lovers in Passing

a gram by
Logan R. Brouse


It's cold, a blue black, inky one and the Ranchero music coming out of the Taqueria spills down the mission and stains the empty store fronts like oil seeping from a slowly sinking tanker. The clubs are still packed and people are wasting away in the last of their goose and sodas fearing lights up and last call. Schemers scheme as unmarked berries roll through the side streets, spotlights transfixed on alleys and crevices looking for the people hiding in the belly of the pre-after hours beast.
He waves a hand through his black hair, checks the blackberry and scans it for a new message, checks the volume, locks it and puts it back into his pocket. Taps his finger in a quick staccato drum beat and snaps out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. Pulls the phone out, checks it and takes a long pull from the smoke. Exhales and leaves the cell on the table. Briefly scans the room and then drops his eyes back onto the table, notices the nicked wood grain. The smooth spots of wood are marred by spilled wax and old stains that give it character, up toward the center, watching for the cell phone. It hasn't moved. Puts it back in the pocket of his Cheap Monday jeans and stands up. Drags on the cig and exhales, rolls his neck and shakes his arms out. Pulls the wad out of his wallet, counts the buck fifty out slowly and then puts it back. Hurls the smoke at the floor and lightly steps it out with his Chucks and walks back into the club.
Across town in the back of a cab headed toward 18th and Mission she's got her sidekick open and is steadily clicking out an midnight S.O.S. in a meter only matched by the taxi. The night is chill but the window is down, shooting out flares but not getting responses she licks her lips and curls her hair in her finger then snaps her gum in a loud pop. The cabby is glancing back in the review mirror, occasional pupils meeting pupils and eager younger eyes look away. Waterloo Sunset comes over the oldies station and she asks for it to be turned all the way up - leans her head back and starts mouthing out the song, hand death gripped to her sidekick, racing against the moon and waiting for a sign.
He breathes heavy into his cup and feels the weight of the night pressing down upon his shoulders. He orders another vodka and red bull, finishes the one in front of him with a quick gulp, the only sound he makes is from the ice clicking the empty glass. In the background the DJ is spinning Headlights are like Diamonds and he bobs his head and taps his feet off beat but moving to the energy of the song. One hand on his phone waiting for the ring he hopes will come soon. The bar is full of hipsters and posers and some betties in tight tapered jeans. In the back corners are people huddled around tables, sharing secret smiles and sudden laughs. He scans the crowd, looking for the unmistakable, his young eyes working the room like an old detective. Watching, searching for the one in the crowd or the group who goes to the bathroom too much, who is way too animated, still on fire. Just as the song crescendos into a series of oohs and ahhs he finds them. Dancing in a circle round a plastic bag, backs to the bar passing a key as blatantly as a joint.
He closes his eyes, turns his head back to his drink. Opens them and focuses on the bottles. St. Germain, Jameson, El Reformador, Hanger 1 and rests them on Fernet. The devil he mouths out. The bartender, steps up and seizes his interest.
Want to set two up?, he asks from behind a smile, no training wheels.
The bartender turns his back and he shoots both slamming the shot glasses upside down onto the bar.
Throws a Jackson onto his cocktail napkin and stands up. The power surge is emboldening. Pulls out his phone and sends an APB text to his contacts. Shakes his head and walks outside.
The phone vibrates and and he pops it on, the connect is in San Ho, out for the night, not back till Sunday. 800,000 people in the city he thinks and he can't even find a dedicated dealer.
Walks out of the bar and braces himself for the cold kiss of the street, strolls through the night lanes, just starting to come alive, Awash in boozy doldrums and half hearted hookups. Cold kids too cool for jackets huddle around smokes like cavemen to fire. Beards, beanies and striped sweaters are wrapped in tight jeans. Its San Francisco in January and its not that cold, mentally notes to himself as he stumbles solidly through the seedier sides of the street, stopping only to ogle - responding only to sirens and marching to the cadence of passing ambulances.
She gets out of the taxi and hands the driver a ten on a seven spot. Closes the door and unbuttons the top three on her all white blouse. White jeans, white belt, white heels stand on the concrete glaring like a full moon. She heads down the street, follows the concrete trail through and alley into the back corner of a dead end. Looks at the bricks like a jigsaw, scrunches her face and wipes her nose, smiles, stands with her back against the wall and waits.
He stops at the abandoned cafeteria and knocks on the dilapidated door three times, then pauses then knocks twice again then once. A mustachioed man peeks his head out and gives him the once over.
Senor,the man whispers from his fat lips, can I help you?
Through Christs love we can only help each other, the boy whispers back and as he slips a dime to the bouncer.
Si, senor is softly spoken as the door is swiftly opened and Mexican dance music wafts out.
Safely inside and he finds the speakeasy alive and jumping. Girls with plastic cups and big guys in cowboy hats dance together, palms face down to the DJ, gossamer threads hanging from their noses like spiderwebs collecting dew on a brilliant June morning. He's looking around for the supplier, the doers of dark deeds hiding in plain sight under the strobe lights and the disco balls.
Bellies up to the bar and bellows out for bourbon. Jack with a back of Jack, he jokes in a serious sort of way.
The money in his pocket feels like a weight he must cast off before the night is done for fear of sinking.
She hears the music, the glasses, the hushed laughter and lights up a camel. Takes a drag, and lets it hang on her lips before blowing the smoke softly down the street, watches it swim up towards the streetlight before disappearing into the skies heady heights.
In the club he orders another drink, a double vodka, they're pouring Smirnoff and that's alright. One hand on the phone, hoping in vain for a miracle - the other cradling the drink, seeing it all through dead eyes, only gathering but not trying to process. There's people smoking, cataloguing in his head the 'scripts in the back of his medicine cabanet - questioning if hes got more oxycotin then oxycodone or the other way around. Gold teeth and women with midriff shirts salsa dance to Azul Azul as the beats of the DJ are only surpassed by the clicking of booted heels on rough cement.
He pulls out his wallet, digs around ignoring the cash and leafs through the credit cards - finally a smile creeps across his face as he sees the small plastic bag with the teensy tiny small sliver of white, turns to look around, puts his nose in it and inhales long and sharp.
Hopes there's enough to scratch the bag for a little more, pulls it apart, licks it and like an optimist puts it back in his pocket.
Checks his phone, 1 missed message. The red blinking light from his blackberry burns brighter then the sun.

She's walking down mission, stealing slips from a stainless steal flask, Jameson burning the fog out of her throat, clearing her eyes and stinging her lips. Pops a Perc. Takes another swig.
Her phone buzzes and she draws it faster the Johnny Ringo in a gunfight.
Her white shoes beat a Billy Jean to the Taqueria, to the back stall near the juke box. Crowds of red faced meat marketeers wobble and slosh their way through mojado burritos and Jarritos. Drunk red eyes making contact with smooth white iris, dilated pupils meeting blood vessel jarring stares and scampering away like wounded dogs, whimpering out alone and needy into a cold dark night.
Sits down and she puts money in the Jukebox, scrolls through the top 40's, puts on the Mickey Avalon.
Mr. Right blasts out cheap tin speakers as her connect walks in the front door. Smiles at her, sits across her and asks her how she is.
She smiles, offers his her flask, which he takes and signals that she wants a ball.
Together or separate he asks her, hands digging in his pocket, eyes on her, grinning.
Under the table she hands him a Benny, two Drews and a dime.
He shakes her hand and passes her the plastic wrapped chunk of rock like swaddled up baby.
Under the glare of fluorescent lights and the reflection of salsa stained Formica table tops it looks for a moment like they're lovers, old friends passing through the night, the only hint of a secret life is the wink behind their eyes, the way he gets up and walks out the door as she heads towards the bathroom then golf ball eyed out again and back into the boozy San Francisco Night and into a cab.

The boy heads from the dance club and hops in a cab, heads towards Soma. Texts his hook up that he's inbound. Be there in 5, he types 15 away from the spot. Gets there past 3 and pays the cover to the grizzled biker hanging out in front of the converted theater. Walks up the three flights of stairs, stops at the makeshift bar and orders two of whatever they're pouring. Gives the hippie bartender a fin for his trouble. Shuffles around the wet noodle dancers, low hanging smell of cojitas, patchouli and the acrid smell of Mollies wafting off the skins of all the party kids, blending into dilated pupils, squiggly lines almost forming cartoon like to the heavens in the metric rise and crash of the deep bass of the Dj's beats. Politely pushing past them and up to the roof top, exposed air encroaching on entrenched lungs. Sighs as he sees his hook up.
Sits down on a bench next to him, nods whats up and lights up a cigarette. Ankle length
white soled chucks run up against tight black jeans, meet black wool jacket, partially hiding a white shirt, black tie and a hand dipping into the breast pocket as he pulls out his cash to trade for the stash. Lingers a moment over the buttons, adjusts the tie, musses his hair.
Licks his lips and shakes his connects hand, cash and gear trading place simultaneously.
Nods, the connect nods, stands up and walks away.
Then its downstairs, keying up as he goes, lining up the wedge of his hand and knocking it back like a shot, wide eyed through the dance floor, scouting out talent, licking his lips heading to the bar.
Two rounds turn to four turn to six, dancing on the bar, dancing with one girl then two and then back to the bar. The sun rises as the bag empties. People trickling out, his phone silent as the dawn outside.
Turns on his ipod and heads into the San Francisco morning, hails a cab and home.
Tomorrow nights like a shampoo, wash rinse and repeat.