South of the Pumphouse (3 page)
Ed reached over his bride to turn off their Euro-style Braun alarm clock. The gentle beeping only aroused a furrowed brow in Tasha. Hamster, the large yellow dog sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed, raised his head in mild interest. Ed's main concern was to shut the alarm off before it woke his young son.
Ed pulled himself out of bed. He was on the tall side, on the border of lean and skinny. He stood naked. Between his navel and genitals was a tattoo of a Celtic design that stood out starkly against his pale skin. It had been awhile since Ed had seen 5 o'clock in the morning, and it took him a moment to collect his thoughts. He patted Hamster on the head, pulled on his pants, and headed for the bathroom just a few feet away. Ed was careful to be as quiet as possible, peeing toward the side wall of the toilet and then not flushing. He made sure not to bang his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. Reentering the room, he pulled on a shirt and grabbed his jacket, some keys, and a wallet. He leaned over and kissed Tasha on the forehead, before patting the dog again. Moving over to the corner of the room behind a big screen painted in an Asian motif, he stood hovering over a small bed containing a dark-haired, curly headed, sleeping toddler.
“See ya later, kiddo,” he whispered as he reached forward to stroke the child's little hand. He stared for a moment, watching the tiny nostrils flare with each inhale. Ed smiled, then turned and left the room.
*Â *Â *
It wasn't Ed's idea to put the
MEAN PEOPLE SUCK
sticker on the back of the van. It was bad enough letting Tasha talk him into a Volkswagen. At least it was one of the newer models from the '80s, not one of those painfully stereotypical hippie busses from the '60s and '70s. Since his move to Berkeleyâmuch to his family's and hometown friends' surprise and dismayâthe notion that he might be anything but a liberal-thinking man hadn't once entered Ed's mind. But the word “hippie” was just a bit too much for his tastes. He squirmed at any symbol that might place him in that particular category. He and Tasha had purchased the van locally. It came decorated with an array of colorful window stickers, which Ed promptly removed with a trusty razorblade.
Unfortunately, the one decal that was particularly troublesome was affixed directly to the paint right smack in the middle of the rear hatch.
What kind of lame jackass would put a sticker on the fucking paint?
Ed had asked himself on several occasions.
And a goddamned Phish sticker at that.
Ed's remedy for the situation, after a valiant but unsuccessful removal attempt with various carburetor cleaners and other nasty chemicals, was to paste a Fishbone sticker over the wretched blemish, thereby counterbalancing, at least in his own mind, any hippyish perceptions.
The VW was a good van, though. It was always quite reliable and made for a good family vehicle. Ed never told his father about his purchase, knowing that the old man's response would just increase the awkwardness of an already sensitive situation. Ed's father had been a mechanic, and Ed had spent his youth listening to his dad's negative commentaries about any automobile that wasn't made in the good old USA. “Those gaw'damn Volkswagen drivers” were always a particular source of irritation for the old man.
As usual, the van fired right up. A small initial puff of blue smoke from the exhaust reminded Ed that it might be time for a valve job. Throwing it into gear, he cruised through the streets of his modest West Berkeley neighborhood. He wore a big army coat and beanie cap to cut the chill on this late fall morning, but the van's trusty heater was his savior.
“God bless the Volkswagen heater,” he muttered as he cranked the fan on full blast. Ed had always been amazed at how fast the rig warmed up. The Germans clearly had Detroit beat in the automotive heater department.
E
d parked in front of a bookstore on Shattuck Avenue. His destination was Peet's Coffee on Walnut. As he strolled, he observed the images around the area. He came upon the local flower cart where a young woman, Terry the flower girl, was setting up for the day. She arched back and stretched before bending over to pick up large bucket of gladiolas. Ed admired the seductiveness of the movement and became enthralled when her buttocks pointed toward him as she reached down.
Terry was a fixture around Berkeley, and Ed had always had a soft crush on her. Before he was married to Tasha, he used to come to Peet's in the mornings to socialize with the locals and to look at Terry. Ed was not the unfaithful type, but like most men on the planet, he found the urge to procreate that comes from millions of years of instinct hard to suppress.
He imagined her nude, with her round white bum pointing up at him. He was fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss her soft cheeks when he heard a high-pitched staccato pulse in his ear. It was the alarm on his wristwatch. The sound startled Terry, who turned around quickly enough to catch Ed staring at her ass. Realizing he'd been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, Ed flushed with embarrassment.
“Hey, Ed,” she said with a little smile.
“S'up, Terry?”
Walking past, Ed reached down and fumbled to turn off his watch alarm. He then continued on his way to the coffee shop.
“Fucking watch,” he muttered to himself.
Outside Peet's, Ed was greeted by an array of colorful characters: bicyclists in full gear meeting for the big ride up into the hills, students sitting on steps across the street, an old Rasta man who had been there as long as anyone could remember, tradesmen, lounge-abouts, wanna-be hipsters. They were all present and somewhat accounted for, slurping away at their cups of warm brown liquid. The talk was of many things, some newsworthy and some not. From speculations about Ross Perot to the racially tense debates over O.J.'s recent acquittal to the latest flavor Cliff Bar, the air around Peet's buzzed with caffeine-induced rhetoric.
After saying his good mornings, Ed got his fresh brew and headed back out to the street. He walked kitty-corner toward his VW, doubling back to Terry, who was moving a rather large bucket of lilies. She let out a stressful moan in reaction to the weight.
“Hey, Ed, what are you doing up so early on a weekend?” she spouted as she straightened her back.
“I'm gonna go fishing with my brother.”
“I didn't even know you had a brother.”
“Yeah. He's older. My big bro.”
“He live around here?” she asked as she arranged some flowers in a bucket.
“Naw, he lives in El Sobrante.”
“El Sobrante? Isn't that out near Stockton?”
“Stockton? Hell no. You don't know where El Sobrante is?” He was mocking her now. He repeated the name in a pseudo-hick drawl, “Ol' El Sob?”
“Nope, can't say that I've had the pleasure.”
“Well, you're not missing much.”
“Where is it then?”
“It's about twenty-five minutes or so from here. North on 80. Actually, it's just over the hill as the crow flies.”
“The crow flies?” she laughed. “Damn, Ed, you sound just like my Missouri grandfather.”
“Yep, I'm a regular old shit kicker.”
Terry had known Ed for some time, but she suddenly realized that she didn't really know much about his past. To her knowledge, neither did many of their common friends.
“Is that where you're from, El Sobrante?”
“Yep, born and bred.” He didn't like talking about El Sobrante much, in general. But this was Terry, and he liked talking to her. He took another slurp of coffee and continued. “It's mellowâif you're into the KKK.”
“Really? It's like that?”
Ed chuckled at her reaction. “Naw, I'm just clowning you. It's actually not a bad place to be if you're a kid, I guess.” After pondering for a moment, he spoke again. “Too many rednecks for my taste. I had to get the hell out of there, man. Eighteen years was plenty for me.”
“Sounds scary.”
“Eh, ya know, it really ain't that bad. In fact, it's probably better now, more âintegrated.'” He took a sip of coffee. “I just needed to step away. You know, hell, everybody trips off where they grew up. Know what I mean?”
“Kinda, I suppose.”
“Well, you grew up here in Berkeley. Good coffee, good tunes, people that don't eat their dinner on trays in front of the TV.”
“It couldn't have been that bad,” she laughed.
“Well, that may be a bit exaggerated.” He paused for a moment. “I'm actually kinda looking forward to going back to the ol' stomping grounds. Hookin' up with my big bro. Shit, I ain't seen him in a couple years at least. Well, except for my dad's funeral last month. But we didn't hang or nothing.”
“Oh, sorry about your dad.”
“Cancer. Everybody's dying of cancer these days.” Ed felt awkward talking about it. Death is always awkward.
“It's all those cell phones, I bet.”
“Hell, my dad probably never even used a cell phone once in his life.” He paused to take another sip from his coffee, staring blankly at the sidewalk for a strong moment. He then looked up at Terry and half smiled. “Well, I'm out.”
Ed turned to walk away. Terry stopped arranging the plants.
“Hey, Ed?”
He turned back, “Yeah.”
She leaned over toward him. “You got any weed? I mean for sale.”
“I didn't know you still smoked.”
“Sometimes. It's good to have around if I get stressed.”
“Naw, no bud right now. I can get you some 'shrooms, though,” he said with a sly grin.
“God no. That's all I need,” she laughed. “No pot at all? It's midterms.”
Ed reached into his jacket pocket. “Here. I got a shit-load of these things.” He pulled out a bag of mushrooms and dipped in to grab her a pinch. “Tasha's uncle grows 'em out in Bolinas.”
She shuddered. “Oooh, no thanks. I can't stand the taste.”
“Sure?” he asked, raising his brows.
She pushed her hand out, gesturing him away. “Yeah. No, I just can't. Thanks.”
“All right.” He stuffed the bag back into his jacket. “Again, I'm out.”
Ed leaned forward to give her a half hug and peck on the cheek.
“Bye. Have fun,” she said, smiling.
She had one of the best smiles in Berkeley, thought Ed. “Yep, it's all about fun.”
“Tell Tasha I said hi.”
“Bye bye, girly girl,” he said as he turned and walked away. Terry watched him stroll down the sidewalkâimagining what he would look like nude.
E
d dug through his ashtray as he drove down the boulevard and pulled out a fat roach. Looking at himself in the rearview mirror, he lit it and took a hit, then popped in a cassette. “Armageddon Time” by The Clash blared out of the speakers as he headed down University Avenue.
Ed loved Berkeley, but he rarely got to see it in the early light. The oldest house in the neighborhood where he grew up was built in the '50s. He marveled at the range and diversity of Berkeley's architecture. Pulling onto the freeway, Ed headed northbound on Interstate 80 toward Sacramento.
The passing of his father had led Ed to reflect for the past few weeks on people, places, and events that he hadn't thought of in a long time. The funeral itself was a nonstop cavalcade of faces from his childhood. Everyone there had asked him how he was and what he was up to. Everyone was as gracious as could be, but the sight of Ed's dark-skinned wife and child made for a few awkward moments.
Ed's relatives were as white as they come. His paternal grandparents had migrated from Missouri during the Depression. His grandfather eventually went to work in Richmond for Standard Oil. His mom's father was a second-generation Italian who ran a service station with his brothers on Twenty-Third Avenue in the same city. Besides one rogue uncle on his mother's side who had a passion for Latina wivesâhe was on his thirdâno one from the family had ever brought anyone of color into the fold.
For the most part, everyone thought Tasha was charming, and she was treated with respect and interest. Ed's grandmother was particularly affectionate. She wasn't his real grandmother, however. His grandfather had remarried long ago to a woman fifteen years his junior, causing quite a commotion at the time. She was a short, busty lady who, though she was a Catholic, liked to speak with a Jewish-grandmother accent that she had acquired from years of watching Joan Rivers. The family called her Nana, and she was one of the most loving people Ed had ever met. Upon meeting Tasha, Nana threw her arms around her and gave her a big kiss on the lips. She insisted that Tasha sit next to her the entire ceremony while their little son Walty sat on Nana's lap.
As Ed rolled down the freeway toward his brother's place, he thought of the recent past and the day ahead. Seeing his brother Earl at the funeral had felt a bit stiff at first. Earl had been there with his father during his illness. He had watched a mountain of a man whither away to frailty and die. At the funeral, Ed could see the pain in his brother's face but could also sense his relief.
Earl, on the other hand, knew that his younger brother couldn't have endured the drawn-out and painful process of their father's death, and he held no contempt for his absence. He could see the feeling of guilt in Ed's eyes, and he did his best to ease his little brother's conscience. They spoke of grand old times and common experiences, eventually agreeing to plan a fishing trip together.
It had been a long time since Ed had even thought about fishing, and as he drove onward, he was beginning to get excited. When they were boys, fishing had been a family passion, and sturgeon fishing was the ultimate experience. Ed remembered the buzz around the neighborhood when he returned home with his father, brother, and a family friend after landing his first “keeper” sturgeon. He could still see it in his mind, like some old super-8 movie footage from the '70s.
