If you need crime in the streets of San Francisco, or a sweet cast of dozens from Tales of the City, change the channel. Nothing that interesting happened here today. T’was a mighty mellow Monday. All the drama was interior.

Someone was taking a shower this morning, but besides briefly wondering whether it was a man or a woman, I gave it little thought, as I stepped into the shared john and dropped trou, settling onto the porcelain to gently grunt for a few minutes. I’d brought the week’s AVA, and was somewhere in its early pages when whoever was in the shower came out and dried him or her self and left.

Soon enough someone else came in, and again I wouldn’t know who. The stalls have doors, and the people showering almost never say, “Hello, whoever’s pooping.” I’m pretty much the only one who says that, when I come in for a shower.

The shower started again, and again I briefly wondered who’s naked a few steps from me. It’s an unpleasant wondering, though, as the gender split in the building is about 95% men, and of the 5% women who live alone here they’re all of your grandmother’s vintage, same as most of the men.

So I read my paper and did my business, and eventually finished and flushed. That’s what polite people do, and so do I.

As my poop swirled away, there came a startled yelp from the man in the shower, and I realized I’d drawn all the cold water to the toilet, leaving all the hot water in the shower. “Dannit,” he shouted.
If intended as a gag it would’ve been funny, but it wasn’t intended as anything but a thoughtless flush, so I shouted, “Sorry, dude,” and he laughed.

Wiping and powdering my behind, I pondered the Emily Post of it all. What is the polite thing to do in such a situation? I could’ve announced my intent to flush before flushing, so anyone in the showers could step to the side or twist the nozzle to the wall.

Or perhaps foregoing the flush is the right thing to do under such circumstances. Unflushing would make the room stink worse and worse as the full bowl simply sits there, but nobody’s shower would be uncomfortably interrupted.

I’m still arguing amongst myself between these two options, but when it’s decided, my plan is to type and post an official-looking index card in each stall, making my choice seem ‘official’. People will follow almost any ‘rule’ posted almost anywhere.

Her name popped into my mind, so I might ask Emily Post’s perspective, before deciding. My almanac says she died in 1960, but I think she’s still answering questions. At least, I still see her byline in the paper, so they must’ve found some other woman to play the part.

♦ ♦ ♦  

This being Monday, I worked my weekly shift at the magazine. In some ways, Black Sheets is like any other office job — the phone rings and I answer it; orders come in the mail and I package them and send them; numbers and names and addresses need to be keyed into databases; there’s a filing cabinet where things must be kept alphabetically, so I sing the song from kindergarten to remember whether K comes before J or J before K, and I rarely get the letters wrong.

When the song ends, “Now I know my ABCs, tell me what you think of me,” everyone tells me what they think of me, which is rarely flattering and often a laugh. Today’s answer involved Steve dumping a bag of popcorn on my head.

Also unlike an ordinary office job, draining and hosing out the hot tub is one of my duties, as is taking out the trash and tidying the beds in the basement, which is called the dungeon for reasons obvious if you’ve seen it.

A basement is where the lawn mower waits between mows, washing and drying machines wash and dry, and there’s an ironing board, and maybe Dad’s tool shop. A dungeon, or at least ours, is quite different: it has whips on the walls, chains screwed into the ceiling, an iron mask, a rack that rises and falls, futons and mattresses scattered about the floor, jail cells that actually lock, and penis-sized holes between the rooms.

I got curious and stuck my willy through a hole in the dungeon wall once, but I was the only one in the dungeon at 1:15 on a Monday afternoon, so nothing glorious happened.

Pathetic Life
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I was lying in bed pondering whether to call Mom for Mother’s Day, when there came a ruckus from down the hall, so loud that ‘eavesdropping’ wasn’t optional. Every word came through my closed, locked, and chained door, every word was angry, and I knew both voices. Pretty soon I knew what was happening.

The landlord was telling the skinny white jerk in room 410 to vacate. “Get your things and get out!”

Far out, man. I hate that guy in 410, so this was delightful. Even as they argued, 410 was trying to give the landlord the next week’s rent. “I do not want your money, I do not want you. Get your things and get out.” It took a while, but eventually Mr 410 got his things and got out.

♦ ♦ ♦  

As for Mom and Mother’s Day, well… If this is the first issue of Pathetic Life you’ve read, let me ‘splain: Me and Mom go way back, all the way to my beginning. She did a lot of things right raising me, but she never thinks the job is done — every conversation is nothing but come to church, come to Jesus, and when are you gonna get your teeth fixed? For more details, see PL#2, #3, #9, and #12.

Absolutely I love my momma, and she loves me, but we have nothing in common but blood. So Mother’s Day will come and go, and I ain’t calling.

Just because the Hallmark Corporation lobbied Congress to get today labeled “Mother’s Day” on every calendar, doesn’t mean I have to observe the occasion. Honestly, all the pressure for hugs and flowers and happy moments just makes Mother’s Day a little worse than the other 364. And if I called her, it would get worse still.

It angers me, the holiday. It’s an intrusion. If you’re close to your mother, or if you’re not, if your mother’s alive, if she’s dead, if she’s the best person you’ve ever known, or if she gets on your nerves like my mom, it’s personal. Your feelings about your mother are yours, and ought not be manipulated into pressure to spend money for the flowers, chocolates, restaurant, long-distance phone, and greeting card conglomerates.

♦ ♦ ♦  

On Telegraph, I worked between Umberto (who told me he’d called his mother this morning, and seemed to be in a blue mood all day) and Brenda (same). That new vendor from last week was back, working just down the sidewalk. Brenda chatted with her, but I didn’t.

Nothing against her — she looks, acts, seems like an ordinary 40-something lady. I rarely make an effort to get to know people, though, especially ordinary people.

Toward the end of the day, she got into a long conversation with a man who’d stopped at her table, and as they chatted on and on, Brenda said to me quietly but with a smirk, “He’s picking her up.” I looked over and yeah, they did seem to be getting along splendidly, and I don’t think they were talking about the trinkets that lady sells.

“They’re going to have hours of disgustingly hot sex,” Brenda said with a scowl.

“I remember that,” I said, “but it’s been a long time.”

♦ ♦ ♦  

A half-dressed college babe walked down the sidewalk, and I watched. That’s how I spend most of my days on Telegraph — watching half-dressed college babes. But here’s something I hadn’t seen before:

The young woman was approached by a street vagrant not far past my table, and they started talking. Couldn’t hear much of what they were saying, but of course, who cares? But then the young woman have the bum a long, tight hug, and I felt a jolt of envy.

What’s that bum got that I ain’t got, besides the courage to talk to a cute college babe and get hugged?

When she let go, though, he hung on longer, hands on her hips, pushing their groins together. This I considered excessive, even rude, but maybe they’re old friends?

When she walked away, though, still smiling, he called out, “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Cindy,” she hollered back. “What’s yours?”

“Toby,” he said.

“See ya, Toby,” she said, still smiling, and then she was gone.

None of that made sense to me. Two strangers — a pretty woman, and a bum. They’d never met, they said a few words, they hugged and he groped her, and instead of slapping him, she asked his name.

This isn’t a charming “only in Berkeley” story. That ain’t the point. There are two points, I think. First, she should’ve kneed him in the groin. And second, I sure do have a wall around me. I’m not introverted, I’m arctic.

In my wildest, most good-natured uninhibited moments, I couldn’t hug a stranger like that, someone I’d never even met. If the stranger was as pretty and breezy as that college girl, I don’t think I could even get “hello” out of my mouth. And I regret that about me, a little.

Like all the other things I regret about me, of course, I don’t regret it enough to actually do anything about it.

♦ ♦ ♦   

On the way home, I got a seat on BART because I got on in Berkeley, but in downtown Oakland the multitudes appeared. People were hanging onto the handrails, and everyone was breathing the odor of sweat. There must’ve been a concert at the Coliseum, is my guess, but jeez — how many people can be squeezed into a BART car anyway? And BART must’ve known there was going to be a concert or whatever, so why was our train only four cars long instead of ten?

“You’re on my foot,” came a woman’s voice through the throng.

“I’m sorry.” A soft-spoken reply, another woman’s voice.

Presumably the second voice moved her foot off the first voice’s foot, but the first voice said, “I don’t care if you’re sorry of if you’re dead, just don’t step on my god-damned feet!”

Except for some nervous titters, the entire crowd was quiet after that, so I said loudly, “‘Cause after all, you’re the only one on the train who’s getting squished.”

And at that, the grumpy lady started yelling at me, but there were so many people on the train we couldn’t even see each other .Heck, if I could’ve seen her, I probably wouldn’t have said anything.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Back in San Francisco, I stopped at the corner for a few groceries, and now I’m zapping some ramen in the microwave, fixing four chocolate frosting sandwiches, and trying really hard not to call my mother.

Maybe I’ll write her a card later in the week, but… no, not even that. The postmark would tell her I’m still in San Francisco, and I’d rather she didn’t know.

Pathetic Life
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On Telegraph Ave, the Inspector came by today, not to hassle me, but to hassle Brenda, and he did it drive-by. Waiting at a red light, he simply rolled down the driver’s window on his large, city-owned sedan, and from the second lane of traffic, he boomed, “Excuse me, Ma’am,” at Brenda.

It had to be at Brenda, since she was the only “ma’am” vendor on our side of the street, unless you count Jasper in his dress-like burlap bag that comes to his knees.

Brenda put down the art she’d been working on and turned to face her accuser, and I guess they’d met before. “What is it today, Benji?” she said.

Still sitting in the car in traffic, Inspector Benji said sternly, “I’ve warned you about selling without a permit,” but the light changed mid-sentence, so he drove away saying, “without a permit…“

Brenda is a criminal, of course. She sells her miniature artwork with a permit, so she’s a threat to the moral character of Berkeley, California. But a ticket is too costly to ignore, she said, so she packed her table and went to People’s Park to eat her sack lunch.

When she came back, she opened her cart at a different location — the other side of the same street. Disappearing for an hour and then setting up thirty paces away fooled Inspector Benji, though. He came back on a mission, asked a few vendors where she was.

“I think she’s gone home for the day,” someone lied, when Brenda was actually right across the street, watching. And Inspector Benji never found her.

They’re not all idiots, but that particular Inspector is as dumb as a the clipboard he carries.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

For a while in the afternoon, Brenda, Umberto, and I talked about the Inspectors.

Of the three of us, I’m the only one with a permit. Once in a great while, an Inspector will ask Umberto for his permit, and it’s so funny I wish it happened more often. Umberto, see, doesn’t cotton to being inspected. He becomes quite prickly and loud, and always explains to the Inspector that he’s an American, that he has certain rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and he’s out here pursuing happiness on Telegraph Ave because that’s what the Declaration of Independence entitles him to.

It’s Umberto’s own Declaration, and it’s lovely and never fails to flummox the Inspector, so the Inspector usually leaves him alone.

Maybe that’s why Brenda got away unhassled this afternoon. The Inspector might’ve spotted Umberto, and decided to leave our whole block alone.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Fish sales have been lousy the past few weekends, and pessimistic me, I’ve been wondering whether we’ve saturated the local market for sacrilegious fish stickers and magnets.

Berkeley is only 100,000 or so souls, mostly college kids and college staff, and at some point everyone in Berkeley who wants a sacrilegious fish will have bought one from me.

“Maybe we’ve overfished these waters,” I said to Umberto, but he pointed out that business has been slow for everyone on the Ave lately, not just me. He thinks that the recent spike in gas prices is keeping people from driving to Berkeley.

Makes sense, and what do I know from gasoline prices? I take the train or the bus everywhere I go. Haven’t driven a motor vehicle since I parked mine in Fremont, and later sold it to George.

My car is BART and Muni, and it’s a great car.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Checking my messages a block from the hotel, here’s another voice mail from Corina. She says, again, that she’s writing me a letter, and I’ll have it in a few days.

It’s a strange situation, getting stranger, even for someone strange like me. Corina lives in Sacramento, reads my zine, and when she visited San Francisco for a weekend, we briefly met and had a few laughs. Then we traded a few cordial letters, and in one letter I asked her for a date, to see the Spike & Mike festival of cartoons.

After that, her letters stopped. I haven’t heard from her in a month, other than a voice mail a few weeks ago promising a letter which never came, and now a similar voice mail today, again promising a letter.

She’s busy with her new job, she says, and I ain’t offended or anything, but if the answer was ‘yes’ that would be a quick letter to write, or an easy voice mail message. Clearly, the answer is going to be ‘no’. And anyway, the cartoon festival she wanted to see, the ostensible purpose of asking her out, closes in a few days.

Corina, this doesn’t need to be difficult. You are not the first woman to not want a date with me — take a number and get in line. I’ve heard ‘no’ before, many times, and I can take it. I won’t even cancel your subscription.

Pathetic Life
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