and to Oliver. They attempt CPR, but to no avail. He’s gone. He’s in my house. We’re just bodies in space.
Peter deals with the steps of calling Oliver’s mom, a sad alcoholic lady in Virginia with violent boyfriends and a smattering of other kids from volatile men. Oliver had a raw deal the whole way. I start walking through the Mission. I go all the way down Capp Street, then up 16th Street to Valencia and over to Market. I keep a good pace. People hang out, play chess, pee on the sidewalk. I cut up Hyde Street, jog over on Pine, taking on some punishing hills. I finally arrive in Chinatown and land at a vegetarian restaurant on Washington Street called The Lucky Creation. I order a plate of noodles with fake chicken. I decide to try to be in the restaurant purely as an observer, receiving information without judgment. Watching, feeling. The fluorescent lights make it feel like an office, like there should be a bunch of people talking about a TV show around a fax machine. A couple eats across from me, not speaking to each other, slurping. There are Germans at another table mulling over the menu. A lady sits at the cash register watching everyone, then looking out the door. I stay for a while and drink a lot of green tea. I start the walk home. Now it seems long and terrible. I try to get back in observer mode and just let it happen.
I don’t hear from Peter for a few days. He doesn’t hear from me either. I half-assedly look for a job, but hope that the pot farm work is still mine. I don’t know why it feels like there’s a rift between me and my brother. I feel like I fucked up when I didn’t do anything but witness Oliver’s dead body with him. I don’t know how to explain it. After three days I text Peter.
“Hey dude.” No answer.
“You okay?” No answer.
Two hours later, I try one more time. “Are we still going to Mendo next week for work or what?”
I see that he’s writing me back. Then the little dots go away. They start, then stop. Ten minutes later I get the text, “Yeah still on.”
“Want to get dinner?” I write. No answer.
We’re supposed to leave in four days. I walk over to Peter’s house and knock. I text him “I’m outside,” and he texts back “Okay.” A few minutes later, he finally opens the door. Immediately I can tell his vibe is off. He is sour and sharp, and his eyes look a million miles away.
“Dude, I’ve been worried about you,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you since Oliver. That was really gnarly.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Why are you being like this?” I plead, and he starts closing the door on me. “Please stop!” I say and put my foot in to block it. He pushes my foot out with his own, but leaves the door cracked.
“We’re leaving on Tuesday,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I have a lot of shit to do between now and then. I’ll text you.”
I sigh and leave. His sour mood is so demoralizing. I wish there was a way to guarantee he would stop acting like this forever. I call Irma to see what she’s up to.
“Hey, good morning, pal!” Irma is bright and energetic.
“What are you doing today?”
“Wanna come with me to walk my dogs? Bernal Hill? Maybe we get a drink after or something.”
“Yes. Two-thirty?”
“See ya!”
I drive down Cesar Chavez and make a right on Alabama. It occurs to me, apropos of nothing, that it would be hilarious to pick up a couple four-packs of wine coolers and bring them up the hill for me and Irma. I stop at the corner store on Precita and Alabama and walk in to a cloud of incense. There’s a big teenage girl sitting on a stool, talking on her cell phone. She doesn’t look at me. She’s wearing a grey hoodie and jeans that wrinkle up all over her like small waves. There’s a deli case across from the checkout, and a few meats and cheeses are strewn about, not filling the space, and looking a little past their eat-by date. Food poisoning waiting to happen. I walk back through the shelves of cat food and laundry detergent and Chunky Soup to the coolers and pull out a pack of pink bottles and a pack of green ones. Strawberry and green apple wine coolers. The gold foil wrapped around the tops of the bottles really has a top-shelf feel.
I pay the girl on the cell phone who only stops her conversation long enough to ask for $6.86. She has sweet, dark brown eyes and eyelashes that curl up to her eyebrows. I’ve been stopping here for years. The girl’s family moved to San Francisco from Eritrea years ago and took over the store from another family. She’s been working here since she was a little kid. I drive to the top of the hill and park in a short row of pickup trucks. I see several dog walkers and their crews. The dogs wander around, peeing, and sniffing, and greeting other dogs. A beautiful grey and black Great Dane lopes by. I like standing on this mound of nature planted in the urban landscape.
“Yo!” Irma hollers and strides toward me, a pack of dogs jetting away from her like sparks. She carries a long red Chuck-It over one shoulder, that long flexible plastic arm that helps you throw tennis balls super far. A huge ring of keys is hanging from a loop on her black jeans. Irma is one of those women who was born with instant muscles. She’s shaped like a prehistoric man. Even if she eats pepperoni pizza for every meal and drinks only beer she has broad shoulders, thick arms, and these legs that make her look like a Roman athlete from long ago, wavy with muscle. I just want to put a discus in her hand and send her to work.
I direct our path up the hill, lugging the paper bag full of wine coolers, which bumps against my leg rhythmically. The dogs wander and play and get acquainted with each other’s genitals. At the top of the road we climb over a steel railing onto a flat area where we can see the city sprawl north to downtown, east to the Bay and Oakland, and south to Portola Valley, Visitacion Valley and the Excelsior. We sit on a rock and watch the animals and people.
“What’s in the bag?”
“A flavor sensation.” I pull out the wine coolers and lay a cold, pink bottle in Irma’s open hand.
“Aren’t these illegal? Or like illegal in Europe because they’re so flammable?”
“That’s UltraSport, dummy.” I crack mine open and shake my head as I gulp the impossibly sweet and bubbly wine cooler. Irma pulls the cap off her bottle, throws it into the grass, and takes a long swallow.
“Dude!” I slap her arm.
“What?”
“Littering!”
“When did you turn into an environmentalist?”
“I’ve always cared about this!”
“Live with it, sister.”
Irma stands up and secures a tennis ball with the Chuck-It. She cranks her arm back and and sends the fuzzy green orb sailing, setting five dogs sprinting after it. A compact Jack Russell runs back with the ball in his mouth and stands panting with the other dogs, waiting for another throw. Irma repeatedly wings the ball and the animals chase farther and farther across the top of Bernal Hill. There’s something comical about all the exertion and joy happening in front of me, the superlative throws, and running, and response for
