Peter Maravelis - San Francisco Noir

Out on the street, I banged on Larry’s front door. I’d given it about a half-dozen whacks before I remembered the man had a doorbell. I guess I just wanted to hit something. The rag of a dog across the street responded to my violence with a series of futile yaps. The sky above was perfect and blue, but a bank of clouds were in the distance, blowing my way.

Larry! I hollered. I banged and rang.

The dog was barking itself a sore throat. Then I looked down. Coming out from under Larry’s door was a bit of hair, brown hair, sort of oily. Just a little greasy tuft, sliding out from inside the house.

Larry? I asked, in a normal voice.

I crouched down and touched it. It felt like real hair. A wig? Why would Larry have a wig? I had a flash of him, drunk and outfitted in attire common to the opposite gender, and then a flash of sympathy for him and his poor attitude. We all have our secrets, don’t we? I gave the wig a tug, but it didn’t shift. It felt attached to something heavy, like a body. I cracked open Larry’s mail slot and peered into the darkness. The crumpled mass lumped on the other side of the door looked like my landlord.

You lookin for something?

The voice made me jump; I sprung up in my stocking feet and spun around to greet my neighbor, the militia man. His belly preceded him, jutting out of his undershirt like a round, hard melon. He looked like he was sneering but it was simply the set of his face. A rifle would not have looked out of place in his arms.

I Live Here, I reminded him.

Every so often, this would happen. The guy would accost me as I fumbled for my keys, or as I lingered outside my door awaiting a taxi. I’d notice him peering out from behind his tattered flag, and then he’d be galumphing down his front stairs and confronting me in the street like I was set to burgle the neighborhood. I rapped my fingers on the door again, and moved a fish-netted foot to cover the lock of Larry’s hair, which protruded onto the sidewalk.

You live here? he asked suspiciously. How come I ain’t seen ya?

You Have, I said. We Do This All The Time. You See Me Out Here, Ask Me What I’m Doing, And I Tell You I Live Here. I sighed patiently.

That other girl lives here, he informed me. The redheaded one? Forgot her keys this morning and busted her own damn door in. He chuckled with affection for who I could only imagine was Jenny, breaking into my house.

Oh, Yeah, I nodded. She Lives Here, Too.

Uh-huh, he nodded, looking me up and down. Stalling briefly on the gauzy outline of my bra and moving on up to my face. You all keep leaving your keys behind and breaking your doors down, that man up there’s gonna get rid of ya. He gave his chin a chuck in the general direction of Larry’s apartment. He your dad? You two sisters?

Six months I’ve lived on Porter Street and this guy has never spoken to me beyond clarifying that I’m not a criminal. He picks this moment, this bizarre and creepy moment on this strange and terrible day, to inquire about my life.

No, I tell him. Larry’s The Landlord. Me And That Girl, We’re Just-Roommates.

Norma, he nods.

Right, I’m Norma. I’m losing patience. He frowns.

No, that other girl, she said her name was Norma. Now he’s suspicious again.

Well, She’s Fucking With You. She Likes To Do That. And Actually, She Didn’t Lose Her Keys. She Broke The Door Down Cause She’s Crazy, And If You See Her Around Here Again Breaking Things, I’d Appreciate It If You Could Call The Cops.

The man took a step back, as if the breath my speech had been carried out on was laced with something noxious.

No need to use language like that. I don’t believe in calling police. I don’t think our tax dollars should be going to a gang of government thugs. I don’t believe in a police state. You’ll have to handle your differences with Norma yourself, she seemed like a nice person to me. We had a nice little talk about the government out here this morning, all about the unconstitutionality of the present tax system. He swallowed and nodded. That’s right. You girls just settle your grievances without bringing the government into it, why don’t you. Can’t go crying to the government every time life throws a problem your way.

All Right, I agreed. All Right Then. Thanks A Lot.

Down the street the lesbians who bought the house on the corner paused at their SUV, watching us.

Then there’s all that, the guy said, gesturing toward them.

Yeah, I said.

You okay over there? the butchier one yelled over in an uncharacteristic display of neighborliness. Where were all these concerned citizens when my house was being robbed? I ask you. Well, we know where the guy was. He was chatting up and befriending Jenny, perhaps even helping her out with a weighty hip-chuck to my front door.

Fine, Thanks! I gave a wave. They paused a moment and turned to look at one another, perhaps communicating via a special telepathy lesbian couples acquire when they manage to stay together past three months. Then they climbed into their mammoth automobile, lumbered over the crest of our street, and were gone.

SUVs, the man said. He flung a meaty hand at the wake of dust and trash their car had stirred. Don’t get me started.

This Has Been Nice, I said. It’s Nice To Be Neighborly. But I’ve Got To Run.

Maybe you girls want to leave a spare set of keys with me, he suggested. If you’re always locking yourself out.

I Don’t Think It’ll Happen Again, I told him.

Better safe ’n sorry, he said.

I turned my back on him and descended into my subterranean apartment. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched the crack of light in my busted door, expecting him to follow. I waited there for a few minutes and when he didn’t come, ran through my house and out the back door, climbing the shabby back stairs to Larry’s. The stairs shook with the slam of my feet, a snowfall of dried paint sifted down onto the weeds.

Larry! I banged on his back door. My voice carried out into the quiet.

Larry was an unconscious heap at his front door. I don’t know why I was attracting all this attention to myself when I knew I was going to have to break into his place. I pulled and pushed and otherwise strained at his back door. I wasn’t good at this. I’d never broken into a place before; my particular illegal inclinations hadn’t ever brought me to such a situation. I’ve picked a pocket, shoplifted, and been guilty of an occasional drunken assault on equally drunken men behaving rudely in bars or on street corners. But I’d never broken into a home. I rattled the dully gleaming doorknob. It figures that Larry’s doors have adequate locks. Doesn’t that just sum up the whole thing?

Larry had a few ceramic pots on his back stairs. The plants inside them were long dead, all dried up. Cigarette butts were stubbed out in the dirt. I grabbed one and hurled it against his kitchen window, where it shattered in a rain of terra cotta and dirt that plunged to the yard below. I threw a second pot at the window and experienced a similar explosion. Jesus, I whined. The dirt was in my hair, smudged over my blouse. I grabbed a shard of pottery and used it to gouge a hole in the screen, tore it away. Now it was just the glass and me. The third pot bust through, sending a whole mess onto Larry’s linoleum floor. Huh. Linoleum. Must be nice.

As I climbed in through the shattered window, ruining my fishnet stockings on a jutting piece of glass, I realized I had never been inside Larry’s apartment. I stepped gingerly onto a recycling box piled high with beer cans.

Larry? I called.