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Authors: Bharati Mukherjee
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community organization? My assistant’ll need a name.”
I thought he was going to call me on the scam. But he smiled instead, as though he and I were playing a game.“Have your assistant phone me.” I pointed to the pay phone.
“You have to come up with just the right name,” he advised. “Names count. How about Lower Haight Development Authority, or—”
I cut him off. “I hate authority. Development Association.” Ham looked impressed. He lifted his panama and dipped from the waist in a Japanese bow. I had a good thing going. “And what’s this Upper and Lower Haight bit, elitist scum! We’re the HDA. Your office is dealing with the HDA.”
Ham made a note on his palm with a Mont Blanc ballpoint. “My office, tomorrow. Be there?” He pulled a business card out of the pocket of his dress shirt.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“I’d guess so have you, honey.”
I flicked the card in through the car window. “Why should I trust you, Mr. Ham?”
The man acted stunned. Finally he said, “You have a sense of humor.”
“What’s the joke?”
“I’m Ham,” the man said. “Because I’m Ham, Hamilton Cohan. The Father of His Country , Parts I, II, III and IV?”
“A rip-off of Flash’s Boss Tong of Hong Kong , Parts I through VII,” I sneered.
“My god! You know the Flash films of Francis Fong!”
I knew from the sudden beatific sheen on the man’s baggy-eyed face that my life had turned an unexpectedcorner. Welcome to the Magic Kingdom. I kept my excitement low profile.
“A Fong homage,” Ham Cohan explained, “not a rip-off.” He stroked the same wrist he’d kissed, then gripped my hand and gave it a reverent shake. “I can’t believe you know Fong’s films! That makes you an automatic member of the Flash Fan Club. Want to know who else belongs? Tarantino and me.”
Mimi crackled a message on Ham’s walkie-talkie. “Arturo checked in. But dead drunk. He’s a no-show for this afternoon.”
“Gotta go,” Ham apologized. But he was still beaming at me. “So you’re a Fong fan. This has to be karma! Have lunch tomorrow? I’ll send a car. Just stand at the corner there and Sam’ll find you. Ciao until then!”
The first time I heard of karma was from the Indian burger-muncher at McDonald’s, the one who’d asked me out to an Indian movie. A moonfaced man with heavy lids and a neat goatee, he’d made his move, then handled my rejection philosophically.
“Your no is not a personal disappointment,” he’d lectured, “because it is evidently not in my karma to see you outside this eatery. So, what to do? Overdose on Sominex like my roommate, Mukesh, who was having brilliant career in biochemistry? No! The concept of karma is that fate is very dynamic. Not too many peoples are understanding that part of it. True concept of karma is: when on a dead-end street, jump into alternate paths.”
I don’t think Ham had that Indian man’s concept of karma in mind when he sent his assistant for me. A woman was at the wheel of a blue Ford Escort. “I’m Sam,” she called out to where I was squatting on the sidewalk next to Pammy and her pup, Whammy. “Samantha. Ham’s assistant. He said you’d be expecting me.”
The woman’s face with its nose stud, tongue hoop and eyebrow rings didn’t seem out of place at the corner of Cole and Haight. I tested her as a matter of principle. “How do you know you want me and not her? Or her? Orhim?” It was a warm morning. Folks I didn’t recognize from soup lines were staking out spots and propping up cardboard signs. GIVING FEELS GOOD, TRY IT! LOST MY TICKET HOME TO THE MOON, NEED HELP . Amateurs, transients. Trust fund derelicts. Dim prospects of futurity.
Samantha said, “The boss doesn’t forget faces. He described you to a tee. Shall we?”
On the way to ShoeString Studios’ offices in North Beach, in the middle of one of my harangues on the highhandedness of rich movie people who thought they could come
I thought he was going to call me on the scam. But he smiled instead, as though he and I were playing a game.“Have your assistant phone me.” I pointed to the pay phone.
“You have to come up with just the right name,” he advised. “Names count. How about Lower Haight Development Authority, or—”
I cut him off. “I hate authority. Development Association.” Ham looked impressed. He lifted his panama and dipped from the waist in a Japanese bow. I had a good thing going. “And what’s this Upper and Lower Haight bit, elitist scum! We’re the HDA. Your office is dealing with the HDA.”
Ham made a note on his palm with a Mont Blanc ballpoint. “My office, tomorrow. Be there?” He pulled a business card out of the pocket of his dress shirt.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“I’d guess so have you, honey.”
I flicked the card in through the car window. “Why should I trust you, Mr. Ham?”
The man acted stunned. Finally he said, “You have a sense of humor.”
“What’s the joke?”
“I’m Ham,” the man said. “Because I’m Ham, Hamilton Cohan. The Father of His Country , Parts I, II, III and IV?”
“A rip-off of Flash’s Boss Tong of Hong Kong , Parts I through VII,” I sneered.
“My god! You know the Flash films of Francis Fong!”
I knew from the sudden beatific sheen on the man’s baggy-eyed face that my life had turned an unexpectedcorner. Welcome to the Magic Kingdom. I kept my excitement low profile.
“A Fong homage,” Ham Cohan explained, “not a rip-off.” He stroked the same wrist he’d kissed, then gripped my hand and gave it a reverent shake. “I can’t believe you know Fong’s films! That makes you an automatic member of the Flash Fan Club. Want to know who else belongs? Tarantino and me.”
Mimi crackled a message on Ham’s walkie-talkie. “Arturo checked in. But dead drunk. He’s a no-show for this afternoon.”
“Gotta go,” Ham apologized. But he was still beaming at me. “So you’re a Fong fan. This has to be karma! Have lunch tomorrow? I’ll send a car. Just stand at the corner there and Sam’ll find you. Ciao until then!”
The first time I heard of karma was from the Indian burger-muncher at McDonald’s, the one who’d asked me out to an Indian movie. A moonfaced man with heavy lids and a neat goatee, he’d made his move, then handled my rejection philosophically.
“Your no is not a personal disappointment,” he’d lectured, “because it is evidently not in my karma to see you outside this eatery. So, what to do? Overdose on Sominex like my roommate, Mukesh, who was having brilliant career in biochemistry? No! The concept of karma is that fate is very dynamic. Not too many peoples are understanding that part of it. True concept of karma is: when on a dead-end street, jump into alternate paths.”
I don’t think Ham had that Indian man’s concept of karma in mind when he sent his assistant for me. A woman was at the wheel of a blue Ford Escort. “I’m Sam,” she called out to where I was squatting on the sidewalk next to Pammy and her pup, Whammy. “Samantha. Ham’s assistant. He said you’d be expecting me.”
The woman’s face with its nose stud, tongue hoop and eyebrow rings didn’t seem out of place at the corner of Cole and Haight. I tested her as a matter of principle. “How do you know you want me and not her? Or her? Orhim?” It was a warm morning. Folks I didn’t recognize from soup lines were staking out spots and propping up cardboard signs. GIVING FEELS GOOD, TRY IT! LOST MY TICKET HOME TO THE MOON, NEED HELP . Amateurs, transients. Trust fund derelicts. Dim prospects of futurity.
Samantha said, “The boss doesn’t forget faces. He described you to a tee. Shall we?”
On the way to ShoeString Studios’ offices in North Beach, in the middle of one of my harangues on the highhandedness of rich movie people who thought they could come
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