FIRED

Chapter 4

A Burger With Lies

Chapter 3: http://scarletlibrarian.com/corey/chapter3.htm

And still he continued to walk. He realized that this counted as doing something. Just walking counted as doing something, and it cleared his mind a bit. The blood pumping throughout his body, from his brain to his heart, through his limbs and back again through the circuit. His nerves were firing, letting off the excess energy he was generating from the morning’s stress. Endorphins were popping. His senses were coming alive in these new and unusual surroundings. He could smell the mix of saline from the sea and exhaust from the Muni train. He could feel the sun beating down, warming his skin, and the breeze off the bay fighting it off, cooling him just a bit. He saw things that had always been there in a seemingly new and different way. Looking up at the enormous and gray Bay Bridge, it looked simultaneously brand new and prehistoric.

But it was mostly the sounds that caught his attention. There was so much going on. Not just the sounds of nature going about its business, the birds calling out to each other, the battleships flags whipping in the wind, but most importantly the sounds of people. Boats cruising the bay and sounding their deep bass horns. The cars speeding by, competing with the Muni trains for space. The high-pitched whine of bike messengers whizzing by, their spokes slicing the air and freshly empty bags flapping on their backs. Parents out strolling with their kids. An elderly man stood pointing up at the battleship explaing parts of it to the young boy by his side. Perhaps he was stationed on the ship at one time. From across the street heard, glasses and dishes clanking as the staff at the Delancey Street Restaurant set up the patio for the lunch crowd, and up ahead, workmen and laborers were already gathering at Reds Java Hut for an early lunch of cheap burgers and an ice cold beer while looking out over the water in the shade of the Bay Bridge.

He’d only been walking for about ten minutes, but Martin could feel his mood lifting ever so slightly. Shit happens, he told himself. And shit has just happened to him. And, behind that thought, an unvoiced thought panicked throughout his body that shit will continue to happen if he doesn’t take of this situation soon. That thought registered as a cold chill, and he knew what it meant without even having to voice the words in his mind. But, the chill passed and he knew that for know, he should keep walking for awhile.

As he came up to the white shack that was called Red’s, he saw the group of mostly middle-aged men wearing coveralls and work jeans inside. Later the yuppies would come slumming, thinking it was cool, and most of the patrons there at this early hour were grateful to get there ahead of that element. Martin had always heard of this place, as it was really just a few blocks from the Rittenhouse offices, but had never gone. What could it hurt to have a quick burger to fuel his walk? He was nervous approaching the door, wearing his suit and being the only professional presence in the place, but the momentum of his walk brought him through the door nonetheless. While the others walked directly in and ordered theit usuals, Martin looked up thoughtfully at the old handmade menu nailed high up on the wall. The choices were few: burger, cheeseburgers, a couple of sandwiches, soda, chips, beers. He half-expected to turn around and see John Belushi shouting “Cheezebourger! Cheezebourger!”

He walked up to the counter and ordered a cheeseburger. And old man who looked to be about 75 years old was flipping burgers at the grill, and young black guy was prepping orders. The young woman taking his order asked him if he wanted chips, but he said no. “Anything to drink?” she asked.

“A coke,” he answered.

“Alright, cheeseburger and a coke, that’ll be $3.26. Your number is 31.”

He hesitated as he pulled his wallet out. “Is it too early for you to serve beer?”

“I dunno, but we do.”

“What kind of beer due you have?” he asked the woman.

“Bud.”

“Is that it?”

“Yeah, just Bud. No Bud light either.”

“Okay, Um, I’ll have a Bud instead of a Coke.” He said, quite impulsively. A beer, in the middle of the day, let alone before noon. But it is just one bottle. And, who cares? Susan? His mom? He really didn’t even like beer, but he felt the need to do something different.

“Make that $4.32 then,” the young woman at the counter said.

“As Martin handed her the money, he asked, “Is that Red?” motioning with his head towards the old man at the grill.

“Nope,” she said, as the old man turned and threw a sneer in Martin’s direction.

Martin went over by the window and looked up at the Bay Bridge. From a distance of maybe a hundred feet away, he squinted and looked as hard as he could at the gigantic columns of steel rooted in the dry ground here in San Francisco that supported the bridge from below. They just stood there withstanding all this weight and pressure for years and years, decades and decades. How did they do it? How didn’t they just cave in or push down further into the ground? And with the added weight and pressure of thousands of cars driving over them all day and all night, day in and day out? Martin probably could barely handle the glare that the old man, who really was Red, threw at him a few minutes before.

“Number 31!” yelled the handsome young black man.

Martin grabbed his order, a small stack of napkins, and grabbed a stool along the wall near the window.

There were assorted sections of that day’s edition of the San Francisco Chroncle tossed around the shared tables. A loose Business section was near his elbow, and the guy two stools down asked Martin if he could have a look at it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that yours? Is this your seat?” He sounded so nervous, and so ridiculous, to the man.

“No you’re fine. Just thought I’d take a look at the stocks if no one was looking at that.”

“Oh, sure,” Martin replied and handed him the section. “Do you have the front news section over there by any chance?” He felt like an old married couple with this anonymous gruff man.

“I don’t see one, but there is a stack of papers over there, too.” Red’s was a very casual establishment, to say the least. The kind of place were strangers and newbies floated in and out, scarfing burgers or hanging out a while, and sharing the paper. Martin walked a few feet over and rifled through the stack of abandoned and messy newspaper sections. He found the front page down in the stack, but it was so crumpled and misshapen as to be unreadable, while he ate. He glanced back at his meal to make sure it was safe. Of course it was. This wasn’t the kind of place where people stole your beer or grabbed your stool. He realized that he would feel silly and awkward if he walked over there and back with nothing in his hand, so he grabbed the Datebook off the top of the stack.

When he came back to his stool, he made a lame show of what he found, and awkwardly said, “This was all I could find.” The man looked over and nodded, and returned to his lunch. Martin had read most of the Datebook on his way to work this morning, but had to distract himself, otherwise, he might find himself making more clutzy conversation and possibly even thinking about what happened just over an hour ago. To go there would be dangerous, especially since he found himself sitting here, sitting still, lost in his own head. Walking he felt better, but sitting here, the feeling of dread was creeping back up his throat, maybe even bringing the slightest taste of bile.

He took a small swig of his Bud to wash it back, and then took a small bit of the cheeseburger. The Bud was ice cold, just the way he liked it. He rarely drank beer, but when he did, the colder the better. Once in college, he had ordered a beer on the rocks, and the bartender snorted a laugh and handed him a bottle. He never asked for it on the rocks again after that. And, the cheeseburger was quite good, different. It was kinda slight and greasy, bu so much flavor, and the French roll was unique and perfect. And, it sopped up the grease just enough so you got the flavor and not the mess.

He flipped the Datebook to the back page, folded it as neat as he could and laid it front of him to read Leah Garchik’s column. Among the gossip about local personalities, politicos and interesting ordinary folks, it said that Arnold Schwarznegger would be making an appearance at his Planet Hollywood restaurant this afternoon. Martin thought, “I should go check it out….nothing else to do, right?”

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you again,” the man next door said. “Can you hand me some of those napkins. Got a bit of this ketchup on my pants.” The pants were kinda dirty already. The man looked like he did construction, but the red stain did stand out in an unpleasant manner.

“You should put some cold water on that. Just dab it with a little cold water,” added Martin as he handed him the napkin dispenser.

“Good idea…thanks.” He took the napkins, bunched a couple of them up, dipped them in his glass of ice water and dabbed the stain, which started to met away just a little bit, making it look not so new.

“Do you come here often?” asked Martin, and felt immediate disbelief that he had just asked that ridiculous question.

The man didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness of the question, and answered, “Yeah, a couple, three times a week. Been coming here for years. Glad it is still kinda secret, and it is good to come by early before the lunch crowds. You know, so many damn suits work in this neighborhood now, and they all come crowding down here everyday.”

“No offense,” the man added, noticing that Martin was wearing a suit. “You? Is this your first time at Red’s?”

“Yeah. Does the suit give me away?”

“Not so much as just being unfamiliar like you don’t know the place or the people. You work around here? Taking an early lunch?” It was only about 11am, well before the professional types would be dropping in for the guilty pleasure of a greasy burger and a scandalous beer for lunch.

Martin was not ready to answer such a simple question. What would this man think if he told he was out of a job. Not just unemployed, but fired. Fired about an hour ago. Alright, laid off, whatever, but fired, nonetheless. He went to answer, and his throat went dry and seized up.

“Yeah, it is an early lunch, huh?” He stalled. “My schedule opened up, and, um, I was, y’know, between meetings, between clients, and right in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d pop in.”

“What kind of work do you do? What kind of clients?” the man asked. “By the way, I’m Tom.”

“Hey Tom, I’m Martin. Well, I’m a consultant.”

“Right, but what kind of stuff do you consult on?”

“Oh yeah, I’m a, um, medical consultant. Helping people with medical matters and things.” He stammered, wondering what the hell he was talking about, not sure what words would come out next.

“Like a doctor?”

“No, more research oriented.” He found his footing within this little white lie, and channeled the many consultants in his office. His old office. “Companies doing research on medical devices, new drugs, new treatments. I have an MBA with a Masters in Public Health.”

“Oh, so do you work with, like Genentech, or more like the big pharm companies like Glaxo and Pfizer? If so, thanks for the little blue pill” Tom added with a sly mano-a-mano wink.

Martin panicked again, a little bit, because this guy knew what he was talking about. “No, with smaller companies, the upstarts. I mean the start ups. The companies that will be the next Genentech or the next Pfizer.” Desperate to change the subject, he added. “So, what do you do?”

“I work on that beauty, actually,” pointing through the window and up at the bridge. “There is a crew of about 150 guys who work on the bridge, doing maintenance, a lot of painting. I supervise the painters. It is a lot more paper-pushing than it looks.”

Martin took another bite of the burger, barely half done, and good swig of beer. “Really? “ He asked, completely fascinated. This was the last thing he expected to hear come out of this guy’s mouth for some reason. “I didn’t realize it took that much maintenance.”

“Oh yeah. It is mostly all safety oriented, keeping the bridge in good shape so that the billions of people who drive over it every day make it from one end to the other.”

“Were you working here for the ’89 quake?” asked Martin. “What was that like?”

“A nightmare. An absolute nightmare. I live in the Richmond and was home already when it hit. I didn’t know that the east span section collapsed in that one spot, but I knew that the bridge would at least need to checked over every square inch. Telecom was down. No media. Total confusion. With all the disaster, I couldn’t make it there until the next morning, because I also had to make sure that my kids were safe and home from school. Then getting here and having to work on that. I mean, I’m on the paint squad, but still, we were all needed to with anything, everything. I dunno, but I think we did the best we could, given the circumstances. Nothing compared to dealing with the World Trade Center, though, huh?”

“You worked on that too? Did you go out there and help?” Martin found himself a well of curiosity. He wanted to know everything.

“Hell no. I was just comparing tragedies, that’s all.” Tom knocked back the final drops of his beer, dabbed at the ketchup stain one more time, and said “Well, back to the bridge. Take care. What’d you think of Red’s?”

“Oh, this was great,” though he’d barely eaten half the burger. “Thanks for talking.”

“Of course, no problem. See you around.” And, with that, Tom plopped his ballcap on his head, and walked out the door, dropping his trash in the can, and the little red basket in the receptacle on top.

Martin looked back out the window, and saw Tom heading away, in the direction of the bridge. “Why did I lie to that complete stranger?” he wondered. He felt like an absolute idiot. A perfectly decent man, and he tells him lies. Tom was like all the people Martin saw on the bus back-and-forth to work everyday and never talked to. But in this case, the ice was broken, and Martin ruined it by lying. “He doesn’t want to hear all my misery,” Martin thought. “In fact, maybe he was lying. Who does that kind of work?” But, deep down, Martin knew that Tom was a decent man and was not lying, and that it was wrong of him to cover-up like he did.

Martin finished off the beer, following the same routine as Tom with his trash, and headed out the door into the unusually bright and sunny San Francisco day.

Turning right, heading North, towards the bridge, just as Tom, Martin continued on. He found himself walking into the shade provided by the bridge, and he looked up at it as he passed under. IT was so massive. What if it just fell on him right now? What if the big brother earthquake to the ’89 Loma Prieta hit this very instance, and the bridge came tumbling down on him, he wondered.

“What a relief that would be.” Was the first answer that popped into his head, surprising him a little bit. But the idea did feel like relief. In fact, people would probably never find out that he was fired. He would probably die instantly. In all the confusion and panic over the collapsed bridge, he probably wouldn’t even be found for days. He would be mourned, his reputation and character intact. He would be remembered as a nice guy who did a good job and took care his mom. And life would go on for everyone else.

He walked a little slower while under the bridge, even pausing for a minute, looking curiously at the odd old building living under the bridge, giving the earth as much time as it need to violently shake this bridge down on top of him.

But, it didn’t, and he moved out of the shade and back into the bright sun. The San Francisco Ferry building laid straight ahead, and he kept walking toward it. “Maybe I’ll have a severe appendicitis attack, or get run over. That would do the trick as good as anything else,” he thought. Or maybe Al Queda would just crash a passenger jet into him right here on the San Francisco Embarcadero. They hadn’t hit the West Coast yet. Why wait?

Skateboarders zigged and zagged around him, kicking up their boards, and somehow making them fly several inches above the ground banking them off the concrete planters that liked the sidewalk. Even though the planters had metal studs plugged into them to deter the skateboarders, the kids proved more clever than the civil engineers who came up with that idea. They created new tricks, jumping the boards around the studs.

“Why aren’t these kids in school,” he wondered. It’s a Thursday for christ’s sake. But he found their acrobatics fascinating and watched how agile they were. He could never move like that, either back when he was teen or now, even if he had wanted to.

They caused him to forget about earthquakes and appendicitis attacks, momentarily, but the worry returned. He really didn’t know what he was going to do o get out of this mess. Right now, all he knew was that he had to do something, give himself the tiniest little agenda, even if it was to just keep walking, which he was doing just fine for now. But he couldn’t keep walking forever, let alone all day. He could keep walking around for another hour or two, but what next. As he came to the ferry building, at the foot of Market Street, one of the many major crossroads in San Francisco, he wonder, “Now what?”

Chapter 5: http://scarletlibrarian.com/corey/chapter5.htm