Foucault Hill

FOUCAULT HILL
Richard Mark Glover
Issue No. 3 – March 2014

freighter

The beep baa bops and I like “Yeah,” and Sonny Wax say, “Do you know I’m Jewish?”

I say “Fuck – what it matter? You want some raw dog?”

There’s silence then Sonny says, “Yes.”

I meet Sonny at the Flipjack. Connie the bitch, flipping. She starts to sing and it’s like, “I’m not waiting for you bitch, I’m getting on with Sonny Wax.”

We order a Martini. Everybody here is quilt bag but I’m not into it, in fact I really haven’t faced the whole total fucking organic goddam truth, I mean, father don’t know. Or I don’t think he know. Or maybe I don’t know him. He raised me: “Peter, it’s four – homework.”

One day I burned the book of French existentialists. “Peter, why?” he asked when he saw the blackened remnants lying on the patio bricks. Uh, like dyslexia and reading don’t mix? He never got that.

“I can’t read, father.” I clear my throat. “Being aware of one’s life, one’s revolt, one’s freedom, and to the maximum, is living and to the maximum,” I said. “Sartre.”

“Camus,” he corrected and walked away.

Now I tell Sonny he’s got five minutes to finish and take me to bed.

He’s wearing a kasha. What up with that?

A white Daimler cabriolet drives by. It’s Morgan of course, his scarf is flying, white hat, red sash, and the blackest skin you ever seen. He’s like anti-poverty, or dark matter or fuck I don’t know.

I sell blunt, hustle, do tours at the wharf; cruise near the telescopes hawking Alcatraz, extended stays, and BJs. I’m an inventor too. Patenting the Poly Hole – for Mollies that got too much. They adjust the holes like match crevices, then rotate.

“Goddamn you are stupid you know that?” I tell Sonny Wax. “I’m outta here, bitch.”

Sonny just looks at me and Connie, she’s like “Here he go, look at that man, is that a man, squeeze that onion for me,” she says from behind the counter.

I’m a hot head and the lightest black man you’ll ever see. Most of the time I pass. My sperm won the 10 inch dash up the vaginal canal. Ever seen a champion black swimmer? No. Outswam the ghetto. Raised in a Victorian by a white man. Joelson Scarpatti.

I catch the 44 and head to Lulu’s. Sylvester’s on the cell and we line up some shit then I call Stevie for raw dog at Sofi’s. A jet rumbles in the clouds. My boner’s thrusting.

Last month a man got murdered right in front of me. On the 67. Shot dead with a pistol. Instant, I mean that nigga didn’t suffer.

I don’t suffer no more myself. I am that I am that I am, I keep telling myself, like Popeye. It’s a philosophy, father would agree. Listen I’m going to tell you something. I hold the franchise. Spinning with no stop, flowing. Like everything down for me. Finally fucking finally. I haven’t had a setback in months.

I run into Boney M at the stop. He tells me about some eggrolls who got some shit on a sailboat at Horseshoe Bay. I postpone my plans and catch the ferry to Sausalito. I’m walking up the tunnel and then into the marina. Sure enough there’s the blue hulled boat and a slanty with a black eye patch comes out to meet me.

“Ran this shit from Thailand?”

“Yes, just want expenses.”

“How much is that?”

“Two thousand a kilo.”

“You gotta be joking? It’s 800 for Mexican, Humboldt’s 18.”

“But this Thai stick, very special.”

I look at one-eye then look up at the Golden Gate. Cars clatter over loose plate. A breeze blows in from the Pacific. It’s like I’m living this enchanted life.

“Two thousand but you got to deliver.”

“You crazy?”

“No, I’m happy. You go anal?”

His good eye blinks.

“No.”

“Well if you want your money, deliver to this address. I hand him the address written on a piece of paper. Take a cab.”

“Cab with ten kilo?”

“Suitcase,” I say. “Wrap the shit in a towel soaked in coke-cola. Look, Tuesday afternoon– dig?”

I’m up on 101, walking the Golden Gate back to the city. Twenty G by Tuesday afternoon, I can do it. I loosen my scarf and take it all in, smelling the fog and listening to the click-clack of the loose plate.

I catch the 67 and get out at the Ferry Building. Sofi calls. Lulu’s in the tank, again. I feel it between my legs. My mind flashes through the Book of Cock. What about the myth of the Haight: Foucault of Buena Vista Park? Here he knows the territory, makes it special, if you can find him.

Morgan had him. Say he’s the best, Sonny Wax agreed. Sonny know. Got a PhD. Dr Sonny some call’em. Psychiatrist. Told me once I had to “reconcile” the fact that father was not my biological.

“Things could happen,” he said. “Bizarre things – this from the lips of a Jewish queen.” “Scream” I said and he said “Howl. Very good Peter –Allen Ginsberg.”

I saw pop at the park once. He looked surprised, waved, “Peter, dinner at seven.” There was grass in his hair.

I walk up Foucault Hill and feel the energy. It’s coming from the fog, low and easy to catch. When I get to the bench this Filipino queer shows up and I’m like trying to shoe him off. “Get the fuck away. I set on who I want.”


Richard Mark GloverRichard Mark Glover has published short stories with Oyster Boy Review, Oracle, Weird Year, Sinister Tales, and Canary. He won the 2004 Eugene Walters Short Story Award for “Chef Menteur”. His journalism has appeared in the San Antonio Express News, West Hawaii Today, Ke Ola and the Big Bend Sentinel, where he won the 2010 Texas Press Association Best Feature Award, medium size weekly for “Just Another Night in Marfa.”





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