San Francisco Shorts by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Water Hammer

by Mike Bozart

© 2021 Mike Bozart

I’ll never forget the chance conversation that I overheard –

and, yes, surreptitiously recorded – at a now-defunct, little, dingy, jaundice-yellow-paint-a-faded, hole-in-the-wooden-lapboard-wall-sided watering hole on Judah Street in the ever-foggy Outer Sunset district of San Francisco.

It was back in the early spring of 1992. It must have been about 7:00 PM when I sidled on in for a dark beer. Yep, that was the name: Sidle on N. A clever play on words with the N

standing for the N Muni streetcar line that ran past the front door – the olive-colored front door that no one ever cared (or dared?) to close.

I remember looking at a tilted poster on the cracked-plaster wall: some purple-suited, skull-masked loon billing himself as Mysterieau of San Francisco. Ah, but that’s another story (actually a novella) addressed elsewhere.

Well, without further ado, here’s the verbatim transcript from that micro-cassette. Hmmm … where is that PLAY button?

Oh, there it is. <click>

[the sound of a city tram passing, clacking down the old, set-in-street, standard-gauge tracks]

Jim: “John, how do you think your civil-court case will go?

Are you going to win?”

[the sound of a stein being set down on a wooden table]

John: “I don’t know, Jim; I don’t want to jinx it, but I feel pretty good about recouping the damages incurred. At least my lawyer says not to worry.”

Jim: “Your lawyer says not to worry? Ha! Keep your hand on your wallet, sport.”

[Jim laughs for a few seconds]

John: “Yeah, I know, Jim; I should probably fret. Hey, speaking of lawyers, I’ve got to tell you about the most bizarre conversation that I have overheard in some time.”

Jim: “Ok, shoot. Let’s have it.”

John: “Well, I was down in the Lower Haight having lunch by myself in a tiny Chinese restaurant about two weeks ago.”

Jim: “Ok, sounds very believable so far. Continue.”

John: “And trust me, Jim; I wasn’t eavesdropping, but the joint is so small that you just can’t avoid overhearing conversations in there, especially if you’re eating alone.”

Jim: “Ok, I got the scene.”

[a waitress walks up to their table; the sound of stiletto high heels on a concrete-slab floor]

Waitress: “Would you two gentlemen like another round?”

John: “Sure.”

Jim: “Yes, thanks.”

[the sound of her high heels walking away]

John: “Ok, where was I?”

Jim: “On her ass. Zing!”

[Jim chuckles]

John: “Well, I wouldn’t pass that up. You know you wouldn’t, either, Jim. You’re a horn-dog, too – just a slyer one than me.”

[Jim coughs and clears his throat]

Jim: “You were justifying your auditory snooping.”

John: “Ok, well, there were about four conversations going on in there, but the one that won my mind’s primary attention was the one just behind me. Apparently one of the guys had been screwed out of child custody by a borderline-unethical family-court lawyer.”

Jim: “Ah, family-court attorneys. Such lovely creatures. The opportunistic predators of the hyper-emotional. The ghouls of the ghouls. Ok, I’m still following ya. What next?”

John: “Well, apparently he was really ticked-off by it. I mean REALLY ticked-off. So much so, in fact, that he had his buddy, a licensed plumber, take the lead in his revenge plot.”

Jim: “A plumber? What did the plumber do? Did he whack the attorney in the head with a section of galvanized pipe for $500?”

John: “No, nothing so horribly and bluntly violent like that.

Something insidiously ingenious. Something that Hollywood could make a movie around.”

Jim: “Ok, I’m now waiting with freshly baited [ sic] breath.

Keep your story pumping. Don’t let your pipe get clogged now.”

John: “You’re a real comedian today, Jim. Are you high again on something?”

Jim: “No, I’m as sober as ever, and I’m all ears. Please do continue. I’ll restrain myself for the remainder of your tale. I promise.”

John: “I doubt that, Jim, but I’ll recommence anyway. Alright, the guy says that he had his plumber-pal call the offending lawyer at his Diamond Heights [south-central San Francisco]

residence, and that he offered him a free promotional water hammer arrestor installation, just on the whim that he might be experiencing a water hammer issue in his home, and, well, you guessed it: He agreed to the installation.”

Jim: “Wait a second. Water hammer? What the hell is that?”

[the waitress returns and places two glasses (of beer, I presume) down on the table]

John: “Thanks.”

Jim: “Thanks, again.”

[the sound of the high-heeled waitress walking away]

John: “What is a water hammer? It’s that banging sound in supply pipes that occurs in some houses and apartments after you turn the faucet off.”

Jim: “Oh, yeah; I know what you’re talking about now. Ok, resume, master storyteller.”

John: “Well, next, the plumber gives the pissed-off-at-lawyer dude a new water hammer arrestor from his work van.”

Jim: “Water hammer arrestor? Ok, let me guess … it suppresses the pipe-banging.”

John: “Jim, you must’ve taken your smart pills today.”

[John laughs for a few seconds]

Jim: “But, is he going to install it himself? The lawyer would recognize him, right?”

John: “No, Jim, he gives it to him so that he can modify it. He takes it apart. Apparently, there is a piston mechanism in it and an air chamber. He places some water-soluble poison powder in the air chamber on the end. It becomes a time-released toxin-administering mechanism. The chemical that he inserted is called Thalene.” [ sic]

Jim: “Thalene? You must mean thallium, John.”

John: “Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”

Jim: “That shit is nasty, John. They can’t even use that on rats or roaches anymore.”

[the sound of another N train passing]

John: “Well, slowly, over about six-to-seven months, the lawyer is poisoned to death. The autopsy leads them to believe that it was thallium, but they never find a source.

They never find a single grain in the home. Not even a speck. Nothing. Über-clever, isn’t it?”

Jim: “Woah! Hold on. Wouldn’t others who drank the tap water in that home over that half year be poisoned, too?”

John: “No, not necessarily. I overheard them say that short-stay guests would never get a dangerous amount in their system after even a dozen visits. He was single and no one else lived with him. And, he had no pets. You would have had to have lived in that home with him to have died from it.

He said that it slowly accumulates in the body. It was a chronic exposure; not an acute one.”

Jim: “Wow, we’ve got a great screenplay on our hands here, John. The next epic revenge thriller. I can write it up. We’ll be rolling in greenbacks! Hey, it didn’t really come to pass did it?”

John: “Well, I don’t know, Jim. I haven’t been reading The

[San Francisco] Chronicle or watching the local news as of late. I guess if we learn of a local lawyer’s mysterious death in the last year, we should go to the cops.”

[the sound of my wooden chair sliding on the concrete-slab floor]

The audio tape ended and I turned the old cassette player off.

Then Monique (Agent 32) walked into the den. I looked up at her. What a cute pinay [Philippine lady] she is.

“I thought I heard some men talking. What was that, Parkaar?” [my ailing alias]

“Oh, just an old taped recording of a conversation in San Francisco from a couple of decades ago. I used to use these analog audio snippets in multimedia art back then.”

“What in the world! Did those people know that they were being recorded?”

“Uh, I doubt it, 32.”

“Are you recording me now?”

<click>

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

A SEARCH FOR SIDLE ON N

by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | | | May 2014

A Search for Sidle on N

by Mike Bozart

© 2021 Mike Bozart

So, there we, Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33), were on a seasonally cool August day in 2012, sauntering down Judah Street in extreme western San Francisco, descending towards the Pacific Ocean. Not that we could actually see the sea, as the marine fog curtain had already dropped by three in the afternoon. Must log this fog.

We had just got off the Muni N Judah streetcar at 40th Avenue. I felt almost certain that that little, now-defunct, jaundice-yellow-faded-paint-sided, olivine-colored-wooden-front-doored, break-in-the-lapboard-wall watering hole was somewhere in this area of the Outer Sunset district. It has to be around here. It has to be!

It was twenty years since I had stepped foot in there.

Nothing looked like the little time-passer of a pub in the first block. We stopped at the intersection with 41st Avenue and waited for the crosswalk sign to turn white. Now, where was it? Is my long-range memory sector already toast?

“Well, maybe the next block is the one, Monique.” He’s lost.

“Ok, Parkaar, [my ailing alias] no problem. I’m enjoying the walk, though it is a little chilly for summer.”

“This town – or, more specifically, this side of town – has the best summer weather of anywhere in my book, princess.

Well, Pacifica and Eureka may battle for a close second place.”

“Only you would say that, 33. You fog-loving freak.”

“That, I am. That, I am.” Not the nonsense already.

“Already repeating? It’s not even sundown, 33. Your mind’s clutch is totally shot now.” She’s probably right.

“Lotsa kewl [ sic] fog and sun-shielding overcast skies with no rain. I call that parfait, [French for perfect] Monique.”

“Parfait, you say? I think I’ll take the dessert, instead.”

“Sure, we can do that later, too.” Oh, boy.

The crosswalk sign changed to WALK and we continued our very decent descent. I assiduously scanned the storefronts looking for a possible clue, just hoping to notice an architectural feature that would trigger a dormant memory. It has probably been repainted by now. Heck, it needed a paint job three decades ago.

Alas, we arrived at 42nd Avenue. Then, from out of the fog, a yellow Toyota sedan came whizzing up to the intersection.

We were already mid-crosswalk, and I wasn’t sure if it was going to yield to us.

“Hurry, Monique!” I shouted.

We both made it safely, as the car skidded to a stop on the first wide yellow crosswalk line. It then sped off across Judah.

“I thought that you said this town was pedestrian-friendly, Agent 33.” Monique was a little shaken.

“Oh, he must be a former Charlottean.” I chuckled to myself.

“Or, maybe from Miami,” I added. “He’s probably cranked-up on meth or crack rock.”

“Or, maybe his girlfriend just dumped him, [used in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco] Parkaar.”

“Yeah, maybe so. Either way, he’s driving like a certified douchebag.”

“I agree, 33. I just wish that the cops saw his bad driving.”

“He’s in a rush to get nowhere, and rapidly succeeding.”

“I thought the saying was, ‘in a rush to get knowhere, [ sic]

and arriving ahead of pschedule’, [ sic] Parkaar.”

“If you used a silent k and a silent p, that would be above his mental grade.” What is he on about now?

Monique gave me an odd look as our walk recommenced.

This already feels like a strange day. I’m sure he’ll write it up later.

I kept looking and looking for some façade familiarity.

However, there were no businesses – nothing but residences. Where did it go? Where was it?

We crossed 43rd Avenue without incident. Still nothing.

Where the hell is that place? Monique must think I’m bonkers. / Has he lost his mind? What are we searching for?

We walked past a Presbyterian church and stopped at an adjacent vacant lot. I wonder if this is where it was.

“Was it here, Parkaar?”

“Possibly, 32. Possibly.”

“Maybe they razed it, 33.”

“Yeah, maybe. That actually sounds believable. And, it’s starting to look like the case.”

We walked to the next edifice, a gray building with boutique retail on the first level and two stories of apartments on top. I stopped and studied the building.

Monique then looked at me. “Was this it, 33?” Hmmm … this is close, so very close.

“This one has that Sidle on N vibe, Monique. Just not totally sure.”

“Are you sure that we’re on the right side of the street?” Or, even on the right street?

“Yes, we’re on the right side of the street as we walk away from central San Francisco towards China.”

“Ok, silly-dilly … I mean, do you think it was on the other side of the street, as in over there?” Monique quickly pointed across Judah.

“No, I am certain that it was on this side, astute Agent 32.”

“What makes you so certain of that, 33?”

“Well, I can remember seeing a few shards of heavily filtered sunlight hit the concrete floor for a few seconds. I can see the dust in the air. Those scenes would not have occurred on the other – south – side of the street.”

“You remember that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You remember the oddest things, Parkaar. But, yes, it sounds believable.”

“My brain is not totally baked just yet, 32; it’s just slightly parboiled.” Parboiled loon.

“That’s what you say.”

“Why, of course it’s what I say, Monique. Or, is it that chip you planted behind my left ear last night?” What?

We both laughed and continued our fabled-bar-seeking trek.

Nothing of consequential note appeared between 44th and 48th Avenues. We walked in silence, letting our thoughts bounce down the in-street railroad tracks. If I were a superball …

Then as we neared La Playa, Monique chirped out her plea.

“Hey, want to duck into Lava Peach for a cup of hot coffee?

I’m freezing!” She even shivered a couple of times.

“Sure, 32; let’s do it.” I know what he wants later.

We entered the corner coffeehouse and ordered a couple of caramel mochachinos, or something like that. While waiting, I spotted a psecret psociety quadra-fold on a table near the front window. I showed it to Monique.

“You sent copies of your short stories here?”

“I did. To here and many other places in the Bay Area.”

“Knowing you all too well, 33, I bet you’ll use this occurrence in a future short story.” Of course!

“Yeah, I would think that is a safe bet, Monique.”

Our coffees came and we sipped at them at a corner table.

They were piping hot and delicious. The whipped cream laced in liquid caramel was sinfully divine. I had to have more.

I went up and paid for an extra blast-n-drip. Maybe I was at a low-blood-sugar-level moment. But if I was, that for sure corrected the deficiency.

We sat back and relaxed, just taking in the scenery and the peoplery. [ sic] The busy South American college-age barista was all a-hustle. I don’t think that I could do her job. Hell, I know I couldn’t. What a tough gig when it’s this busy.

A Caucasian, very bookish-looking, 40-something lady with dark hair was reading at a window-side table. She had the largest-lensed glasses that I had ever seen. She was buried in her new hardback novel. I wonder what she is reading.

Romance? Mystery? Mysterious romance? Romantic mystery? How in the world can she read in here? The light is so low and the noise is so high. I couldn’t stay story-focused for one paragraph.

A bronze-faced, athletically thin, 20-something surfer dude in a black wetsuit walked in with his board under right arm, exhaling visible vapor. He’s probably balling some hottie around here tonight. / I bet he likes the barista … likes to pump her hard.

A pair of Asian female high-school students were doing their math homework together on a bench seat, while occasionally giggling. It was probably a text message. One of them has a crush on some schoolboy. Yeah, it’s obvious.

An Amerasian businessman was now getting some pastries to-go, while juggling with his cell phone. The wife sure has him jumping. She must be hungry back at the house. / This guy is obviously hen-pecked.

More sounds of the cash register drawer opening and closing. <cha-ching> Business sure is brisk. I wonder how much money this place brings in.

Then the mixing of soft conversations. Oh, my Lord! Did she say something about an utin? [utin is Tagalog and Cebuano for penis] Is she from the Philippines?

Some workers were leisurely fixing some issue with the side window’s sill. They were getting ready to shim it and re-caulk it. They seem to be milking this task. They’re probably getting paid by the hour and not by the job.

And then the sound of the waves in the distance. I wonder how high those waves are. I haven’t even seen the ocean yet due to this dense fog.

All of a sudden, I noticed separate eddy streams of fog wafting and curling past the open door. This really is Fogville USA. I love it! Wish I could afford it. / His mind is lost in the fog.

Three Caucasian guys in college sweatshirts were talking about the upcoming ball game near the counter. A skinny white dude in a sleeveless T-shirt was leaning against a utility pole, just outside the front door. Monique was studying him. I wonder if he is bayot. [gay in Cebuano]

An Hispanic plumber at a table across the room had a water hammer arrestor in his hand. (Reference the Water Hammer short story.) He seemed to be measuring the pipe gauge.

Then an older white man walked in, saying, “Yep, yep, yep

…” That phrase and that man. Very familiar. Is that really him? Is that Malloy?

I studied him closer. Then I walked up to the late-60-ish-appearing fellow, who was donning an SF Giants cap.

“Is that you Mr. Malloy?” I politely asked, now fairly confident it was him.

“Yep, yep, yep,” Mr. Malloy repeated without a stutter. (Mr.

Malloy also appears in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella and in the Vermont Street short story.)

“You’ve aged well, Malloy. Very well.”

“Yep, yep, yep, and much, much, much thanks.” He’s still got that repetitive shtick down pat. Or, is it involuntary?

“Hey, want to pull up a chair and chat with us? I’d love the catch-up conversation. We can put some questions to rest.”

“Sure, sure, sure.”

Malloy followed me back to our table. I grabbed a vacant chair from a nearby table for him. He quickly took a seat and cracked his knuckles a few times.

“Mr. Malloy, this is my wife, Monique,” I announced.

“Ah, yes, the lovely Agent 32. Yep, yep, yep.” WTF! How did he know her agent number?

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Malloy,” Monique said.

“So, so, so, what would you like to talk about?” Malloy asked, as if time were suddenly of the essence.

“Oh, just a few of things,” I said. “We won’t keep you long.”

“Would you like to know how I won the multi-million-dollar lottery?” Malloy asked out of the blue. Holy cow! He won the lottery? Well, that would explain him being able to drop C-notes in Sidle on N. Yeah, it would make sense. He never seemed like the business millionaire type, anyway. This would explain his idle wealth.

“Why, sure,” I said, not sure of what I would hear.

“It’s two strikes, not three,” Malloy firmly stated.

“What do you mean, Mr. Malloy?” Monique asked, very interested to know.

“Once you pick your set of numbers, don’t change any of them until they have been called twice – not once,” Malloy said while rubbing his right hand across his forehead. “It’s two hits and you’re out at the old Malloy lottery game.”

“So, don’t change a number the first time it’s called on a non-winning ticket?” Monique asked, while taking mental notes.

“No, not the first time,” Malloy said while tapping his left index finger on the wooden table. “But, don’t wait for the third strike, either. And, make sure you play every drawing. Skip one and you may be skipping out early.”

“Thanks for the gambling advice, Malloy, and a big congrats.

I guess you’ll be buying the next round of drinks. Hey, I’m just kidding.”

“Yep, yep, yep,” Malloy beeped out. “What is your second question, Agent 33?” He must know Ernie.

“Well, Malloy, the real reason that we’re out here in the sunless Sunset today is to revisit the old Sidle on N,” I confessed. “However, we can’t seem to find it. Would you happen to remember exactly where it was?”

“Sidle on N. Sidle on N. Sidle on N.” Malloy now looked sad.

“Yeah, Sidle on N,” I confirmed. “Back in ’92. Wasn’t it in the mid-40 avenues, somewhere around 44th or 45th?”

“Yep, yep, yep. It surely was, Agent 33. But, after Tsula [a character in the Mysterieau of San Francisco novella] died in there, they soon scraped it away.” Oh, no!

“Tsula is dead? How?!” I could hardly believe it.

“She was all party-party-party one night with the owner. Too many pills and booze. Overdose, the coroner said. There was a fire, too. Many suspect that there was foul play, and that the fire was intentionally set to cover it. But, no murder or arson conviction ever came about. The place was a total loss. It was finally bulldozed back in January of 1995. The owner later did go to prison, but it was for tax evasion. Yep, yep, yep.” Wow!

“Woah, what a tragic ending to our old haunt, Malloy,” I said while looking down at the table. What a horrid ending.

“Where did you end up?” Malloy asked me.

“Back in Charlotte. But, I bet you already knew that.”

“Oh, just checking your veracity, Agent 33, Yep, yep, yep.

Just check-check-checking.”

Monique was speechless.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

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