Beulah codes games South of Market in San Francisco and really really wants to be a vampire...
She wants to die spectacularly, suddenly, explosively with bits of Beulah stuck in the hair of gawkers and bystanders. Or, grasp the life immortal laid out so enticingly in Twilight and True Blood. She loved Anne Rice’s book Interview with a Vampire, and really loved the movie. Living in a dark warm decadence made up of handsome men with hair that never falls out wearing puffy shirts, tight pants and that pale, pale luminosity. She pictures yummy LeStat de Lioncourt, the thousand year old vampire being interviewed – he is dead sexy with ice blue eyes against a background of white. She forgives the casting of Tom Cruise, figuring the men were shorter then, what with the crappy diets before the blood regimen. For those particular vampires, she is ready to offer up hot holy Blood, swim upstream against the River of Life while hunky immortals pillage her shores. Just not death in any ordinary way, not from some wasting disease, or Gaia forbid, old age.
Beulah looks in the garishly lit bathroom mirror, sees a freshly scrubbed face looking back, desperately seeking mascara, and opens her makeup drawer. The bluetooth speaker in the bathroom which is only slightly better than the embedded speaker on her phone warbles out her “Spooky Cool” playlist, and she gets back to thinking about vampire life. She read Holy Blood, Holy Grail years ago and still wonders – are there people walking around right now descended from Jesus Christ? Good Gaia, they hold up chalices and say “this is the blood of Christ”! And why not chew the wafers – they’re not really the Body of Christ, right? Now who has the crazy rituals? Pretending wine is someone’s blood isn’t savage in what universe? Of course, drinking only blood these days would resemble the Paleolithic diet craze, it would fit right in with the raw food movement, they’d call it a Plasma Cleanse or something equally trendy.
Mascara lumps having been carefully removed, Beulah checks carefully for any blemishes. Nope, face checks out, so a quick dusting of face powder, and the jangled mess of makeup in her bathroom drawer gets closed up, ready to work its magic again.
She fingers her iPod and replays Eagle’s song Witchy Woman, listening carefully to the lyrics – especially “Raven hair and ruby lips, sparks fly from her fingertips” – yep, that’s me, she thinks. That line pretty much describes her present situation, the nowness of her power, all currents of electric youth and yearning. Like right now, in her mid-20’s, her face, her body, her hair will never look better. Eventually, age will bow her head and slow her walk. There will be sagging and wrinkling – all that handiwork of gravity’s pull. But what if it could be stopped at this very moment? Witchy Woman is still playing: “I know you want a lover, but let me tell you brother, she’s been sleepin’ in the devil’s bed”. If the devil looks like Brad Pitt - yeah, ok, I’ll sleep in that bed. I am a wannabe vampire, frozen forever in the best body I will ever have.
She thinks longingly about the magic of compounding, just letting the money make money by building up layers of itself. It takes time, decades even, but just a lump of cash will grow and grow, until eventually, she will not have to work. Vampires probably save their money in Certificates of Deposit – super safe, and even at 1%, think of how many dollars that would be in 100 years. And as for accumulating that wealth in the first place, of course, she would have to find a job with night hours, but with telecommuting and texting, it could work. It’s not like coders were up during daylight hours anyway.
Beulah shakes her black curls, gives herself one last look in the mirror. Satisfied with the results, she puts on her jacket, a floor length black leather coat she nabbed on sale at North Beach Leather, grabs her matching purse, and swirls out of her SOMA loft to meet her blind date. Gerard is his name, and he was recommended by Angie, a fellow game coder, so it’s not entirely “blind”. Angie met him at a Goth club and said he was a little older and a lot more sophisticated than her usual boy toys, not that they set the bar very high. Boys who design PlayStation games are never described as sophisticated. Horny, yes, thank Gaia, but sophisticated? Not a chance!
From the ground floor, she embarks on a brisk walk, deftly sidestepping puddles of yellow yuck – the smell marking the edges of Harrison Street as “up and coming”. Her brand new Versace Palazzo Booties made a satisfying thunking clatter, not at all like that plastic-y rattle sound cheaper shoes made. You can hear the quality, she thinks, not to mention they made my butt look fabulous.
The restaurant is not far from her apartment on Bryant Street. SOMA is a work in progress, a mix of warehouses from the 1920’s, print shops, body shops, trendy bars, tiny restaurants, and industrial chic apartment buildings crammed in between. “The Realtors”, a scary girl gang that travels in packs wearing blazers and high heels, sip wine and conspire to come up with cutesy names for every neighborhood – mostly disguising the run down or out-of-the-way nature of each one. In this case, they adopted a New York City naming convention for this neighborhood in the seedy section of San Francisco. If Manhattan can have South of Houston (SOHO), then San Francisco can have South of Market (SOMA), a pretentious name, not at all like the district itself. It is literally on the wrong side of the tracks, if you consider street cars and cable cars to be the tracks in question. The wide streets are a world apart from the twisty tiny streets in Pacific Heights, for instance. Southern Pacific Railroad trains still rumble in at the 4th Street Station. Only instead of coal or produce from the Central Valley, they carry commuters to and from Silicon Valley in velour lined comfort with boosted Wi-Fi. Old World technology barreling along with New World Techies in its belly. “Lofts” are individually owned condos with exposed beams, polished cement countertops, sandblasted brick, and 600 square feet. “Live/Work” is another Realtor Misnomer – there is not enough room for either. It is well known that anyone can acquire such cramped très modèrne quarters at just under a million dollars a pop. Beulah rents from a young executive who actually lives in Manhattan. When he comes to town, she couch surfs for a couple of weeks. It’s been working out great, and the arrangement leaves a few bucks at the end of the paycheck to go out to dinner a few times a month. The company provides free food at the employee cafeteria, but the kale chips and tofu based dishes can get you screaming for anything greasy, anything fried. Although she has tried, adding butter from the tiny paper pats does not help.
Only a few city blocks away from her loft squats the forbidding government building at 850 Bryant. It is an ultra modern jail surrounded on all sides by Bail Bonds offices and bars. Pretty darn safe, given the SFPD is right there 24/7. Tonight, the destination is one of the new “farm to table” vegetarian restaurants called Got you Beet. It just opened, like most of the dining establishments thereabouts. It occupies about 10,000 square feet and features “family style dining” replete with picnic tables and long benches of “repurposed” wood. She remembers that a local reviewer said there were tables for two along the back wall where it was quiet.
She gets to Got You Beet in about fifteen minutes. It is a typical San Francisco night, and the cool fog-kissed air keeps her from working up a sweat, with the added benefit of fluffing up her hair. When they made the date, he had promised to wear a green carnation. A shrewd – if not obvious - move one of her girlfriends had taught her, a safeguard allowing Beulah to turn around and walk out if the guy with the goofy flower is a dud. So she smiles and appraises the spacious vegetarian restaurant, scanning for the bright green flower on some loser’s lapel. Beulah gasps aloud. There, already seated at one of the coveted two tops is the most handsome man she has ever seen. There are only five tables for two in the family style restaurant, and she is glad he came early, so they could have some privacy.
Considering the undeniable fact that <oh my Goddess> he is gorgeous, she ponders briefly taking a selfie and IM’ing it immediately to the Women Who Wine. They would pee themselves. He is ghostly pale, like LeStat in Interview, and elegant in chiseled black attire. The collar and cuffs are startlingly white and starched to the thickness of fine stationery. That reminds her – he had asked for her mailing address during the telephone call. Yep, telephone call. Gerard said he preferred the sound of a human voice to “ze soulless tap tapping of anonymous fingers on leetle plastic letters”. She did not tell him where she lived, yeesh, nobody does that. But now, she imagines getting an engraved invitation on Crane embossed linen paper, the writing a swooping blue ink cursive from a freakin’ fountain pen. That’s the man that would brandish a fountain pen, right there. He sports an old fashioned hairstyle, a little long - showing off white blond waves framing a masculine face – not too pretty, not too harsh. So this guy somehow manages to make a green carnation look svelte. Wow. Straightening her shoulders, Beulah insinuates her long legs and swanky coat between the tables, clamping her mouth shut to avoid drooling down the front of her outfit. He looks up just before she gets to the booth, he has already left room for her to sit down, guilelessly avoiding the awkward scooching coders are known for. Clearing her throat, she unintentionally warbles:
“Um, Gerard?”
“Beulah?” He smiles, then says “It must be you, zere are so few young women attracted to garish green lapel decorations.”
“Yes, it’s me. I mean, I’m Beulah. So you must be Gerard, hi.” This cannot be Gerard. Oh. Hell. No. Angie would have given me a heads up. There’s gonna be a bait and switch, the real Gerard <fat, balding, Izod shirt in puce> is on his way – this must be Gerard’s gay friend who got here early in order to chaperone. He is standing up, and <swallow the slobber> he is just the right height. About six feet tall. Holy crap. Mommy, can I lick him? Hush up Beulah’s Brain. Wait, that’s not my brain talking….
“Please, sit down, Beulah.” Gerard motions to the chair on the other side of the table, waiting for her before sitting back down. He resumes perusing the wine menu, actually more of a solid leather bound book than a menu.
“I hope you do not mind, I took ze liberty of ordering a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a dark red wine, well aged, eez ze best accompaniment to a cold night, do you not agree? Ze wait airs will get very busy soon, and we should have some sing to sip while we converse. It was odd, I must say when I was asked to order ze water, too. Zees would not occur in Pair E, zey would assume ze customer wishes to quench their thirst, and ask if zey would pray fair sparkling or still. Ze bott elle is brought to ze table quickly, as one must cleanse ze palette between courses. Ici, ze still water is “from ze tap”, and ze customer is expected to turn zees down. A very strange drought inspired custom.”
“The Cab sounds perfect.” Beulah looked at her menu, thinking he actually was pretty funny. His wit did not require the belittling of others, a refreshing change from the boys at work calling each other “pussy” and making pig snort laugh sounds at their pathetic witticisms.
“What is Paris like, Gerard? I’ve never been.”
“Paris is enchantment encapsulated in its every brick and fence. It is a walking city, we pick up our baguettes and our garlic and our gruyere fresh every morning. Refrigerators are tiny in our high ceilinged apartments and we do not miss them. In the Place de la Concorde, you are walking upon the very same cobblestones that ran with the blood of our King and Queen. The stones of the Bastille, which held the men who ordered them sent to ze guillotine, are made into a bridge now, but we do not forget how passionately we hold our convictions. Parisians argue about everything, loudly, and with great gusto – but we are possessed of a formidable courage. After the killings at Charlie Hebdo, you may recall, the magazine was back in print, with thousands of new subscribers within days. I love that city, she haunts my dreams.”
“Wow. When will you be going back?” Please say never. Never never never. Or you could say when I am ready to move in with you. That would be a good answer. I am packing up in my mind right now.
“Ah, zere is a small museum of which I am curator near L’Arc de Triomphe, which is sadly closed for a few months. It is dedicated to Pair E at Night, with many displays of the glass blowers art, lamp posts from the 1700’s, artifacts from the Moulin Rouge, and we conduct tours of Pere Lachaise Cemetery at night. Have you heard of this cemetery?”
“Yes, that’s where Jim Morrison is buried. That must be so cool. I would love to pay my respects someday. How come the museum’s closed?”
“Such a mundane reason, Beulah, not romantic at all. The famed Parisian sewers run underneath, and though zey were sturdily built, our basement must be dug out, and fresh piping installed. Zees is inconvenient, but has allowed me ze opportunity to travel. Eere, especially, I wanted to come because my friends told me zat San Francisco is lovely at night. Zey were right. I will come here every year I think, during ze winter holidays and gaze at zose beautiful bridges emblazoned with light.”
As Beulah gazed at him, her head filled with a birds eye view of the two of them strolling along the Embarcadero, hand in hand – Gerard in a fur lined cape and she in a bold gold bodice-clinging cashmere sweater with fur cuffs and collar and one of those Isadora Duncan scarves trailing behind her in the fog. Lost in that fanciful stroll, she picks up on the last part of his sentence: “… and, thanks to ze dogged persistence of our mutual acquaintance, Mademoiselle Angela Piperis, I can now say ze journey is filled with delightful surprises.”
The waiter comes up a few minutes later, introduces himself as Kyle, “your server tonight” and she reluctantly rolls her eyes back in to focus at the menu. She orders the mushroom risotto, Gerard, the Quenelles, which are actually fish balls, in other words, ground fish rolled into gelatinous balls. Aside from volunteering that tacky description of the meal he ordered, she feels all warm and sophisticated upon tasting the rich flavor and sniffing the high alcohol content of the Cabernet Sauvignon. A 2003 from Grgich Hills – the bottle was over $500. Beulah issn’t worried though, an old fashioned gentleman’s vocabulary almost certainly will not include “Dutch Treat”. Still, it is the most expensive glass of wine she had ever consumed. It tastes of oak and blackberries and of years spent in cool dark caves. The description included a mention of French Oak barrels, a taste of home for Gerard, perhaps. The vines growing at Grgich Hills Winery had come originally from France. The reds were planted throughout Napa Valley by Franciscan friars for sacramental wine. The gnarled branches retained the DNA of ancient grapes grown in volcanic soil formed by the French Alps. A sensual reminder on the tongue – the taste brought visions of Lascaux cave paintings – the red outlines of prehistoric hands – outstretched in a 30,000 year old reach toward immortality. It all comes back to that – to be remembered – to matter. How cool would it be to build a game where players are all Neanderthals and they have to find the red paint, mix it with blood (someone else’s of course) and make the cave art in order to get to the next level and score the Mastodon spear? Teams would be essential and the players limited to communicating with hand gestures and facial expressions of their avatars… She shakes herself out of her reverie as Gerard is asking what sort of work she does.
“I’m a coder – for virtual reality games. I tell the computer, in its own language, how to build a village, for instance. And then, when the player interacts with the surroundings, the objects within have to grow and shrink in precise proportions – all in lockstep with the player’s proximity to the object. It’s actually a bunch of letters and numbers and yet, it is also art. At least the way I do it, it’s art.”
“Zis career, it does not require daylight? Je pense que oui. Pardonez moi, Beulah, from time to time, when I think out loud, I think in French. I meant that, in zis global world, where one’s co-workers are living in zeir very different time zones, sending zeir work product across ze equator at all hours, is it not good to have a portable livelihood free of ze restraints of our ancestors?”
Gerard takes a few small bites of the Quenelles, declares “Zey are much better in France”, and passes them over to Beulah. She finds them delicious, and askes, at the end of the meal, for both remainders to be boxed up for her to take home. There are maybe one and a half more glasses of wine in the bottle, so Gerard replaces the cork gently, and offers to carry everything back to her door.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Au contraire, Beulah, I believe it is ze gentleman’s responsibility to see his lady friend home safely. It is ze custom, after an evening meal, to walk in Pair E. Is zere a similar custom here in San Francisco?”
“Come to think of it, it would be nice to stretch my legs. OK, let’s drop this stuff off, and we’ll take a hike up to Market, then down the Embarcadero. Since the freeway came down, lots of people stroll along the Bay.”
They make good time, Gerard walking satisfyingly fast, just a little quicker than Beulah, then he matches her step for step. The panhandlers leave them alone, preferring slower prey.
“This is it, I’ll just be a minute.”
While Gerard waites outside, she dashes upstairs, puts the food in the refrigerator, the wine on the counter, grabs some gloves and a hat, switches to flats, and is back down and ready to stroll in five minutes flat. As they stroll along the Embarcadero, the wind carries a chill straight from the San Francisco Bay to their faces. Some of the alleys between the warehouses along Howard Street had never been paved per se, the chunky granite cobblestones still serving their purpose long after the sounds of horses’ hooves had faded.
“Did you know, Beulah, that cobblestones were used as ballast to weigh down merchant sailing ships down as zey journeyed around Cape Horn? Ze merchants came to California for ze animal hides. As zey picked them up along the shoreline, ze seamen would stack zem into every corner throughout ze hold of ze ship, leaving these cobblestones behind as zey were no longer needed for ze voyage home. You are looking at stones from Massachusetts or Maryland quarries. Such a young city, San Francisco. Before ze steam locomotives connected East to West, I think ze months of arduous travel made zees city so much more beautiful. Ze seekers of ze gold lived through all of those days and nights of longing, ze months of terrible food and ze sheer terror of rounding ze Cape amid icebergs and sleet storms. Imagine zey see at last the sparkling waters of the Golden Gate - it was a small harbor town then, made of nothing but tents and shanties, a few built of brick, even fewer of adobe. Forgive me, Beulah, I sometimes regret ze speed and convenience of air travel, it leaves no time for contemplation. Railroads allow one to appreciate the grandeur of lakes and mountains along ze way.”
“I took a train trip once, from Oakland to Victoria, British Columbia. I remember thinking that these gorgeous mountains had always been there, but I had only seen the tops of the peaks when I looked out of the airplane window.”
“Rail cars are such civilized way to travel, n’est-ce pas?”
“Well, you know what they say – it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”
Gerard nods as he looks to Beulah for direction, as she begins to slow her pace.
“Well, it’s about a half hour back to my house, so we’d better turn around.”
Beulah cannot stop wondering if this old fashioned man would turn into a pushy jerk as soon as he sniffed the opportunity for a one night stand. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, she thought, then grinned at her own joke. Like what if I got another brain tumor right now that kills me in a week? I’ll be all “Regrets, I’ve had a few…” like not jumping his bones the night we met.
When they return to her building for the second time, he asks “May I call upon you on Sunday evening? Perhaps you will join me for dinner at ze Cliff House? You need not worry about transportation, I have engaged a driver. Shall I have him pick you up at 6:30? I think from your home it will take at least a half an hour to reach Ocean Beach.”
“Yes, I would love to. Yes. So, um, see you then?”
Gerard kisses her lightly on the cheek, smiles, and strides off toward Market Street. Lots of cabs there, she thought, then wondered where he was staying. If it was the Palace Hotel, there would be no need for a cab. So, wow. Yeah. I get to go out with Gerard again – woot! Hmm, Sunday brunch is usually preferred at the Cliff House – the gorgeous ocean scenery will not be visible at night - maybe he had other plans during the day?
Later that night, she writes in her journal, thinking through the guys she’s known (in the carnal sense) since arriving here in San Francisco.
Dear Diary,
I might have to dump every other man now. I like Lee, but he’s an average lover, too timid and not intelligent enough. Chuck the Coker is a joker. Constantly apologizing, and oh crikey, begging says “I just want to hold you, that’s all”. Riiiight – of course he breaks his promise in a totally sleazy way. I get up, get dressed, he says “You can’t leave me like this, I’m almost there” – no Chuck – wherever “there” is, you are going alone. And the guys at work – losers. Keith says to me “Do whatever is appropriate in your universe”, which is one of his favorite phrases. “Which gives me a lot of leeway” I replied, but what I really wanted to say was “That is one of the most meaningless, vague and stupid expressions I have ever heard.” Is it always time to move on? I’ve tasted the fruits of independence and found them sweet. Nutritional, even. Time for some meaty love, though. Steak tartare, make it rare…
On Sunday morning, Beulah is reading a Wired magazine article about the ill effects of multi-tasking while in her ear Alanis Morissette asks the eternal question: “Isn’t it ironic? Dontcha think? An old man turns ninety eight, wins the lottery, and dies the next day…” She thinks that Gerard just might be a winning lottery ticket, and she’d like to collect before she turns ninety eight. Life is both darkness and light, sunshine and moonlight, hot and cold, and I could totally handle living only at night. Man I hope he is what I think he is…
Sunday night finally creeps in and at 6:30 p.m., right on time, her cell phone rings – the driver is waiting downstairs. Another cold night, so she wears the full fur boots. Ferragamo knew how to design heels and soles that could handle the narrow alleys of Rome without tumbling down. The dress is a Max Mara sleeveless flared tunic, a showcase for the gold pendant shaped like a sleek black cat riding on top of a pearl moon. A night like this presents an excellent opportunity to wear the tapestry cloak specially made for her by Samiah Creations in Huntington Beach, it is purple and gold, tight at the waist, and the back hovers centimeters off the ground. She feels mysterious and elegant in luxurious brocade like the French Lieutenant’s Woman, pulling the hood over her hair, picking up the fabric with her hands, she pictures herself walking with courage among the mossy stones of the moors. And soon enough, they arrive at the Cliff House, and the driver pulls up right in front, leaves the town car idling at the curb, opens the door and motions inside.
“Monsieur Bellamy arrived earlier and awaits your arrival, Mademoiselle.”
How the heck did he find a French speaking driver? Perhaps Gerard Bellamy may be quite a bit wealthier than I first imagined. Rich enough maybe to fly with an entourage. Whoa.
He is sitting at the bar, perched on one of the high backed stools, and she takes him in – all cool, detached and eligible. He smiles as soon as he sees her, whew, so far so good. The table in the corner affords a view of the waves crashing against Seal Rock – the restaurant has thoughtfully provided spotlights on the brutal rocks for their evening diners. She slips the cloak off her shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair, and everything, everything is perfect. By the time dessert rolls around – literally, it rolls around, they bring a cart piled high with delectables – Beulah declares this is the best night of her life. Gerard complains mildly that there were no Grgich’s on the menu and smiles, the candlelight just catching the sharp white edges of his cutting teeth.
“So, the driver called you Monsieur Bellamy – that does not sound French.”
“Oh, but it is most French – belle amie, it means “beautiful friend”.”
“It suits you, Gerard.”
After dinner, they walk down the stairs to the overlook hand in hand, and in the soft light of Ocean Beach, he smiles again. Only this time, the sharp canines are much longer than before.
“You remind me so much of my own dear Belle Amie. She has been gone for many years now, and I had despaired of ever finding her like again.”
“How many years, Gerard?”
“You would not believe me if I told you.”
“I think I would, Gerard. And I believe you are hungry right now, even though you hardly touched your food. You are hungry for, if I’m not completely off base here – maybe – some fresh blood?”
“Ah, Beulah, you are too enamored of zose fantasy games you design. And if I was a vampire, why would you agree to be bitten?”
“You must believe me Gerard, I want this. I want to be young forever, to never again experience the pain of radiation. I know I should hesitate. Sunlight would be deadly and I would miss it. But for me, because of the chemo treatment, I can never expose my skin to sunlight again. So, in a way, it is deadly now. Let me explain - you will see a long deep scar behind my ear where the cancer tumor was excised. It could come back, they tell me. My brother, my mother, the father I never knew, all dead. There would be so many more deaths to come, I know that, and I know that for those with extended lifespans, it never ends. But I have no one to nurture, no one to miss.”
“That is a most unusual request. I can see that you have given the idea much thought, ma petite, but I must give your request a respectable amount of thought, too. What a tragic story, and it spilled out of you so quickly, yes, I must think on this. I am here, in San Francisco, for perhaps another month. Zen I must return to Paree. Shall I call upon you next week?”
Beulah continues, “As soon as I start to bemoan missing a sunrise, or seeing the shadows cast by the trees in Muir Woods, I can put on my Oculus Rift goggles, and look at it in high-definition three-dimensional splendor. Have you watched a movie in 3D? We could start an online group for others of our kind – I already thought of a name - we will be the Extended Lifespan Terrestrials, or ELTs. Not exactly the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks either. Kind of like the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence face off against the Sisters of Mercy. I believe that our life eternal will be elegant and grand. I know you need me – there are too many ways this century’s technology baffles you. So bite me, I want this.”
Written in 2015 Copyright © Catherine G. Tripp
Beulah looks in the garishly lit bathroom mirror, sees a freshly scrubbed face looking back, desperately seeking mascara, and opens her makeup drawer. The bluetooth speaker in the bathroom which is only slightly better than the embedded speaker on her phone warbles out her “Spooky Cool” playlist, and she gets back to thinking about vampire life. She read Holy Blood, Holy Grail years ago and still wonders – are there people walking around right now descended from Jesus Christ? Good Gaia, they hold up chalices and say “this is the blood of Christ”! And why not chew the wafers – they’re not really the Body of Christ, right? Now who has the crazy rituals? Pretending wine is someone’s blood isn’t savage in what universe? Of course, drinking only blood these days would resemble the Paleolithic diet craze, it would fit right in with the raw food movement, they’d call it a Plasma Cleanse or something equally trendy.
Mascara lumps having been carefully removed, Beulah checks carefully for any blemishes. Nope, face checks out, so a quick dusting of face powder, and the jangled mess of makeup in her bathroom drawer gets closed up, ready to work its magic again.
She fingers her iPod and replays Eagle’s song Witchy Woman, listening carefully to the lyrics – especially “Raven hair and ruby lips, sparks fly from her fingertips” – yep, that’s me, she thinks. That line pretty much describes her present situation, the nowness of her power, all currents of electric youth and yearning. Like right now, in her mid-20’s, her face, her body, her hair will never look better. Eventually, age will bow her head and slow her walk. There will be sagging and wrinkling – all that handiwork of gravity’s pull. But what if it could be stopped at this very moment? Witchy Woman is still playing: “I know you want a lover, but let me tell you brother, she’s been sleepin’ in the devil’s bed”. If the devil looks like Brad Pitt - yeah, ok, I’ll sleep in that bed. I am a wannabe vampire, frozen forever in the best body I will ever have.
She thinks longingly about the magic of compounding, just letting the money make money by building up layers of itself. It takes time, decades even, but just a lump of cash will grow and grow, until eventually, she will not have to work. Vampires probably save their money in Certificates of Deposit – super safe, and even at 1%, think of how many dollars that would be in 100 years. And as for accumulating that wealth in the first place, of course, she would have to find a job with night hours, but with telecommuting and texting, it could work. It’s not like coders were up during daylight hours anyway.
Beulah shakes her black curls, gives herself one last look in the mirror. Satisfied with the results, she puts on her jacket, a floor length black leather coat she nabbed on sale at North Beach Leather, grabs her matching purse, and swirls out of her SOMA loft to meet her blind date. Gerard is his name, and he was recommended by Angie, a fellow game coder, so it’s not entirely “blind”. Angie met him at a Goth club and said he was a little older and a lot more sophisticated than her usual boy toys, not that they set the bar very high. Boys who design PlayStation games are never described as sophisticated. Horny, yes, thank Gaia, but sophisticated? Not a chance!
From the ground floor, she embarks on a brisk walk, deftly sidestepping puddles of yellow yuck – the smell marking the edges of Harrison Street as “up and coming”. Her brand new Versace Palazzo Booties made a satisfying thunking clatter, not at all like that plastic-y rattle sound cheaper shoes made. You can hear the quality, she thinks, not to mention they made my butt look fabulous.
The restaurant is not far from her apartment on Bryant Street. SOMA is a work in progress, a mix of warehouses from the 1920’s, print shops, body shops, trendy bars, tiny restaurants, and industrial chic apartment buildings crammed in between. “The Realtors”, a scary girl gang that travels in packs wearing blazers and high heels, sip wine and conspire to come up with cutesy names for every neighborhood – mostly disguising the run down or out-of-the-way nature of each one. In this case, they adopted a New York City naming convention for this neighborhood in the seedy section of San Francisco. If Manhattan can have South of Houston (SOHO), then San Francisco can have South of Market (SOMA), a pretentious name, not at all like the district itself. It is literally on the wrong side of the tracks, if you consider street cars and cable cars to be the tracks in question. The wide streets are a world apart from the twisty tiny streets in Pacific Heights, for instance. Southern Pacific Railroad trains still rumble in at the 4th Street Station. Only instead of coal or produce from the Central Valley, they carry commuters to and from Silicon Valley in velour lined comfort with boosted Wi-Fi. Old World technology barreling along with New World Techies in its belly. “Lofts” are individually owned condos with exposed beams, polished cement countertops, sandblasted brick, and 600 square feet. “Live/Work” is another Realtor Misnomer – there is not enough room for either. It is well known that anyone can acquire such cramped très modèrne quarters at just under a million dollars a pop. Beulah rents from a young executive who actually lives in Manhattan. When he comes to town, she couch surfs for a couple of weeks. It’s been working out great, and the arrangement leaves a few bucks at the end of the paycheck to go out to dinner a few times a month. The company provides free food at the employee cafeteria, but the kale chips and tofu based dishes can get you screaming for anything greasy, anything fried. Although she has tried, adding butter from the tiny paper pats does not help.
Only a few city blocks away from her loft squats the forbidding government building at 850 Bryant. It is an ultra modern jail surrounded on all sides by Bail Bonds offices and bars. Pretty darn safe, given the SFPD is right there 24/7. Tonight, the destination is one of the new “farm to table” vegetarian restaurants called Got you Beet. It just opened, like most of the dining establishments thereabouts. It occupies about 10,000 square feet and features “family style dining” replete with picnic tables and long benches of “repurposed” wood. She remembers that a local reviewer said there were tables for two along the back wall where it was quiet.
She gets to Got You Beet in about fifteen minutes. It is a typical San Francisco night, and the cool fog-kissed air keeps her from working up a sweat, with the added benefit of fluffing up her hair. When they made the date, he had promised to wear a green carnation. A shrewd – if not obvious - move one of her girlfriends had taught her, a safeguard allowing Beulah to turn around and walk out if the guy with the goofy flower is a dud. So she smiles and appraises the spacious vegetarian restaurant, scanning for the bright green flower on some loser’s lapel. Beulah gasps aloud. There, already seated at one of the coveted two tops is the most handsome man she has ever seen. There are only five tables for two in the family style restaurant, and she is glad he came early, so they could have some privacy.
Considering the undeniable fact that <oh my Goddess> he is gorgeous, she ponders briefly taking a selfie and IM’ing it immediately to the Women Who Wine. They would pee themselves. He is ghostly pale, like LeStat in Interview, and elegant in chiseled black attire. The collar and cuffs are startlingly white and starched to the thickness of fine stationery. That reminds her – he had asked for her mailing address during the telephone call. Yep, telephone call. Gerard said he preferred the sound of a human voice to “ze soulless tap tapping of anonymous fingers on leetle plastic letters”. She did not tell him where she lived, yeesh, nobody does that. But now, she imagines getting an engraved invitation on Crane embossed linen paper, the writing a swooping blue ink cursive from a freakin’ fountain pen. That’s the man that would brandish a fountain pen, right there. He sports an old fashioned hairstyle, a little long - showing off white blond waves framing a masculine face – not too pretty, not too harsh. So this guy somehow manages to make a green carnation look svelte. Wow. Straightening her shoulders, Beulah insinuates her long legs and swanky coat between the tables, clamping her mouth shut to avoid drooling down the front of her outfit. He looks up just before she gets to the booth, he has already left room for her to sit down, guilelessly avoiding the awkward scooching coders are known for. Clearing her throat, she unintentionally warbles:
“Um, Gerard?”
“Beulah?” He smiles, then says “It must be you, zere are so few young women attracted to garish green lapel decorations.”
“Yes, it’s me. I mean, I’m Beulah. So you must be Gerard, hi.” This cannot be Gerard. Oh. Hell. No. Angie would have given me a heads up. There’s gonna be a bait and switch, the real Gerard <fat, balding, Izod shirt in puce> is on his way – this must be Gerard’s gay friend who got here early in order to chaperone. He is standing up, and <swallow the slobber> he is just the right height. About six feet tall. Holy crap. Mommy, can I lick him? Hush up Beulah’s Brain. Wait, that’s not my brain talking….
“Please, sit down, Beulah.” Gerard motions to the chair on the other side of the table, waiting for her before sitting back down. He resumes perusing the wine menu, actually more of a solid leather bound book than a menu.
“I hope you do not mind, I took ze liberty of ordering a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a dark red wine, well aged, eez ze best accompaniment to a cold night, do you not agree? Ze wait airs will get very busy soon, and we should have some sing to sip while we converse. It was odd, I must say when I was asked to order ze water, too. Zees would not occur in Pair E, zey would assume ze customer wishes to quench their thirst, and ask if zey would pray fair sparkling or still. Ze bott elle is brought to ze table quickly, as one must cleanse ze palette between courses. Ici, ze still water is “from ze tap”, and ze customer is expected to turn zees down. A very strange drought inspired custom.”
“The Cab sounds perfect.” Beulah looked at her menu, thinking he actually was pretty funny. His wit did not require the belittling of others, a refreshing change from the boys at work calling each other “pussy” and making pig snort laugh sounds at their pathetic witticisms.
“What is Paris like, Gerard? I’ve never been.”
“Paris is enchantment encapsulated in its every brick and fence. It is a walking city, we pick up our baguettes and our garlic and our gruyere fresh every morning. Refrigerators are tiny in our high ceilinged apartments and we do not miss them. In the Place de la Concorde, you are walking upon the very same cobblestones that ran with the blood of our King and Queen. The stones of the Bastille, which held the men who ordered them sent to ze guillotine, are made into a bridge now, but we do not forget how passionately we hold our convictions. Parisians argue about everything, loudly, and with great gusto – but we are possessed of a formidable courage. After the killings at Charlie Hebdo, you may recall, the magazine was back in print, with thousands of new subscribers within days. I love that city, she haunts my dreams.”
“Wow. When will you be going back?” Please say never. Never never never. Or you could say when I am ready to move in with you. That would be a good answer. I am packing up in my mind right now.
“Ah, zere is a small museum of which I am curator near L’Arc de Triomphe, which is sadly closed for a few months. It is dedicated to Pair E at Night, with many displays of the glass blowers art, lamp posts from the 1700’s, artifacts from the Moulin Rouge, and we conduct tours of Pere Lachaise Cemetery at night. Have you heard of this cemetery?”
“Yes, that’s where Jim Morrison is buried. That must be so cool. I would love to pay my respects someday. How come the museum’s closed?”
“Such a mundane reason, Beulah, not romantic at all. The famed Parisian sewers run underneath, and though zey were sturdily built, our basement must be dug out, and fresh piping installed. Zees is inconvenient, but has allowed me ze opportunity to travel. Eere, especially, I wanted to come because my friends told me zat San Francisco is lovely at night. Zey were right. I will come here every year I think, during ze winter holidays and gaze at zose beautiful bridges emblazoned with light.”
As Beulah gazed at him, her head filled with a birds eye view of the two of them strolling along the Embarcadero, hand in hand – Gerard in a fur lined cape and she in a bold gold bodice-clinging cashmere sweater with fur cuffs and collar and one of those Isadora Duncan scarves trailing behind her in the fog. Lost in that fanciful stroll, she picks up on the last part of his sentence: “… and, thanks to ze dogged persistence of our mutual acquaintance, Mademoiselle Angela Piperis, I can now say ze journey is filled with delightful surprises.”
The waiter comes up a few minutes later, introduces himself as Kyle, “your server tonight” and she reluctantly rolls her eyes back in to focus at the menu. She orders the mushroom risotto, Gerard, the Quenelles, which are actually fish balls, in other words, ground fish rolled into gelatinous balls. Aside from volunteering that tacky description of the meal he ordered, she feels all warm and sophisticated upon tasting the rich flavor and sniffing the high alcohol content of the Cabernet Sauvignon. A 2003 from Grgich Hills – the bottle was over $500. Beulah issn’t worried though, an old fashioned gentleman’s vocabulary almost certainly will not include “Dutch Treat”. Still, it is the most expensive glass of wine she had ever consumed. It tastes of oak and blackberries and of years spent in cool dark caves. The description included a mention of French Oak barrels, a taste of home for Gerard, perhaps. The vines growing at Grgich Hills Winery had come originally from France. The reds were planted throughout Napa Valley by Franciscan friars for sacramental wine. The gnarled branches retained the DNA of ancient grapes grown in volcanic soil formed by the French Alps. A sensual reminder on the tongue – the taste brought visions of Lascaux cave paintings – the red outlines of prehistoric hands – outstretched in a 30,000 year old reach toward immortality. It all comes back to that – to be remembered – to matter. How cool would it be to build a game where players are all Neanderthals and they have to find the red paint, mix it with blood (someone else’s of course) and make the cave art in order to get to the next level and score the Mastodon spear? Teams would be essential and the players limited to communicating with hand gestures and facial expressions of their avatars… She shakes herself out of her reverie as Gerard is asking what sort of work she does.
“I’m a coder – for virtual reality games. I tell the computer, in its own language, how to build a village, for instance. And then, when the player interacts with the surroundings, the objects within have to grow and shrink in precise proportions – all in lockstep with the player’s proximity to the object. It’s actually a bunch of letters and numbers and yet, it is also art. At least the way I do it, it’s art.”
“Zis career, it does not require daylight? Je pense que oui. Pardonez moi, Beulah, from time to time, when I think out loud, I think in French. I meant that, in zis global world, where one’s co-workers are living in zeir very different time zones, sending zeir work product across ze equator at all hours, is it not good to have a portable livelihood free of ze restraints of our ancestors?”
Gerard takes a few small bites of the Quenelles, declares “Zey are much better in France”, and passes them over to Beulah. She finds them delicious, and askes, at the end of the meal, for both remainders to be boxed up for her to take home. There are maybe one and a half more glasses of wine in the bottle, so Gerard replaces the cork gently, and offers to carry everything back to her door.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Au contraire, Beulah, I believe it is ze gentleman’s responsibility to see his lady friend home safely. It is ze custom, after an evening meal, to walk in Pair E. Is zere a similar custom here in San Francisco?”
“Come to think of it, it would be nice to stretch my legs. OK, let’s drop this stuff off, and we’ll take a hike up to Market, then down the Embarcadero. Since the freeway came down, lots of people stroll along the Bay.”
They make good time, Gerard walking satisfyingly fast, just a little quicker than Beulah, then he matches her step for step. The panhandlers leave them alone, preferring slower prey.
“This is it, I’ll just be a minute.”
While Gerard waites outside, she dashes upstairs, puts the food in the refrigerator, the wine on the counter, grabs some gloves and a hat, switches to flats, and is back down and ready to stroll in five minutes flat. As they stroll along the Embarcadero, the wind carries a chill straight from the San Francisco Bay to their faces. Some of the alleys between the warehouses along Howard Street had never been paved per se, the chunky granite cobblestones still serving their purpose long after the sounds of horses’ hooves had faded.
“Did you know, Beulah, that cobblestones were used as ballast to weigh down merchant sailing ships down as zey journeyed around Cape Horn? Ze merchants came to California for ze animal hides. As zey picked them up along the shoreline, ze seamen would stack zem into every corner throughout ze hold of ze ship, leaving these cobblestones behind as zey were no longer needed for ze voyage home. You are looking at stones from Massachusetts or Maryland quarries. Such a young city, San Francisco. Before ze steam locomotives connected East to West, I think ze months of arduous travel made zees city so much more beautiful. Ze seekers of ze gold lived through all of those days and nights of longing, ze months of terrible food and ze sheer terror of rounding ze Cape amid icebergs and sleet storms. Imagine zey see at last the sparkling waters of the Golden Gate - it was a small harbor town then, made of nothing but tents and shanties, a few built of brick, even fewer of adobe. Forgive me, Beulah, I sometimes regret ze speed and convenience of air travel, it leaves no time for contemplation. Railroads allow one to appreciate the grandeur of lakes and mountains along ze way.”
“I took a train trip once, from Oakland to Victoria, British Columbia. I remember thinking that these gorgeous mountains had always been there, but I had only seen the tops of the peaks when I looked out of the airplane window.”
“Rail cars are such civilized way to travel, n’est-ce pas?”
“Well, you know what they say – it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”
Gerard nods as he looks to Beulah for direction, as she begins to slow her pace.
“Well, it’s about a half hour back to my house, so we’d better turn around.”
Beulah cannot stop wondering if this old fashioned man would turn into a pushy jerk as soon as he sniffed the opportunity for a one night stand. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, she thought, then grinned at her own joke. Like what if I got another brain tumor right now that kills me in a week? I’ll be all “Regrets, I’ve had a few…” like not jumping his bones the night we met.
When they return to her building for the second time, he asks “May I call upon you on Sunday evening? Perhaps you will join me for dinner at ze Cliff House? You need not worry about transportation, I have engaged a driver. Shall I have him pick you up at 6:30? I think from your home it will take at least a half an hour to reach Ocean Beach.”
“Yes, I would love to. Yes. So, um, see you then?”
Gerard kisses her lightly on the cheek, smiles, and strides off toward Market Street. Lots of cabs there, she thought, then wondered where he was staying. If it was the Palace Hotel, there would be no need for a cab. So, wow. Yeah. I get to go out with Gerard again – woot! Hmm, Sunday brunch is usually preferred at the Cliff House – the gorgeous ocean scenery will not be visible at night - maybe he had other plans during the day?
Later that night, she writes in her journal, thinking through the guys she’s known (in the carnal sense) since arriving here in San Francisco.
Dear Diary,
I might have to dump every other man now. I like Lee, but he’s an average lover, too timid and not intelligent enough. Chuck the Coker is a joker. Constantly apologizing, and oh crikey, begging says “I just want to hold you, that’s all”. Riiiight – of course he breaks his promise in a totally sleazy way. I get up, get dressed, he says “You can’t leave me like this, I’m almost there” – no Chuck – wherever “there” is, you are going alone. And the guys at work – losers. Keith says to me “Do whatever is appropriate in your universe”, which is one of his favorite phrases. “Which gives me a lot of leeway” I replied, but what I really wanted to say was “That is one of the most meaningless, vague and stupid expressions I have ever heard.” Is it always time to move on? I’ve tasted the fruits of independence and found them sweet. Nutritional, even. Time for some meaty love, though. Steak tartare, make it rare…
On Sunday morning, Beulah is reading a Wired magazine article about the ill effects of multi-tasking while in her ear Alanis Morissette asks the eternal question: “Isn’t it ironic? Dontcha think? An old man turns ninety eight, wins the lottery, and dies the next day…” She thinks that Gerard just might be a winning lottery ticket, and she’d like to collect before she turns ninety eight. Life is both darkness and light, sunshine and moonlight, hot and cold, and I could totally handle living only at night. Man I hope he is what I think he is…
Sunday night finally creeps in and at 6:30 p.m., right on time, her cell phone rings – the driver is waiting downstairs. Another cold night, so she wears the full fur boots. Ferragamo knew how to design heels and soles that could handle the narrow alleys of Rome without tumbling down. The dress is a Max Mara sleeveless flared tunic, a showcase for the gold pendant shaped like a sleek black cat riding on top of a pearl moon. A night like this presents an excellent opportunity to wear the tapestry cloak specially made for her by Samiah Creations in Huntington Beach, it is purple and gold, tight at the waist, and the back hovers centimeters off the ground. She feels mysterious and elegant in luxurious brocade like the French Lieutenant’s Woman, pulling the hood over her hair, picking up the fabric with her hands, she pictures herself walking with courage among the mossy stones of the moors. And soon enough, they arrive at the Cliff House, and the driver pulls up right in front, leaves the town car idling at the curb, opens the door and motions inside.
“Monsieur Bellamy arrived earlier and awaits your arrival, Mademoiselle.”
How the heck did he find a French speaking driver? Perhaps Gerard Bellamy may be quite a bit wealthier than I first imagined. Rich enough maybe to fly with an entourage. Whoa.
He is sitting at the bar, perched on one of the high backed stools, and she takes him in – all cool, detached and eligible. He smiles as soon as he sees her, whew, so far so good. The table in the corner affords a view of the waves crashing against Seal Rock – the restaurant has thoughtfully provided spotlights on the brutal rocks for their evening diners. She slips the cloak off her shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair, and everything, everything is perfect. By the time dessert rolls around – literally, it rolls around, they bring a cart piled high with delectables – Beulah declares this is the best night of her life. Gerard complains mildly that there were no Grgich’s on the menu and smiles, the candlelight just catching the sharp white edges of his cutting teeth.
“So, the driver called you Monsieur Bellamy – that does not sound French.”
“Oh, but it is most French – belle amie, it means “beautiful friend”.”
“It suits you, Gerard.”
After dinner, they walk down the stairs to the overlook hand in hand, and in the soft light of Ocean Beach, he smiles again. Only this time, the sharp canines are much longer than before.
“You remind me so much of my own dear Belle Amie. She has been gone for many years now, and I had despaired of ever finding her like again.”
“How many years, Gerard?”
“You would not believe me if I told you.”
“I think I would, Gerard. And I believe you are hungry right now, even though you hardly touched your food. You are hungry for, if I’m not completely off base here – maybe – some fresh blood?”
“Ah, Beulah, you are too enamored of zose fantasy games you design. And if I was a vampire, why would you agree to be bitten?”
“You must believe me Gerard, I want this. I want to be young forever, to never again experience the pain of radiation. I know I should hesitate. Sunlight would be deadly and I would miss it. But for me, because of the chemo treatment, I can never expose my skin to sunlight again. So, in a way, it is deadly now. Let me explain - you will see a long deep scar behind my ear where the cancer tumor was excised. It could come back, they tell me. My brother, my mother, the father I never knew, all dead. There would be so many more deaths to come, I know that, and I know that for those with extended lifespans, it never ends. But I have no one to nurture, no one to miss.”
“That is a most unusual request. I can see that you have given the idea much thought, ma petite, but I must give your request a respectable amount of thought, too. What a tragic story, and it spilled out of you so quickly, yes, I must think on this. I am here, in San Francisco, for perhaps another month. Zen I must return to Paree. Shall I call upon you next week?”
Beulah continues, “As soon as I start to bemoan missing a sunrise, or seeing the shadows cast by the trees in Muir Woods, I can put on my Oculus Rift goggles, and look at it in high-definition three-dimensional splendor. Have you watched a movie in 3D? We could start an online group for others of our kind – I already thought of a name - we will be the Extended Lifespan Terrestrials, or ELTs. Not exactly the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks either. Kind of like the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence face off against the Sisters of Mercy. I believe that our life eternal will be elegant and grand. I know you need me – there are too many ways this century’s technology baffles you. So bite me, I want this.”
Written in 2015 Copyright © Catherine G. Tripp
