great, like the inside of a favorite pair of shoes mixed with grape nuts. The smoke is thicker than regular cigarette smoke…or it's just the coffee making me see things that aren't there.

  "So of course you got SSI."

  "No, I got rejected."

  "They always reject you the first time. You have to reapply. You deserve it child. After what they put you through, they owe you."

  I'm not sure who "they" are, but he has a point. It would be a good idea for me to get SSI. A steady income, enough to pay for a hotel room somewhere. I can't stay living in the mental health system forever, can I?

  Michael is a fountain of information on Social Security and the mental health system. "Girl, if you stick around long enough to transfer to a halfway house, afterwards they have these apartments where you can live for next to nothing! I applied to live in them but there's a waiting list a mile long. If you come from the halfway house, you are first priority."

  "I don't know, I dropped out of college. I don't like being stuck somewhere."

  "It's worth it. College takes four years. A halfway house is just three months, and you're home free. How many more months do you have to stay in that - what was it - 2/3 house"?

  "3/4. Another few weeks."

  "Do it girl, trust me. You won't regret it."

  After a while, Michael yawns. "You woke me up too early! It's time for my afternoon nap. Get out"!

  Walking back to Northeast Lodge, The same sad sinking feeling creeps back in. Talking to Michael, I am a normal human being. He laughs, he makes me laugh…Dixie just stares at me with those cold dead eyes through her lenses painted with nail shellac. Nobody gets me there. Except for Connie. But she's not a patient, so she can’t be a friend.

  CHAPTER FIVE - FASCINATING

  My escapade on the train got me thinking - there's not any real record keeping going on. If I don't go to day treatment, who will know? I decide to test out my theory. Elliott doesn't have day treatment because his insurance doesn't cover it, so he has to leave the house each day and find something to do between 9am and 2pm. He has part time work at a bakery, but today is his day off.

  "Elliott, where are you going today"?

  "The Electric Theater on Market. Two movies for two bucks. Why"?

  "Mind if I tag along"?

  "Don't you have day treatment"?

  "Nah, they kicked me out." A white lie.

  "Well, you got two bucks"?

  *

  We walk together to Market Street and hang a right. The Electric Theater is covered in shiny black tile. Its marquee is lopsided, so the letters slide towards the front, cramming together. Today's double feature is 'HELLRAISERNIGHTMAREONELMSTREET3.' Once we are inside the theater, Elliott insists on sixth row center. The place is empty, so I see no reason to object. "It's the best seat in the house. You'll see what I mean."

  Indeed, sixth row center is the best fucking place to sit ever. The sound is perfect, the screen is not too close, not too far. Elliott is a smart guy.

  The movie unfolds too fast for me. My mind is still having trouble staying focused, so I don’t get why the Cenobites are after the guy. The soundtrack drowns in the voices hollering at the screen. Downtown Movie palaces attract a boisterous bunch, even during the daytime. Rather than try to follow the plot, which is painful, I'm just relaxing in the seat and letting the surrounding chaos become a bubble. It's all around me, and I'm just sitting inside the bubble where the chaos can't reach. At times, every moment of every day is an agonizing bamboo shoot under my fingernails. Right now, it's bearable. I can see why Elliott comes here to escape.

  After the double feature, we walk back along Market Street. There is a storefront called "Fascination." It has been around since between the wars. Inside is a line of stools like you find at a carnival water gun attraction. Instead of shooting water into a clown's mouth, the patrons of Fascination are rolling rubber balls along a glass covered wooden grid of holes. The holes have numeric values from 3 to 100. The goal is to reach 500 points before your fellow players. It reminds me of skee ball, but it's flat, with no ramp and no clear path to earn the higher scoring points. An announcer with a gentle, bored voice compliments the players in turn as they score above ten points at a time. Whenever someone hits the hundred hole, the announcer rings a bell. As the top two players are in the home stretch, it becomes a horse race. The dull voice is more animated, the players bang on the glass as if it would bring the rubber ball back to them faster.

  Elliot chuckles. "You want a play a few rounds"?

  "What do you win"?

  "Nothing."

  "Not even tickets to redeem for plastic spider rings"? This is odd.

  "Nope. The players just play for the thrill of it, I guess."

  The business model sounds flawed to me. I can't see how they can keep people coming back to roll a senseless rubber ball for no reward of any kind. And yet there are over a dozen chairs, all but two occupied by Edward Hopper crackpots.

  I ask Elliott, "Why do people play"?

  "Adrenaline."

  "How much does it cost"?

  "A quarter a game."

  The announcer’s dull dry voice complements the flickering fluorescent lights. "And number three just rolled a twenty. Congratulations, number three. Number six just dropped a fifteen, nice job number six."

  I could see how the soothing voice and the repetitive motion could be a nice draw in and of themselves. It’s like those people who play pickup games of basketball in the park for no real reason other than to play. Several of the pe
ople playing look as if they've spent time at Northeast Lodge. A few grubby jackets and stained newsboy hats, a bleach blond lady with a craggy face and a smoldering cigarette dangling from her overpainted lips. Lonesome creeps in as I watch the Fascination players roll their sixes and tens.

  "Well, how about it"? Elliott is keen to play.

  "Not today, Elliott. Thanks for showing me.”

  “Aw. come on, Ethan. Just give it a try. I got a few quarters.”

  It looks pretty pointless to me, but I shrug and accept two quarters from Elliott.

  “Just two games and we’ll go,” he promises.

  I sit at number seven, wedged between the craggy-faced blonde on six and a homeless-scented gentleman with a fedora, tweed coat and a grey beard on eight.

  The last game has wrapped - a bell rings indicating a winner. The collective groan is something I recall from Bingo matches at summer camp.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the barker whispers, “game 117 will start in 60 seconds. All players insert your quarters now.”

  I put my quarter in the slot and crank the wheel. A lone rubber ball falls into the well at my lap level. I give it a test roll over the row of holes, and it falls into a hole labeled “two points,” while at the same time, an alarm goes off.

  “Number seven, you are disqualified from this round.” Looking around the room, I can see the glower of several angry players. It would appear this is a faux pas.

  “It’s his first time, he didn’t know, you didn’t say anything about waiting.” Elliott speaks in my defense.

  “It’s right there on the rule board.” The barker points with a long stick to rule three, which states “No practice rolls. Rolling prior to commencement of the game is grounds for immediate disqualification.” This only further convinces me the game is a load of horse shit. “However, we will overlook it.” He pushes a plunger and my rubber ball is released back to the lap well.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, really.”

  “Tsk. Tsk. We are about to begin. Silence please. Fascination requires intense concentration.” The barker looks at his watch, then rings a bell. “The games have begun.” The room fills with the sound of beeps and whirs as the players roll their balls.”