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A figment and fragmentary, looking through the water of desire, Terence sighed when the shiver hit him. "That's right, I'm wavering," he thought as he looked down at his hands and forearms. They shimmered and ran with a thick milky film that had no smell. In fact, nothing had a smell. Or rather, everything had the same distant dusty smell, as of rain about to happen. Also sound. The sound of a radio on the sidewalk next to a squat-looking kid came to him muffled, as though through water: again that feeling of being in water, or some ether much denser than air.
It had been like this ever since he died.
It was a Thursday when it happened. That afternoon, as he jetted out across Divisadero, he just didn't miss a rusty Impala, slung low and hauling through the center lane. The impact sent him flying, and, in the air, he tensed, braced for the landing, hoping to shelter his head. But the crash never came. He sailed through a perfect arc and landed silently and without harm. He felt no pain. Like a cartoon cat thrown out the window. Just landed and bounced back up with probably a goofy look on his face. He looked around, embarrassed, but no one looked at him. A girl with a bundle of clothes under one arm was looking up the street behind him. Stopped in the middle of her day, the sinews in her neck strained outward, she was starting to take a step forward. Her pale hair was short and uncombed, sticking out at several artsy angles from her head. A blue and white striped tee shirt clung to her body and stopped just short of her baggy jeans. He looked at the tiny curve of pale skin revealed and saw the sun glint off tiny gold hairs. Then he turned around to see what she was looking at and saw a tall thin black man running across the street, angling away from them. The short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt were flapping as he ran. His face was serious, his beat up brown loafers flopped against his bare feet. Cars were beginning to pile up, as they slowed to pass some obstruction in the road.
He walked back down the street, on the shady side. The normal din of the busy intersection at Divisadero and Fell had softened and he did not feel the cool, damp evening breeze that blew up from the ocean. He stepped through a small crowd and, not noticing the curb, slid off it into the gutter, just righting himself next to a fuzzy little dog. It was attached by a leash to a plump old lady. Her powdered upper lip set rigid, she was looking down to where the man in the Hawaiian shirt had knelt to get closer to a guy laying in the street. Terence shifted to look around the black man's head. A poor guy was laying there, like a doll thrown, his head turned to one side, his hands absolutely still. "He's gone, poor fellow," the black man said and he took a deep sighing breath and bowed his head in pain, "The Lord be with him." He stood up and Terence took a step in closer to look at the poor guy. The knees were ripped out of his jeans, his deep rust tee shirt was twisted in a spiral around his body, the shoulders and torso were turned away from him. He took one more tiny shuffling step closer and looked into the face of the dead man. His shiny black hair lay along his head, just as it might if he were alive, but his open eyes did not look at anything. His mouth expressed nothing. A few blunt black hairs lay back on his cheeks near the goatee on his chin, suggesting he hadn't shaved. All of a sudden Terence felt a sound or heard a feeling, something seemed to slap him, and he jerked his head backwards, looking up into the pale sky. That was him there on the street. That was his own body laying empty on the oily asphalt with a handful of curious and caring strangers standing around looking at him.
He strode up onto the sidewalk and walked hard and fast up toward the Fillmore. He took long deep strides, feeling the pressure of the earth against each foot as it pushed him forward. Elaine. It was probably after six o'clock and he would be late to meet Elaine. Somewhere, packed in cotton, the sound of a siren pulsed against him, but he could ignore it.
Last night he met Elaine at Club 101 after her evening class. They sat in the tiny neighborhood bar on either side of a marred table. Their beers warmed in pools of condensation as they talked. He watched her bright face with amazement. She sat forward, telling her story as much with her hands as with her voice, then leaned back in her chair, waving one hand in dismissal, "Well, they spent the whole evening hashing out that tiny point and everyone just got bored," she said and flashed him a sly smile. He felt it warm the center of his body, admired this gem and her joy.
He looked up when heard his name called out down the length of the bar. There, appearing above Elaine's head, were Trini, and Timothy, smiling and weaving into their space. They brought the commotion of the rest of the bar with them and the bubble of silence that had surrounded the lovers was gone. The newcomers sat their beers down on the table so they could pull the pool cues off the rack on the wall. Trini was leaning over the pool table, rolling the balls around in a wooden triangle to set up the game. Terence grabbed a cue and took up his position opposite the racked balls. He placed the cue ball, then leaned over the table to take his shot, smiling over to Elaine just before he broke. She smiled back at him and took a sip of her beer. Out of the chaos of fifteen balls all moving at once, the orange seven went into the left corner pocket. So he took his next shot, slapping the three into the side pocket. His next attempt at the five ball missed so he leaned on his stick and watched Trini take his. When he glanced over at Elaine she was lighting a cigarette and listening to Timothy tell one of his biking through traffic stories. She was laughing the next time he looked at her and she caught his eye and winked. Then Terence and Trini made several unsuccessful shots in a row, and when Terence looked over at Elaine again, she had lit a fresh cigarette and was looking away down the bar. Timothy had gotten up to get more beer. When Terence made the last shot, sinking the eight ball, he looked up with a grin but Elaine was gone.
They played a couple more games, and Elaine never returned. He went back to the pay phones to call her, and as he was dialing he looked at his watch. 12:15. He put down the phone before he finished her number. It was too late to call.
Later that night he jerked awake into his dark room. The light of the street seeped in around the blinds and left pale rectangles stretched across the dark heaps that were his furniture. He was sweating and startled. It must have been a nightmare. He sat up and passed his hand over his clammy face. His throat was dry and sticky so he got up to get a glass of water. In the kitchen he turned on the light over the stove and reached for a glass on the drainer. Next to the pale green glass was a bright mug that said "MMMMMM" in big pink letters. Elaine's mug. Elaine. She had left tonight without saying good-bye. It seemed so natural to shoot some pool with Trini and Tim, and he felt so sure of her, so sure she would want to party with them. He felt something like fear when he realized he had been rude. She may have walked out of the bar and out of his life. He resolved right then that he would meet her at her doorstep tomorrow when she got home from work and sweep her off to dinner and a show. He would give her the attention she deserved. Her would win her back.
So this afternoon had come --Thursday -- and he had stepped in front of a car on Divisadero while walking over to surprise Elaine. "So when, exactly was that?" he wondered. He was still walking hard and furious up the street, but he couldn't tell how long he had been walking. It seemed he had come too far and had not passed California Street yet. All the shops and houses seemed familiar, seemed to be in the right place, but he just wasn't making as much progress as he should.
Again he shivered. He wasn't cold, but every once in a while he got shaken from within and moaned. His skin was soft and clammy and ran with a pale goo that fascinated him. "Maybe I'm melting," he thought. He could touch things, could feel the street beneath his feet, but he had not been able to pick up anything. He stopped into a liquor store and tried to handle a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes, but just could not get a good grip on them. So he continued on up the hill toward the Fillmore district where Elaine had a tiny flat in the back of an old house.
Then, without transition, he was standing in Elaine's tiny kitchen, watching her open a bottle of juice. She took the stubby bottle and a newspaper into the front room, plopped into a big shabby chair, pulled her feet up into it, and settled in to read the paper.
Terence started to follow her, but then he saw the pile of mail on the table. The top envelope was an actual letter, not a bill or advertisement, with her address handwritten in the center of it and a return address --somewhere in Montana -- in the top left corner. No name in the return address. "I didn't know she had friends, or maybe family, in Montana. She never talked about Montana." He tried to imagine her on a ranch riding a horse and failed. He tried to imagine her riding in a beat up pickup truck next to a meaty country boy and hated it. "How much do I really know about her?" he wondered. The times they had spent together had that intense intimacy and comfort that only the best of friends, or maybe only lovers, could share. But here, on this cluttered oak table was a letter from Montana. He looked at her sitting in the next room with the paper in her lap.
"Tell her, Terry. Tell her now before its too late." He went out into the living room and stood in the middle of the floor, right in front of her. She was flipping through the paper, looking for the next column of an article continued from the front page. When she found it, she settled the paper again to read. "Elaine, I'm really sorry about last night," Terence said. "No, that's no way to start this, Terry, tell her how you feel about her, tell her about the mug." He paced around in a little circle, telling her how he picked up her "MMMMM" mug right there in the middle of all his own stuff, and realized he could not go on without her. She went on reading the paper.
"I just felt that I need you in my life. You make everything so, so, well so real, I guess. Now that I am standing here in your apartment saying this to you, I look around it and wonder do I bring that special something to your life? Could I imagine you living in my apartment, or me living here? Could I imagine us married?" Just then he was startled by the door bell buzzing.
He thought all at once, who could it be? Who could she be seeing? She had already crossed the room to open the door, so Terence turned quickly to see who -- and, having turned, all he could be was the brightest light.
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