William Taylor Jr.                                                                                              

Some Things That Happened After Anna Went Back to Ohio

It was 7:18 in San Francisco on a Sunday evening and Tommy was well on his way to being properly drunk. It was his third day of existing in a world that no longer included Anna, and he was ill-equipped for it.  The best he could think to do was hit the downtown bars with abandon, in search of some new doom to distract him from his present circumstances. 

He eventually ended up at the Brown Jug, finding it as dreary and slow as everywhere else.  Bartender Frank looked haggard and tired.  He wordlessly served Tommy a beer, then went back to cradling his head in his hands, elbows propped upon the bar.  There were a couple of old guys to the left of Tommy's stool and a woman to the right.  The woman looked far gone, drinking something clear from a pint glass that sat on the bar in front of her.  She was middle-aged and gaunt, but not completely devoid of some kind of decrepit charm.  Tommy sat next to her and halfheartedly attempted to engage her in some nonsensical conversation, but had no idea what he was saying, not that she would have cared if he did.  They sat there in their own separate miseries, sipping their drinks in silence.  Even the jukebox was dead. 

Bartender Frank was crumpled upon the bar like a broken puppet, snoring and moaning like something haunted.  Nobody was immediately in need of a drink, so they let him be.  A group of young Filipino men stood outside smoking, sneering, and drinking beer from tall cans in paper bags.  They glanced in now and then at Frank, whispering to each other with mocking voices. One of them, tall, lanky and cruel eyed, walked in and stood leering over the bartender's inert form, making obscene gestures as his friends took pictures with their phones.  The man poked Bartender Frank's temple with his finger, calling him a sad ass motherfucker as he did so, until one of the old guys at the end of the bar got up and waved his cane.  The Filipino man grabbed a six pack of something from behind the bar, made a grand obscene gesture meant for everyone in the room, then ran off into the night with his friends, their laughter fading into the darkness.  A few minutes later, Bartender Frank stirred, coughed, shook himself off a bit, and started wiping down the bar as if all were right with the world. 

It was around then that Tommy felt drunk and weary enough to go home and dissolve into sleep. He stepped out into the dark and walked up Hyde Street, making his way through the gauntlet of night people that crowded the sidewalks.  Dreck peddlers on every corner, hawking useless, broken things, women selling whatever was left of themselves, some with nothing much to offer, but demanding compensation nonetheless.  Tommy stopped at a corner, waiting for the light.  A group of Mexicans stood smoking and drinking from paper bags.  A pickup truck was parked at the curb, a woman in the driver's seat chatting with those assembled.  She raised her tallboy in Tommy's direction, cigarette dangling from her lips.  Tommy gave her a tired smile and a nod.  The light changed and he continued on. 

A couple corners later Tommy was stopped again.  To his left the woman from a few blocks back was idling there in her truck.  He gave her a weary little wave.  “Where you going, baby?” the woman asked. 

“Home,” Tommy said. 

“Home? Why home?”   

“Bed,” he replied. 

“Lemme give you a ride.” 

“It's just a few blocks.” 

“Lemme give you a ride anyway.” 

“Why?” 

“I'm lonely,” the woman said.   Tommy considered a moment. That was one of the few things in life people tended not to lie about.  He stood there weaving on the sidewalk for a moment and then climbed into the passenger seat. 

The woman looked over at him and smiled.  She looked to be somewhere between forty and fifty years old, weathered, but attractive enough in such a way. She held out her hand and Tommy took it in his own.  “I'm Heidi”, she said.  

“Tommy,” Tommy said. 

“I'm drunk,” Heidi said. 

“Me, too.”  

“Where am I taking you?” 

“I don't know.” 

“I mean, where do you live?” 

 “Oh.  Just on Bush.  Halfway between Polk and Larkin.” 

Two minutes later Heidi's truck was in front of the building. “Thanks,” Tommy said, reaching for the passenger door handle. 

“Look,” Heidi said, “I got nothing to do.  I could use some company.” 

Tommy paused.  

“I got a place we can go,” she said, “no big deal.” 

Most of Tommy knew it would be best to follow through with his plan of sleep, but the relentless little part of him that felt the need to ruin any possibility of a peaceful end to the night was powerful.  “How far?” he asked. 

“Only a couple minutes across the freeway.” 

“Freeway?” 

“Yeah, I got a room in Daly City.   Dude gives me a deal at his hotel.” 

“Daly City's a little ways out there.”

“I'll get you back in one piece, baby.  There's a guy I gotta meet around here in a few hours anyway, so I gotta come back.”  Heidi placed her hand on Tommy's leg, caressing it through his jeans, her hand eventually coming to rest on his inner thigh.  “I'll make it worth your while.” 

“Well, you know, I don't have a lot of, you know, money right now,” Tommy said. 

“How much is not a lot?” 

 Tommy made a fuzzy attempt to take stock of his current financial situation. “Like sixty bucks, maybe.” 

“We'll make it work, honey.”  And then they were on the 280 headed South. Heidi handed Tommy her beer as she caressed his thigh.  Tommy took a drink and returned it to its place between her legs. 

Heidi's phone played a Jay-Z song and she answered it.  Tommy heard a man's voice, harsh and impatient, but couldn't make out any of the words.  “Yeah, baby, I know, I know.  I'm with someone right now,” Heidi said to the phone. “We're gonna hang out a bit and then I'll head back over there.  Gimmie like an hour, okay?”  She ended the call.  “See?” she said to Tommy, caressing his leg, “I gotta be back in your hood in just a little bit.” 

Tommy nodded, unconvinced, and gazed out the passenger window at the lights flashing through the darkness; cars, buildings, parking lots.  Heidi turned the radio to a country station, and George Jones sang about living and dying by the choices he'd made.  The whole world suddenly felt like a sad country song. Tommy felt lonely, in spite of Heidi's hand on his leg and and the musky smell of  her filling the space around him.  The great sadness of everything seemed too big and impossible to comprehend or overcome.  He thought of Anna and wondered what she was doing and who she was doing it with.  

“What's your story, babe?”  Heidi asked. 

 “My story?” 

“You look kinda forlorn.” 

Tommy kept his face to the window.  

“Where's your girl?” 

Tommy made a noise like a broken laugh.  “Ohio, I guess.  But she's not my girl anymore.” 

Heidi lit a cigarette.  Tommy hoped she would offer him one, but she didn't.  “What happened?” she asked. 

“I didn't want to move to Ohio.” 

“Ohio?  What would you do in Ohio?” 

“That's what I said.” 

Heidi laughed a little laugh and squeezed his thigh.  “Yer alright, baby.  Don't you worry about no bitches.  They ain't worth it.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy said, taking the beer from between her legs and finishing it off. 

A few minutes later they pulled off the freeway and they were somewhere Tommy didn't recognize.  Daly City or South San Francisco, he guessed.  Everything felt particularly desolate.  The world was reduced to parking lots and abandoned looking buildings.   Rows of sad hotels and lonely gas stations.  He didn't see any people anywhere.  “Almost there,” Heidi said. 

“Can we stop by a liquor store or something?” Tommy asked. 

“I got booze in the room.” 

“I need an ATM.” 

“Well shit, you coulda told me that earlier.”   

“I forgot.” 

Heidi looked annoyed as she lit a cigarette.  She made a few sharp lefts, pulled into a gas station, screeching to a stop near the entrance.  “Hurry up then,” she said. 

“Can I get you anything?” Tommy asked as he stepped out of the car. 

“A pack of smokes. And matches.  And a few extra twenties for the room.  For the deposit.” Tommy nodded and entered the little store.  A large bald man with a great black beard stood behind the counter, watching a tiny television.  He greeted Tommy with an unfriendly stare and watched as he pulled a hundred dollars out of the ATM.  Tommy was now forty bucks short for rent, but he figured he could transfer some money from one of his credit cards that wasn't maxed out.  He grabbed a bottle of red wine with a screw off cap and bought it along with a pack of cigarettes.  When he got back in the truck, Heidi was talking heatedly on her phone.  “Yeah, I know, I know.  Look, he's back.”  Heidi tossed her phone on the dashboard and snatched the pack of cigarettes from Tommy's hand.  She ripped it open, lit one up and they hurtled out of the parking lot. 

They drove another few blocks and turned into the parking lot of a particularly beaten down hotel.  The lot was dark, only a few cars were scattered about.  Light shone through the thin curtains of a few rooms.  The hotel sign was broken, so Tommy couldn't figure out the name of the place.  Only a neon “E” blinked into existence at random intervals. They came to a stop in a dark corner of the lot.  Heidi reached into her bag and pulled out a joint.  She lit the thing, took a long drag and offered it to Tommy.  “Here, baby,” she said, “have some of this.”  Tommy took it and had a few big drags.  He felt immediately lighter, a kind of empty peace welled up within him.  “You like that, baby?” Heidi asked.  Tommy nodded in the dark.  “Have another hit.”  He obeyed and was filled with a welcome numbness.   

“What is that?” he asked. 

“The good stuff,” Heidi laughed and took another drag, then returned what remained to her bag. “Look,” she said, “my room's right there!”   Tommy looked to where he finger pointed, some undetermined spot on the second floor of the building. 

“Okay,” he said. 

Heidi got out of the truck and Tommy followed, though he would have preferred to just sit in the warm darkness, smoking whatever it was she had in her bag.  “Alright, I need the money now,” Heidi said.  “Sixty for me and another forty for the room.” Tommy pulled out his wallet and rummaged for the bills.  “And a credit card.” 

“Credit card?”  

“For the deposit. No big deal, you get it back when we leave.  They don't charge nothing to it.”  Tommy gave Heidi the wad of bills and his ATM card.  She counted the money and pushed in deep into the pocket of her shorts.  “Alright,” she said, I’ll pay for the room and we'll be all set.”  She pulled a ragged five-dollar bill from her bag and handed it to Tommy. “Hey,” she said, “there's a 7-11 down on the corner over there.  Could you go get me a Diet Coke?” 

“Diet Coke?” 

“Yeah, the Cherry kind if they got it.  Meet me back here at the truck.” 

“Okay,” Tommy said, gazing uncertainly about the vast parking lot, seeing only dark. “Which way?” 

“There,” Heidi pointed, “on the corner.” 

Tommy did his best to walk in that general direction.  He got through the parking lot, reached the sidewalk and didn't know which way to go.  All directions looked equally pointless.  He chose one that he felt was slightly less hopeless and lucked out.  When he reached the end of the block there was a shabby little 7-11.  He went in, bought a Diet Cherry Coke and headed back. 

When Tommy returned, the hotel somehow felt even more desolate than before.  He wandered about the parking lot and couldn't find Heidi's truck.  He crisscrossed it a few times over to no avail.  He managed to find the office, but it was as abandoned as everything else.  A sign in the window said, “Closed.  Back at 6 a.m.”  Tommy turned and scanned the empty parking lot once more, standing there with the Diet Cherry Coke in his hand, understanding that Heidi's truck wasn't there and wasn't going to be. 

Tommy stood there, stupid, helpless, and alone.  He walked to the sidewalk and sat down.  He pulled out his wallet.  He had three dollars.  He'd left the wine he bought in the seat of the truck.  He was at least ten miles from home in a neighborhood he didn't know.  He felt sorry for himself and cried a bit.  He pulled his phone from his pocket and the battery was all but dead.  He punched in Anna's number.  She didn't answer, but he knew she was up.  She was always up.  She had night terrors and never slept until the sun rose. He listened to the recording on her voice mail.  It was the first time he'd heard it, as it was the first time he'd called her and she didn't pick up.  Listening to her voice telling him she wasn't available right then was lonelier than anything he imagined could exist in the world. “Hey,” he said after the beep, “it's me. I’d just really like to talk to you, is all.  If you'd give me a call when you get this, I'd appreciate it.  It doesn't matter what time it is.”  Tommy ended the call, knowing it wouldn't be returned.  He figured he'd try and get a cab, despite the fact of his three dollars.  He imagined they could work something out. The battery on his phone gave out as he searched for a number.  He walked back to the 7-11, went inside and asked the man behind the counter if there was a phone he could use to call a cab. 

The man shook his head.   

“You have to have some kind of phone,” Tommy said.  “I just need a cab.” 

“Employees only,” the man said.

“Okay, well, can you call me a cab, then?”  The man looked at Tommy as if he were orchestrating some kind of scam. 

“No.  You have to buy something or leave.” 

“Look, man, I'm kind of stranded here.” 

“Leave or I call police.” 

“You can't call a cab but you can call police?” 

“Yes.” 

“That's fucked up,” Tommy said, turning away. 

“You fucked up!”  the man shouted after him, as if he were casting a curse.  “You fucked up!” 

Tommy walked back to the sidewalk. He stood there listening to the absolute silence of things.   He looked in all directions, and none seemed any better than the rest.  He looked out across the sea of dark and stepped into it.

William Taylor, Jr. lives and writes in San Francisco. He is the author of numerous books of poetry, and a volume of fiction. His work has been published widely in literary journals, including Rattle, The New York Quarterly, and The Chiron Review. He was a recipient of the 2013 Kathy Acker Award, and edited Cocky Moon: Selected Poems of Jack Micheline (Zeitgeist Press, 2014). Pretty Things to Say, (Six Ft. Swells Press, 2020) is his latest collection of poetry. A new collection is forthcoming from Roadside Press.