Bankrupt From Slang
By Francis Camaquin
I still love her. Loved her more when she used to be sober and I was kinder.
She was an undercover fashionista, a retail slave that kept selling cotton in the belief that she’d be content if she had brunch every Sunday for the rest of her life. Saucy, witty, fine taste in literature and eager for new music; for some this was a bit unsettling, but for others, the drama was satisfying. She held wine tasting parties once or twice a month, where each guest was to bring a paper bagged bottle of wine retailed at under ten dollars. She numbered the guests’ bottles and asked them to secretly write down the vineyard and year in her 99 cent store acquired guestbook. After enough tasting had been done, everyone would announce their favorite wines and their identities would be revealed. Everyone who was invited always had an amazing time, and walked or biked home hammered. There was always at least one person thinking of her on the way to the 38 stop.
On her days off work, if it wasn’t a laundry day, she’d patrol through the used book store as if she was genetically designed to walk a certain route through her favorite authors, which of course wrote witty heart-warming novels or humorous novellas. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get lost for hours sitting on the one-foot high black plastic stool in a corner, because just like the casinos in Vegas, the owners install the brightest halogen lights and do not put up clocks to make you lose track of time. If her headphones plugged her ears, and the bad reception deep into the store, she’d be there until closing, missing out on dinner dates with friends.
Meandering isn’t uncommon in the Richmond, one of the flattest districts of the city. Too compact with too much to do maybe, but if you walked at the right speed you could learn to really enjoy yourself.
That afternoon I walked 0.25 miles an hour. There she was; the little French girl. She’d barely enough breath for a cigarette. I inhaled deeply and smelled the cherry blossoms desperately trying to break out of their buds which complimented her cheeky expression as she waited for me to catch up. "You’re too slow," she pouted. We were on our way to buy tickets for the opening show of the Korean film festival at the Presidio Theater, but she wanted to stop for a late dinner at Firefly on 24th St. "I don’t think we’re going to make it. I’ll just get the tickets tomorrow," I tried to convince her.
She giggled, "You just ate too much!"
"Me!? You finished my food!"
She only laughed more. "Let’s go to the bakery near my house," she said.
"You’re still hungry!? How do you fit all that in your tiny stomach?"
"Stop it!" she couldn’t stop laughing. I didn’t even think it was funny anymore, but once you get a giggler started it’s hard to stop. After she gained her composure she suggested, "Let’s get a coffee then. You can read your book and I can write. No more Chuck Norris either!"
"Okay but I can’t promise anything."
We arrived at the corner of Fulton and Divisadero to an empty Cafe Abir. I recognized one of the workers as the one that gives too much head when pouring a Guinness and the other as the one that remembers my four shots of espresso. One of them gave me an acknowledgement nod but I always found it weird to give that nod to girls so I just said, "Hey," and threw up a sideways peace sign instead.
"Let’s sit outside, it’s still nice," she said and I just followed. I gulped, it burned, and I lit up. She was lost in a daydreaming gaze as she tapped her pen on the table. Occasionally I’d catch her eyes as I exhaled periwinkle plumes of smoke and I’d turn to the next page. I couldn’t see what she was writing and I never asked. I watched her for a few minutes while she wrote undisturbed by chattering drunks across the street at Fly. Half-way through my glass I said, "I think I know what song is in your head right now."
She looked up and smiled, "Oh really? Okay let’s see."
"But first you have to tell me what you’re writing."
"Noooo. That’ll be too easy then."
"Noooo. Okay fine. You look like you might want to be a lesbian. A little confused. Maybe you’re not confused, just curious. You keep pausing after not even finishing a sentence and you look up, like you’re accessing some thesaurus in your head. I notice when you get the exact word you want because you hold your pen up and jiggle it just slightly, like you’re hitting the smallest cymbal in the world. But there’s a rhythm to it like you’re listening to a song on repeat."
"Okay what song then?"
"One Evening."
She laughed, "You’re so stupid! That’s what we were listening to in the car."
"I see your lips saying the ‘ba pa paaahs’ too. I’m right huh?"
She smiled again, "Maaaaybe."
"I don’t know if can even do that anymore," I said.
"What?"
"Write in a notebook. I’m too used to typing everything."
"I don’t know. I like it. It’s therapeutic."
"But I was right wasn’t I?"
"If I say yes will you let me continue?"
"Sure."
"Then yes."
"See!"
She just shook her head with a faint grin, and I read and breathed in the pleasant air knowing the coming days would be warmer. I love this city, I don’t want cancer.