and
easy-going, but I know they all have their limit and I’m pretty
good at dragging them to it every time. Some might call that a sad
way to get through life, but when it’s just your life, you learn to accept it.
I pick up my
phone off the counter and stare at it. No missed calls, no texts. I
don’t even have her number, so I can’t call her.
I can call my
brother, though. If he’s not out flying the chopper for the
chartering company, that is.
He answers on
the third ring, but the connection is a bit fuzzy.
“Aye, what do
you want?” Linden shouts.
“Don’t tell me
you’re in the air and answering your phone all willy nilly.”
“Just about to
take off. What’s up?”
I clear my
throat, wondering how to phrase this without him getting the wrong
idea. “How is the girl? The wee one?”
“Like the
child, Ava?” he asks, his voice rising above the rotors I can hear
starting. “She’s okay. Diabetes they said, like some kind of shock.
You were there.”
“I know I was
there. I mean, how is she now? And how is her mum?”
“I guess she’s
fine as she can be, I don’t know. I know Steph is at her place
right now, helping out. She’s worried as hell. You know how she can
dote on people.”
That I do
know. Steph’s like the mother we never had. I don’t tell Linden
that or he’ll balk at the Freudian implications.
“Do you have
her phone number?”
“Nicola’s?” he
asks. “Not on my phone. I have her Facebook. Why?”
“No matter,” I
say, then pause. “Tell me something about her.”
“What, why?
Wait. No, Bram. No,” he commands, like I’m some rangy pooch.
“No, I’m not
asking because of that.”
“Right, you’re
not asking because you don’t want to stick your dick in her.”
“I honestly
don’t,” I tell him. “I think she’d cry if she saw a dick in real
life.”
“Nice,” he
says dryly. “Anyway, she’s off-limits to you. She’s gone through
enough. She doesn’t need my arsehole brother fucking up her life
anymore.”
“Arsehole?”
“Yes, Bram,”
he says, tiredly. “Look I have to go.”
He hangs up
and I mutter a swear at the phone.
There’s only
one thing to do.
Soon I’m
parking the car in an above-ground garage near Union Square and
walking several blocks over into the heart of the manky Tenderloin
neighborhood. Other than good music venues, the place is crawling
with crazies. It’s not that bad during the daytime. I mean, it
ain’t pretty but the people just really annoy you to death with
their begging and aren’t dangerous. But if I were Nicola’s parents,
or even friends, I wouldn’t want her living there. The thought of
fuckheads outside her apartment at night makes me strangely pissed
off.
By the time I
reach her place, I’ve been asked for change by eight different
people and was told I “smell like crunchy toast” by a random
running down the road with a severed parking meter under his arm.
I’m not sure if I do smell like toast, but it is hot out. I’ve been
warned how San Francisco’s seasons don’t follow any rhyme or
reason.
I take off my
suit jacket, run a hand through my hair in an effort to look
respectable, and buzz her apartment number having remembered it
from last night. Borderline stalker-ish, I know.
“Hello?” I
eventually hear her voice come through the crackly intercom.
“Nicola, it’s
Bram.”
More crackle.
Silence. Maybe she’s hung up.
“From last
night,” I go on. “And other times.”
“Uh, hi…”
“Can I come
up?”
I can sort of
hear Steph in the background, “Who is it?”
“Tell her it’s
her brother-in-law!” I yell and then I’m disconnected.
I stare at the
door wondering if I’m being told to fuck off when it buzzes and I
go on up.
The funny
thing about Nicola, the thing I’ve gathered from what little I know
about her, is that if there’s anyone that shouldn’t be living in a
place like this – bars on the doors, mildew on the stairwell walls,
stains on
easy-going, but I know they all have their limit and I’m pretty
good at dragging them to it every time. Some might call that a sad
way to get through life, but when it’s just your life, you learn to accept it.
I pick up my
phone off the counter and stare at it. No missed calls, no texts. I
don’t even have her number, so I can’t call her.
I can call my
brother, though. If he’s not out flying the chopper for the
chartering company, that is.
He answers on
the third ring, but the connection is a bit fuzzy.
“Aye, what do
you want?” Linden shouts.
“Don’t tell me
you’re in the air and answering your phone all willy nilly.”
“Just about to
take off. What’s up?”
I clear my
throat, wondering how to phrase this without him getting the wrong
idea. “How is the girl? The wee one?”
“Like the
child, Ava?” he asks, his voice rising above the rotors I can hear
starting. “She’s okay. Diabetes they said, like some kind of shock.
You were there.”
“I know I was
there. I mean, how is she now? And how is her mum?”
“I guess she’s
fine as she can be, I don’t know. I know Steph is at her place
right now, helping out. She’s worried as hell. You know how she can
dote on people.”
That I do
know. Steph’s like the mother we never had. I don’t tell Linden
that or he’ll balk at the Freudian implications.
“Do you have
her phone number?”
“Nicola’s?” he
asks. “Not on my phone. I have her Facebook. Why?”
“No matter,” I
say, then pause. “Tell me something about her.”
“What, why?
Wait. No, Bram. No,” he commands, like I’m some rangy pooch.
“No, I’m not
asking because of that.”
“Right, you’re
not asking because you don’t want to stick your dick in her.”
“I honestly
don’t,” I tell him. “I think she’d cry if she saw a dick in real
life.”
“Nice,” he
says dryly. “Anyway, she’s off-limits to you. She’s gone through
enough. She doesn’t need my arsehole brother fucking up her life
anymore.”
“Arsehole?”
“Yes, Bram,”
he says, tiredly. “Look I have to go.”
He hangs up
and I mutter a swear at the phone.
There’s only
one thing to do.
Soon I’m
parking the car in an above-ground garage near Union Square and
walking several blocks over into the heart of the manky Tenderloin
neighborhood. Other than good music venues, the place is crawling
with crazies. It’s not that bad during the daytime. I mean, it
ain’t pretty but the people just really annoy you to death with
their begging and aren’t dangerous. But if I were Nicola’s parents,
or even friends, I wouldn’t want her living there. The thought of
fuckheads outside her apartment at night makes me strangely pissed
off.
By the time I
reach her place, I’ve been asked for change by eight different
people and was told I “smell like crunchy toast” by a random
running down the road with a severed parking meter under his arm.
I’m not sure if I do smell like toast, but it is hot out. I’ve been
warned how San Francisco’s seasons don’t follow any rhyme or
reason.
I take off my
suit jacket, run a hand through my hair in an effort to look
respectable, and buzz her apartment number having remembered it
from last night. Borderline stalker-ish, I know.
“Hello?” I
eventually hear her voice come through the crackly intercom.
“Nicola, it’s
Bram.”
More crackle.
Silence. Maybe she’s hung up.
“From last
night,” I go on. “And other times.”
“Uh, hi…”
“Can I come
up?”
I can sort of
hear Steph in the background, “Who is it?”
“Tell her it’s
her brother-in-law!” I yell and then I’m disconnected.
I stare at the
door wondering if I’m being told to fuck off when it buzzes and I
go on up.
The funny
thing about Nicola, the thing I’ve gathered from what little I know
about her, is that if there’s anyone that shouldn’t be living in a
place like this – bars on the doors, mildew on the stairwell walls,
stains on
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