My Crappy Friend

As if right on cue, a job offer fell into my lap. My friend Mark called me and wondered if I wanted a job. “Yes!” I said. I didn’t even ask what the job was. It could be performing artificial insemination on chimpanzees as far as I was concerned, as long as it comes with a piece of paper with dollar signs on it.

The next day, I have brunch with Marco, because everyone knows, San Francisco is good for two things: blow jobs and brunch. I guess I should mention that Marco is not only my Ex boyfriend, but he's also gay. I would like to tell you that we broke up because he came out of the closet, but when we dated, he was not only out of the closet, but I was battling it out with his boyfriend, Lance, as to who will pull that rope of his over that gay to straight line. Guess who won? I'd also like to say that we remained good friends, but that would also be bullshit. The only time Marco contacts me is when he's looking for a  favor, usually involving a friend of his that's coming from another country and needs a place to crash for a week or once again, he wants to buy something, but doesn't want Lance to know he's still running up a huge credit card bill and wants to use my den as some amazon.com shipping whore house. The only time I usually contact him is when he has a lead on a job, thanks to the number of professional men who he cheats on Lance with. In other words, we have a shitty friendship, but it works.

Today's job recommendation was for a writer to follow around some rich person and  write about their life for a year. 

"Sounds boring." I said. "Are they famous?"

"I don't think so, I mean I've never heard of them." He said.

"Name?"

"I forgot…Manny something? I can't read my hand writing. I wrote it on a bar napkin when I was at the Eagle."

"Have they ever done anything famous?"

"If they have, I'm not familiar with it, otherwise I would have remembered his name."

"You're not giving me a lot to work with, Marco." Is this some crazy megalomaniac? They could be a crazy serial killer who wants me to document their kills or else I'll be next."

"That sounds like a cool book, you should write it."

"I'll give it to my dad."

"I  think it's sorta like someone being famous in sports. Besides a star player of the Warriors, you couldn't name anyone that sits on the bench."

"Or a star player."

"Well, there you go. So you want an interview?"

"Interview?"

"Yeah, that's how jobs work: résumé, interview, hire…"

"Fine, whatever, set it up."

"Will do, now…I have a little favor to ask…"

"What's his name?"

"It's a she this time?"

"A she? Have you switched leagues?"

"No, she's a friend of mine from Paris."

"Paris? Oo la-la"

"Promise me you won't ever say that to her."

"Ok, so how long?"

"A week. She's here for fashion week."

"Not another model."

"At least it's a girl this time."

"True. Alright fine. Does she speak English?"

"Everybody in Paris speaks English, nowadays."

"Except me when I went there."

"That's cause you're an ugly American."

"Hey!"

"I'm not talking about looks, June bug."

"Thanks…I think."

I end my phone call and thought about all of the shit I have to do: find my interview clothes and  make room for a woman who at Halloween time, probably dresses up as me.

Anger

The newspaper has officially given me an event to cover. Apparently, there is group of hipsters who have decided to start their own winery. Unlike most wine makers, instead of going out to some field somewhere in Napa Valley or Sonoma, these upstart rabble-rousers are doing it in their garage. That’s right, they’re like the micro brewers of the wine business. I’m sure Mondovi and the other big bottle wineries are shaking in their boots at the thought of people turning out their own bottles of wine as much as Coors and Budweiser are afraid of people in trailer parks, going on hiatus from making meth and making beer even worst than theirs. I managed to drag Lucy away from the computer for a while because as it turns out, these Winos (their title, not mine) had set up shop not that far from her boyfriends apartment in the Lower Height. Long distance relationships are hard, (said the woman who has never been in one) so it’s amazing that Lucy and Gordon have been able to pull it off. Actually, truth be known, Silicon Valley and San Francisco are physically not that far apart, but when you factor in that traffic, that shit takes forever to get to. Gordon works for another  tech company but he was lucky enough to land one at a company that set up shop in the Mission district, kicked all of the families out of the neighborhood and then parachuted a bunch of lofts right on top of the buildings which have been there, even before the Latinos kicked out the Irish. They spend so much of their time going back and forth, I can’t figure out why one of them doesn’t give up their job and just move in together. It’s been discussed but it’s like they’re playing a game of macho-job chicken to see who flenches first. I try to stay out of it, but if I have my say, the one that makes the most money is the winner. That’s how it worked in my family. My mom was the one with the fancy international Ph.D. thing and my Dad, was a starving writer, living from book deal to book deal until he finally landed the white whale publisher. Until this day, I have no idea what my mom really did for a living. I think it was related to language studies. But if that were true, it would explain how we got to travel to places like Africa and the Pacific islands but not that long stint in Italy, France and Switzerland. I mean, seriously, what did she have to learn from French, Italian and combo that they speak in Switzerland, that a million people haven’t already said. But, I digress (I’ve always wanted to use that in a sentence). I miss my mom. It’s been 10 years but it still creeps in and squeezes my heart.

 Any-who, We get to the winery (I use that word loosely) and it’s exactly what you would expect. A tiny San Francisco garage, completely filled with wine barrels, a big steed drum thing  and other mad scientist shit. The upstart wine makers are Tom and Von. Apparently they use to date each other but remained friends. They both used to work at some wineries in Napa Vally but quit their jobs to follow the American Dream of unemployment. They gave us some tastings of their first crush as they called it which I guess is like the preview of what’s to come. I’ve never been an expert on wine in the least. To me it all taste like vinegar. I guess I’m one of those chicks that like the sweet stuff you see rapper bitches drinking. It was as expected like vinegar to me, but Lucy is more of a wine snob and she said it was good on the some level as a French Pinot. I knew she would come in handy on this assignment. To further bribe me to write something nice about them, they gave us each a free bottle. They had yet to print labels so they wrote three ‘X’s on the label which made us look like hobos carrying these things back to the bus stop. I got home, wrote up my story about them and submitted it to the paper. By the time I finished dinner, I got a response from Kai my editor telling me it was a nice pice and they will use it but he wants me to dig deeper next time and how I should have found out more about what is it like to be two gay wine makers that used to be lovers now forced together to make their dream come true—blah, blah, blah. I mean seriously, do I have to dig all in their holes just for a story? 

When I finished dinner, I hear Margaret playing her stereo really loud. The strange thing about her, (besides everything) is that she likes to listen to classical music really loud and at odd hours. I guess it could be worst. When she’s blasting the violin solo shit, It’s usually something I can fall asleep to, so I don’t bang on the walls for her to stop. I think I’m afraid that if I bang on the wall, she’s gonna come back playing some heavy metal death punk group called Ear Bleed or something. The particular song she was playing was weird because it would stop and start all over again. I was like, is she doing a remix or something? It was then I figured it out. Someone is playing an actual violin in her apartment. But who? I know it couldn’t be her because she looks nothing like a violinist or anyone that would do anything with their hands that didn’t involve a hand job or holding a cocktail. After the music stopped, I listened wit my ear to the door to hear someone leaving. It never happened. I figured the violinist must be spending the night. Is it the guy that stormed out the other night, come back for makeup sex? Whatever, I have to stop spying on her. She seems like the type that loves attention, I wonder what the whole tit incident was about? I choose to ignore her and her life and went to bed to figure out how to get more money for rent.

One Phone Call

The day after ‘tit night’ I had breakfast with my dad at some shitty café in the Richmond District.That’s right,  my dad, the famous author. I was waiting at which point would he take a breath and stop talking about how the studio was trying to coax Richard fucking Gere to play the lead roll in the movie adaptation of his book or how he was going to find time to write while doing so many interviews on those Good Morning TV shows. The pause in his ‘Life is Good’ tirade came finally when he asked: “So how are you doing?”

    I told him what had happened last night. He seemed quite interested, like more so than when I told him I might have landed a job at the Newspaper. I’m sorry, do we even use the word ‘newspaper anymore? I guess I should say a job as a journalist. Anyway, when I had finished the story, he had a look on his face like a 12 year old after someone had read him a Dear Penthouse letter.
    “Wow!” He said
    “Wow, is right.”
    “So, what are you gonna do?”
    “What do you mean? What am I supposed to do?”
    “I mean, you have to investigate.”
    “Investigate what?”
    “What she wanted. Why’d she whip her tits out—all of that.”
    “Dad. She’s a weirdo. End of story.”
    “See, there’s your problem.”
    “I have a problem?”
    “If you want to be a journalist, you gotta follow through on your story. Do some digging around. Take control of the story.”
    “There’s no story. It was an incident.”
    “Buddy (my dad calls me Buddy) If you want to be a Journalist, you have to learn how to get in there! Make a difference.”
    “Dad, I don’t know if I want to be a journalist.”
    “You want to be a writer?”
    “What, and have everybody compare me to you? No thanks.”
    “Not such a bad thing.”
    “It is, if I want to be my own person. I don’t want to be know as Jacob Moon’s daughter.”
    “Then you better change your last name.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    He lifted up his finger. “ One phone call.”
    “Dad…No”
    “Just one phone call to my agent and you could be on your way.”
    “No.”
    “You wouldn’t have to work as a…”What does the paper want you for any way?”
    “I don’t know. I think it’s one of those things where they hire a bunch of bloggers to write about stuff around town or some convention. That way they get the young people perspective.”
    “And that’s gonna pay your rent?”
    “Enough.”
    “In San Francisco?”
    “Dad, I’m fine. It’ll be fine.”
    He lifted up his hands and said: “Fine, fine.” But remember.”
    “I know. One phone call.”

    After talking to my dad, I walked down Geary,  trying to see if there was a place to catch the #38.  I was thinking like: “He’s right. That blogging thing an’t gonna pay my rent. I’m gonna be homeless like that guy with no pants on.”Yes, there was a presumedly homeless guy walking down the street with no pants on. “Even if my dad made that  “One phone call” Then what? I don’t have a novel in me. The longest things I’ve ever written were all non fiction pieces about the early days of California agricultural practices—yawn! snore! But, maybe I could get some type of shitty part-time job. Something that pays just enough to eat Ramen noodles and not have to start a web cam where I masturbate with my earthquake supplies.  My phone got a text. It was my F.G.B.F. Or my Funny, Gay, Best  Friend. Which is actually what I call him—to his face! Thing is though, he’s not my best friend…Nor is he that funny…Okay, he’s not even gay…or even a guy…I made the whole thing up…I suck…My life is boring. But I sooo wish I had a F.G.B.F that would call me up and cheer me up and take me out for mimosas and say things like: “Girl, fuck getting another job. Let’s go shopping!” Instead, it was my friend,  Lori Li. An Asian girl, born and raised in San Francisco, which is kinda rare for there to ever be children in San Francisco. It’s like the Child Snatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang came in and stole them all. Lori and I used to be roommates but she moved to Silicon Valley to take some job at some tech company, making more money than God. If I were smart, I could have followed her, learned how to code, work for 12 hours a day, 8 days a week and be set for life. But, I like living in San Francisco, with it’s Golden-gated-sour-doughed-hipster-dipster,-pants-less-homeless glory. I think if you’re going to live far away from it then you might as well live in Texas or some land-locked Red State.
    “Hi Moonie” She said.
    “Nǐ hǎo.”
    “What?”
    “Nǐ hǎo.”’
    “What the fuck?”
    “Hello, in Chinese?”
    “Dude. That’s racist.”
    “Is it? But you’re Chinese?”
    “And you’re Irish. Should I be asking how your fucking lucky charms are?”
    “Okay…”
    “Stars?Moons? Green mother fucking clovers?”
    “…Okay, you’ve made your point.”
    “Seriously, Moonie—get your ass kicked in China Town for that shit.”
    “Okay…Gaw. Lucy, are you okay, you’re being a little Aggra.”
    “I’m sorry…I’m tired. I’ve been working on this project for like days and it still not right. I slept here last night. Do you know what it’s like to sleep in a office?”
    “But, don’t they have all of that fancy food and cool couches and facilities at that place?
    “Where the fuck you think I work, Google?” We’re the company that wants to be Google.If Google were a person, we’d be a fucking pimple on it’s ass, until google gets sick of it and lasers the fucker off.”
    “Lucy? Take a breath.”
She took a deep breath.  “Have I mentioned I’m tired?”
    “Yes.”
    “I forgot why I called.”
    “To vent?”
    “Yes…No…Wedding gift.”
    “For who, you?”
    “No! Chelsea!”
    “Oh right. When is that?”
    “Next month, I think—Whatever. Anyway, do you know where she’s registered?”
    “Nordstroms, the Apple store and some winery in Napa.”
    “Wow. No blender for that bitch.”
    “I know. When I get married, all of my registries will be bank withdraws related.”
    “Cash is king. Any-hoo. I better get back to coding—Son of a bitch!”
    “What happened?”
    “I linked to the wrong website and now my screen has a cock on it.”
    “What exactly kind of app are you creating?”
    “Apparently one that shows cock pics, I gotta go. Ciao.”

    When Lucy hung up, I thought.I gotta get a job, but nothing like what she’s doing.

Posted by Hachell Moon 10:29 PM

Denial

It was 4AM. How did I know? Because I yelled “It’s fucking 4AM! at the wall. And why was I yelling at the wall? Because the couple next door were having some type of winner-take-all grudge match, argument. At first, I thought it was rough sex or  yet another party; they have lots of parties, like every weekend it seems. I would complain to the landlord but these people are paying like 3 times the rent for their apartment than I am. (thank you San Francisco for rent control!); bottom line is, if he wanted to get rid of someone, first it’ll be the last African American left in the entire block, paying the same rent as I am, downstairs and then it’ll be my unemployed, useless college degree ass. I had to find out what the fight was about so I put a glass against the wall and placed my ear on it: “Good job,” Hatchell I thought, you’ve turned into the nosey neighbor  sitcom character. Thanks to my glass microphone I hear the word “fuck you!” and the word: “blow job!” Is she offering him a blow job? It was so weird.  The door slams and I hear someone downstairs leave out the squeaky metal  front door. I pray that they don’t come back because you can’t get in without someone buzzing you in and on more than one occasion, guess who’s apartment get’s randomly buzzed? I hear their window opens up and she yells at him: “Tim! Come back inside! We can work it out!”

“Fuck you! We're though!” He yelled back.

“It was just a blow job! I didn’t fuck him!” she yells.  I’m like, holy shit, she did not just yell that out the window. 

“I’ve had it…I’ve had it with you!” he yelled.

“Stop acting like a twat and come inside.” she yelled. (I love the word: ‘twat’)

I hear this clang,  like he kicked over a garbage can. And then he calls for a taxi. Good luck getting a taxi in this neighborhood. But, a taxi actually stops! I guess this place really is gentrified. And off he went, giving me some peace and quiet. At least they broke up on the weekend, cause I needed to sleep in. I smelled cigarettes and I knew that once again, she was smoking out of the window. That’s actually, the only time I’ve seen her is when she’s leaning out the window, smoking. It’s like she doesn’t have a bottom half to her body. For some reason, I wanted to take a peek at her, you know, to see if she's beat up and maybe I should do something like call some abuse hot line or whatever. I take a quick peek out the window hoping she doesn’t see me—last thing I need is for someone to tell me to fuck off, or whatever British people say( piss off?) Actually, is she even  British? I know he was. Kinda cute when we talked in the elevator, he made little comments on my groceries asking what I was making for dinner—blah, blah, blah.  This time, instead of leaning out the window, she’s on the balcony which we really aren’t suppose to be on because I think it’s like decoration and I probably shouldn’t even put my plants out there, but, she’s full on standing on the balcony… smoking…and she’s topless!  She looks over at me and I’m like:  “Oh shit she saw me! Back inside! Back inside! Close the window! Maybe she didn’t see me—She saw me!” But then I thought, “wait, why am I freaking out? She was the one outside, naked! Why was she topless? Were they fucking before the fight? Maybe he came home and caught her; with who, though? Why would anyone cheat on that cute British guy?  I hear some foot steps coming down the hall. “Oh shit! Should I call the cops? Is she coming to kill me? No, maybe she’s going after her boyfriend. It goes quiet. What is she doing? Is she outside my door or catching the elevator? Suddenly there’s knocking on my door. Oh crap!  What do I do? Should I say I’ve got a gun? go away? She’s knocks again! I felt like yelling: “What do you want ,crazy naked lady?” But then I thought, wait, what if she was raped? That could be it? She got raped and had to give the guy a blow job to escape—yes,  I actually thought that. 

“Hello?” She said very quiet-like.

I open the door, but  I kept the chain on: “Y-yes?”

She’s tall, like almost 6 feet, or I’m just short. She has dark curly hair. She looks like a Greek supermodel—sorta, a little overweight more like a plus-size. She’s wearing a white bath robe with a DKNY logo on it. I’m guessing it cost over $100. “Hi” She says, (no British accent). “Yes. I’m Margaret. I’m your neighbor in 2B, can I come in?”

I think she’s gonna murder me but I keep cool:  “What do you want?”

“Don’t worry lovely, I’m not going to bite. See…” She does this little spin to show she’s not holding an ax behind her back. She called me Lovely. What the hell is that?  “…Look ma, no arms. Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“I need your opinion on something?”

“You can ask me here.”

“I’d rather not. It’s not something I want the neighbors to see.”

Seriously? I think. She was naked outside for the world to see! “But… I am a neighbor.” I say.

“You’re also a woman, Lovely…I need a woman’s opinion.”

What the hell does she want? “You sure you can’t do it from the hall way?”

“Miss Hachell…”

“Hachell is my first name…” I said but then I thought wait one damn minute : “How did you know my name?”

“On the mail boxes down stairs…Anyway, Hachell. My name is Margret Simone Beauvoir Fitzgerald.…” Such a long name. She offered her hand through the door crack. We shook finger tips. “Nice to meet you Hachell…Where did that name come from?”

“It was my grandmother’s.”

“Oh, charming, and you took your dad’s last name…Which is, Moo, right?”

“Moon.”

“Nice to meet you Ms Moon…Wait a minute…Hachell Moon, Hachell Moon…Why does your name seem familiar?”

She’s left the doorway and went back to her apartment. I thought, does she recognize me from my blog? Impossible. No one reads my blog. I wait for at least 3 minutes thinking: Are we done? Should I close the door or wait for her to get back? I started to slowly close the door but she made it back and carrying…Dad’s book. Of course.

“Jacob Moon! He’s your dad, right? In the dedication…To my daughter Hachell, May you shine so bright.  That’s you, right?”

Great. Another fan of dad’s book. “Yes, he’s my dad.”

“Brilliant! I loved his second's novel, it’s so clever.”

“Is that what you want to talk to me about?”

“No, of course not, I just learned your name a second ago…May I come in?”

“Okay, but I have to warn you, I have a big dog sleeping in the kitchen, so don’t wake him.”

I know she didn’t believe me—seriously Hachell? Large dog? I wondered if I should leave the door open in case I have to make a run for it? It was too late, she was already inside, looking at my stuff. Does she want to steal my stuff? Who would want to steal my empty goldfish bowl or my poster of Arthur Miller?

“I like your apartment…It’s so…” She pointed towards my end table made out of two milk crates. “…Is that a a dildo?”

Oh-my-god! I think, did I leave that out? But it wasn’t:  “No, that’s a poorly designed flash light.”

“Poorly designed? Or genius marketing!”

“Did you want to come over to discuss my earthquake supplies?”

“Oh right, no…No. I just need your opinion.”

“Oooo-kay. I’ll do my best.”

“You saw me out on the balcony, right?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just seeing what all of the noise was about.”

“What-ever. Anyway. You saw me out there, right?”

“Yes.”

“So…What did you think?”

“Of what? Your fight? That’s none of my business.” I lied. Totally wanted to find out what it was about.

“No, not the fight. My tits.”

  “Excuse me?”

“My tits. You saw them, right?”

“Yes, I mean no. Why are you asking me that? Are you coming on to me?”

“Oh, god, no. I mean you’re…” She did this hand wave scan of my entire body. Why did she wave her hand up and down in my direction when she said that? “I’m what?”

“You’re…fine, you fine girl, you. I just…This is not a come on. I just need your opinion.”

“On your tits.”

“Yes.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Tell me what you thought of them?”

“Why?”

“Because. Were not friends so I know you’ll give me an honest opinion.”

“This sounds like a perfect question for your friends, perhaps you should call one of them up?”

“I can’t. They’ll just tell me; oh Margaret, you look fabulous and sexy— Bleh!”

“Bleh? Bleh? I wish my friends would tell me that.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. You and your friends are honest with each other. If you go out wearing…That…”

Again with the hand wave in my direction.

“…Your friends will tell you  how green is so…2 years ago and those glasses…Yes, that’s what they’d say.”

“What’s wrong with my glasses? I got my glasses at this off the wall optometrist in the Mission District. How much hipper could I be?”

“Not about you right now. Please, your opinion.”

“What’s to keep me from lying to you and saying your boobs looked great.”

“Wait, you’d lie if you say they looked great?”

“Yes, No–I don’t know–why do you want to know, anyway?”

“I just do. Please just tell me.”

“I don’t even remember seeing your boobs. It all happened so fast.” I lied. Suddenly she opened her robe and–ker-plow! Oh-lee shit, she whipped them out. “What are you doing?” I yelled

“So you can have a look.”

“Please close your robe!” I pleaded shielding my eyes as if her tits were made out of kryptonite and I was gay Super Man.

“Not until you give me your opinion.”

“And what if I say they’re terrible–Please! Cover up!”

“Not until you tell me.”

“For Christ sake…They look fine.” I said staring at the floor.

“You’re looking at the floor. Look at my tits and tell me what you think.” Things you never expect someone to ever say to you.

“I can’t believe…Who are you? Are you a sex maniac…Is this your thing?”

“Still waiting.”

Ok, I thought,  the sooner I look and tell her, the sooner I can get her out of here. I psyched myself up: Ok, Hachell, you’ve been to the women’s locker room, I’ll just take a quick peek and hope she doesn’t do something weird.  Ok, there they are…whoa, is she like a D-cup? What does she want me to look for, scars, symmetry? They’re as even as any other pair, no tan lines, for their size, I’d expect them to sag. Final grade A plus, but If I tell her that, she’ll think I’m lying, I had to say something that she’ll believe that won’t lead to a debate or her doing something weirder. I can’t believe I’ve been starring at a woman’s tits for this long. I almost feel obligated to show her mine. “They look fine.” I say.

“Fine?”

“They look, good?”

“Good?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m not going to say fabulous, I’m not a tit person. I—like—men.” She didn’t respond.  She closed her robe. It was like she was mad or something. She headed out but stopped at the doorway.”

“Thank you, Hachell.”

“You’re welcome?” And off she went. What the hell was that about? Did I insult her?


Posted by: Hachell Moon at 10:44: AM