Chapter Four (4)

(A/N: Yes, I’m aware I’m switching perspectives. I just find it easier to write in first person. In this case, I thought it would be easier to have Eric directly interpret things that are going on since this is his narrative to the police officer in the station as he is dying. Therefore wouldn’t he just use “I?” It makes more sense in my mind to approach the remainder of the story in this manner, and then switch back to third for the final scene in the station. So on with the story!)

Claudia and I grew closer over time. The office hadn’t called us back in some time. I finally made a move and asked her out. We hit it off really well and continued dating for several months. But despite all of that positive stuff, merely getting out of bed and going to school is a chore.

I hate waking up in the morning.

Every day that damn alarm clock wakes me up with it's monotonic buzz, I'm always tempted to pick it up and throw it through my window, but I can't, because it would be far too expensive.

I always take the rail to school. It's a pain in the ass to climb all of those stairs up the Skybridge Pylon near my house (it's 5,842 steps to the top. I've counted.), but my mom insists that I do so to stay fit. I just walk up and walk down the fucking things every day. There are a few people I've met here (like Burt. He's a displaced but he's cool. I sometimes give him change from my lunch money after school and we talk occasionally.), but for the most part, no one takes the stairs anymore. It's usually pretty quiet aside from the noise from the traffic down at street level and on the bridge.

3,100.

3,101.

3,102.

Here he is.

"'Morning, Burt."

"Good morning, Eric," Burt replies through a puff of smoke. Burt smokes occasionally, but usually he has to put away the cigarettes and blow away the smoke so he can look more respectable when it comes time to beg for money. I continue on my way up the old metal staircase, giving me a splendid view of the forty-acre Wal-Mart that people can take their cars into to buy in bulk. That is, those of us that can actually BUY anything. Most people in San Francisco are pretty dirt-poor.

5,840.

5,841.

5,842.

The top. Finally.

I sip my coffee as I get on the ‘rail car. As far as the outward appearance of the tramrail car, it bears a similar appearance to an obese centipede with a constipation problem. As I enter the belching beast, I survey the interior. Trash litters the floor, smoke lingers in the air. I sit next to a businessman, whose overcoat lingers with the smell of the lady he had cheated with the night before. His briefcase sat on the floor between us, closed and upright. He took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket next to his vial of Valium and lit up. He offered me one. I took it but pocketed it. I’ll hock it for something to eat at the school black market. Cigarettes fetch quite a bit of money down there. The monstrous train belched once more and let out a scrambled electronic horn. It then screeched forth, the electrical wires groaning with years of strain and mediocre maintenance. The businessman puffed happily on his cigarette, listening to classical music that I could hear through his ear buds. “A Little Night Music.” For being a corrupt businessman addicted not only to sex but to nicotine; he has pretty decent taste in music.

My eyes retreat to the floor, where I see a rat or two gnawing on stray scraps of food, a chocolate piece here, a Cheesy Poof there. I toss some bland cracker pieces from my morning ration to them. They scramble to and consume the proffered sustenance, squeak gratefully, and scurry back down the hall. I call the rats on this train “Jim” and “Dole.” They are the closest things I have to pets here.

The train stops at the First Avenue Pylon and some other people file on.

Is she coming today?

Yep. Claudia sits down next to me. I give her a quick peck on the cheek and offer her some coffee. She declines, saying “I already had some, thank you.”

An elderly couple sat down across from us. Mildred and Frank Flynn. Good old folks. They use the train often to pick up some painkillers at the drug shop. I bade them “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn,” and they nodded and smiled. They are usually so full of painkillers they don’t talk too much. In a way, I envy their bliss brought on by such drugs- this is not a pleasant world and the fact that drugs allow them to enjoy such an inhospitable place sometimes draws my wonderment.

The businessman next to me is looking at me quizzically, not expecting such a young man as me to be this social on a commuter tram. The train lurches and screeches and we are on our way. Claudia and I hold hands as the tram moves. We go past the Trans-America building in all it’s business-like majesty at 5:00 in the morning right at sunup. I never can get enough of seeing the sunrise from here. I usually time my train-ride just for this. It’s just about the only beautiful sight in my life I have the pleasure to see daily (besides Claudia).

We get off at the Lombard Street pylon and take the elevator down to the street. (Claudia has problems with her leg, so we don’t take the stairs.) We walk past the Irish pub on the corner and right on cue, two drunks come out and start beating each other up. I still wonder sometimes why the bar doesn’t ban those two- perhaps it’s because the two problematic patrons pay good money for a few drinks from their welfare checks, and the manager needs the income to pay the rent.

We pass the church, steeples in dilapidated majesty, subtle growths of mold feeding off the sea spray clinging to the sides. A monk in a torn coat futilely scrubs at the walls, trying to scrape off the mold. The morning mass was in session as we passed, but very few occupied those hallowed halls of the Lord. Most of the benches from what we could see through the faded stained glass windows depicting the Passion of Christ were empty. Only twenty people knelt inside, with a single preacher reading the Bible.

Claudia and I reach the corner of Mason and Lombard. A headless man hung on a telephone pole by his tennis shoes, drops of liquor from a concealed bottle dribbling down the long dead corpse to the ground to mix with the dried blood that the cleaning crew never bothered to clean. Then again, the cleaning crew didn’t dare take down this reminder that the Black Dragon gang ruled this end of town. Claudia and I didn’t break stride. Despite the hideous nature of this grotesque “signpost,” it was nothing we hadn’t seen before. We kept to the main street and didn’t cross into their turf. Claudia didn’t give me any visual sign of nervousness, but her grip on my hand said it all. (Think when you put your hand in a metal vice and start spinning the wheel almost until your hand breaks. Now you know what Claudia can do to your hand sometimes.) And down Mason we finally come upon our destination: Escuela de Muerte.