Quicksilver

I walked home for shower, and cat, and salad, and a puff of hashish; for some mindless opera on PBS; and to bed, with Figgy cat-snoring by my side. Do I feed him too much? Can I get Nate here too? Will masturbation help me sleep? A radio guru says, "I have no answers to questions of this nature". That is useless wisdom. Good night.

===== Saturday, week 1 =====

A sudden fog bank moving over the Bay made this a bad weekend for outdoor activities. What to do, what to do? Slipping into Schubert's Bakery to stuff myself with decadent pastries and superb coffee did not seem prudent. Neither did watching waves and sucking-up cocktails at Cliff House. Museums and galleries would overflow with tourists, so no-go. I would not need to drive out to Stonestown to shop until next week.

I wondered if Nate did his busking thing in the fog. I could park for free at the end of Columbus Avenue near the Cannery shopping complex, the converted Del Monte fruit-packing plant between red-brick Ghirardelli Square and salty Fisherman's Wharf. He would more likely sing for passersby here in the tourist zone than around a cable-car turntable in this weather.

I wore low boots, thick jeans, a warm shirt, and a wool jacket when I drove to the waterfront.

I did not need to look far. A covered stage area adorns the Cannery's central courtyard. Nate stood there, stuffed into jeans and a tight denim jacket, his not-too-long dark hair fringing from a black beret, his thick glasses not fogged over. He held an odd guitar, a twelve-string with a wood body and a big shiny steel resonator. I think it is called a Dobro.

He was not singing now, only fingerpicking, and he was fairly loud. I saw light flash from metal picks at his fingertips. I recognized some bossa nova, the 'Samba de Orfeo' and then 'Manha de Carnival', both from the film 'Black Orpheus'. He was GOOD! He played and sang 'Girl From Ipanema' and he was GREAT! He saw me, waved, and spun lightly into 'Desafinado', alternating verses in English and Portuguese, playing lead, rhythm, and bass patterns together. He was almost a one man band.

A few folks huddled on the covered stage near him. People in sheltered niches and passages around the courtyard clapped. Some walked close to drop donations in his guitar case, its top open, poised on a small folding stool in front of him.

Nate slung the guitar around his back, waved at me again, and called, "Come on up here, Lydia; A plastic chair awaits you." I climbed steps to the stage and he hugged me. He HUGGED me! He moved a rain poncho from the wobbly chair's seat to its back and took my hands.

"Have a ringside seat, m'lady. This next set is for YOU."

Doubled notes of a famous Bach cello gavotte echoed moodily off the tall courtyard's brick walls, the sounds seasoned with light splashes from the nearby fountain. Magical!

He fingered a fast, complex pattern that sounded like Mozart until he sang an almost impossible babble of forced rhymes. He grinned and admitted, "That one is all my fault, folks. Don't expect it on any 'Greatest Hits' album."

Next came a wild mix of classic and modern tunes, spiced with parody verses drawing laughs and groans. The audience rid themselves of more loose change. Damn, he was funny!

He slipped a short length of copper pipe on his left pinky and, using it as a slide, played something that sounded Hawai'ian, slow and sadly sweet. More applause as he unstrapped the guitar.

"Break time, folks. Yonder water closet doth beckon me and I dare not resist. I'll be back in fifteen or so. Don't spend too much money while I'm absent. If you run out of cash, toss me jewels. Bearer bonds will work, too."

He moved larger bills from the guitar case to his jeans' front pocket. Joints went into a shirt pocket. He closed the guitar in the case and left it by the stool. His hand brushed my shoulder. His eyes pierced mine.

"Can I bribe you with a hot coffee and a fresh cookie to stay and guard this for a few minutes?" He did not need to plead.

I am simple. "Black, please. And peanut butter with white chocolate chips. I'll pay penance for that at the gym but I think you're worth it."

My hands covered his. "You sound wonderful! Thanks for telling me you played, and where. You'll have to give me the back story."

"Thanks for searching and finding me. I'll be right back."

=====

Seven minutes; I counted. Two big cookies and two tall cardboard coffee cups; I witnessed. He sat beside me on that little stool. It looked less precarious than my wobbly plastic chair.

"What did you get? It looks like mine, sort of."

"It is like yours, sort of, but with chunky Macadamias added. Almost the nectar of heaven. What's your penance? Don't tell me you're Catholic or I can't sing 'Vatican Rag' for you. Wait, it's not a Catholic gym, right? Watch out then."

"Penance will be three Hail Atlases and a half hour on the treadmill while you don't watch. And my family is Methodist but it didn't rub off. So I won't bother any gods if they won't bother me. I think that's only fair."

"My family is Quaker but I didn't catch that, either. I'd go with Ted Sturgeon's creed — 'In the winter I'm a Buddhist; in the summer I'm a nudist' — but I haven't had any summers off. Maybe when I'm old and unemployable, hey?"

I tried, and failed, to NOT visualize him nude. Slow down, girl!

I offered him a bite of my cookie and took a bite of his. His was better. How much more treadmill time would Macadamia chunks demand? Dare I ask Julia?

Our cookies consumed, he strapped the guitar back on. I touched his elbow, then moved the chair to watch him better. He played and sang a mix of blues, jazz, rock, folk, classical, and good-timey pieces. I was REALLY impressed. He should be a star!

The audience thinned by early afternoon. "The after-lunch mob has gone and fog is getting thicker and colder," he said. "Might as well quit for the day. May I treat you to a late lunch, paid for from my fabulous earnings? I did pretty well."

He pocketed the rest of the donations, cased the guitar, folded the stool, grabbed his rain poncho, and gestured at the glassed-in elevator.

"The eatery upstairs has decent soups, salads, sandwiches, and pastries at reasonable prices. Sin or starve, m'lady. This isn't a mega-calorie day for me so I won't pig out."

I looked around. "Do you have a bike here?"

He shook his head NO. "Bad day for pedaling my butt across town. I took the bus. Did you?"

"I got free parking for my Beetle just a long block from here."

"Oh, you're motorized and fancy-free? My offer of lunch is still open, if you can stand the company." His smile twisted.

"Step forward from the guitar and stool," I ordered. He obeyed.

"Hug me," I said. He did. "Don't stop," I said. He complied.

I pushed him back, just enough. "Offer accepted," I said. "Now pick up your stuff and lead on." He did.

I love being obeyed. I! Am! Goddess! On my better days, anyway. Like today, so far.

=====

We found an empty table and dumped his gear and our outerwear. He pulled out a chair to seat me. Such a gentleman! A saucy almost-blonde waitress took our orders. We shared bites of my chicken salad sandwich and his seafood chowder in a bread bowl.

Sharing food. Couples share food. Are we going that way? We drank our own mugs of tangy Anchor Steam Beer. Okay, we are not yet spit-swapping intimate. But when?

Could a silly old broad like me really attract a smart young stud like him? He did not seem repelled. So far, so good. How far away were his "somewhat intimate friends"? Should I worry? Hey, we were still only work and lunch acquaintances. Chill out, girl! Well, today's hugs were nice. I can hope. And dream.

"What are you doing the rest of the day?" I asked nervously. "A scenic drive or hike doesn't appeal, and I can't think of indoor attractions. You have anywhere you want or need to go?"

"Not-so-thrilling Saturday evenings usually await me. Hit a laundromat that's empty now because most people are busy elsewhere. Go home to enjoy a cheap, quiet dinner because only landlady Suzie isn't out partying. Puff a mystery joint someone left in my guitar case. Try to write songs that don't suck too much. Maybe change the guitar strings; that can fill an hour or so. You see how rich my life is. Yeah, it's fairly safe." He did not smile.

"But sometimes, something pops up. I should call home, see if I have any messages." He looked nervous.

I reached across the table and took his hands. "I'd normally be at the gym because, same as you, almost everyone else I know is out partying and clubbing, and I'm too old for that. Can your laundry wait till tomorrow? Let's go somewhere, do something." I tried not to sound desperate.

"I don't really enjoy sitting to passively view shows," he said, "so theatres aren't really my thing. Concerts can work; good music gets me high. I can infest museums and galleries but they'll be packed now. This fog will hide the scenery unless you drive inland and it's too late to go to Lake Tahoe. I can skip any skating rinks; I don't need the exercise. I am otherwise totally open to your suggestions."

Did he just suggest staying at Tahoe? Like, overnighting?

I felt daring. "My local gym has a small, heated indoor pool. We can float in warm water and share our histories and other jokes. If you could stand to see me in a swimsuit." I felt nervous.

He smiled and squeezed my hands. "I was on my high school swim team but I haven't been competitive since then. Floating in warm water sounds fine to me. And I can probably tolerate your appearance." He smiled innocently. "Can you drive by my place so I can drop my stuff and grab my trunks?"

I squeezed back. "No problem. My place is close to the gym but I leave my suit in my locker there. Shall we?"

We reluctantly released our hands. He stood, came around the table to me, and pulled my chair back. I hugged him again, not too long, not too hard.

"Hiya, Mr Messenger," I said.

"Hiya, Miz Gatekeeper," he said.

We unclenched and coated-up for outside. Nate took his guitar case but I insisted on carrying the stool as well as my purse. I led him on the short walk to my Beetle.

=====

He told me his Noe Valley address. I parked in front of a colorful Victorian whose mandatory bay windows held planter boxes at their sills. We fetched his gear and climbed a few steps to a covered porch with three doors. He unlocked the middle door.

Inside, I followed him — nice butt! — up a flight of stairs to the tidy second-floor flat. Very clean inside. Framed prints of Russian scenes dotted the walls. Sandalwood incense stained the air, not too heavily.

A round face followed by a round body draped in a richly embroidered robe poked from a door. I guessed her at about my age and three times my body mass.

"Back already, Nate? Too cold then, I guess. Who's this?"

"Suzie, meet Lydia Barnes, a lady I know from my work. Lydia, meet my landlady Suzie Smirnoff, who hand-grinds only the best exotic coffee beans. Any messages for me?"

Suzie shook her head NO. "But you may get a call later. Check back in a couple hours."

"We'll be gone in a minute, then," Nate said. "See you later this evening."

Unless he gets lucky, I thought. Then I will get lucky, too.

I left my shoes inside Nate's door at the end of the hall. His big-enough room held a raised queen bed on a maple frame; a mirror-topped cabinet with clothes drawers; wide shelving holding books, sheet music, boxed games, records, a little turntable, and electronic thingies; a high-backed oak chair at a scarred secretaire desk; and tall bay windows overlooking the tree-lined street.

Little speakers hung below the window ledges. MC Escher posters of playfully insane geometries hung on the walls. A red touring bike, its handlebars turned to make room, hung from a hook on the tall closet door. Everything was neat and clean.

"You build electronic gear here?" I asked. "Where do you hide the components?"

"In crates under the bed. I like to keep that out of the way. And in case you're wondering, the furniture is Suzie's but everything else is mine. Just about one pickup truck load if I move."

I wondered, does he move a lot? Was he hinting at anything? Am I reading too much into this?

"Growing anything out there?" I waved at the windows and their outside garden boxes.

"Pungent herbs, cherry tomatoes, and little chili peppers. Just what I need for intense salsa."

He peered in a drawer. "Hmmm," he hummed. He moved to the closet and dug through a cotton laundry bag hanging inside. "Hmmm," he murmured again. He looked at me.

"Sorry, I haven't washed my baggy trunks since I body-surfed off Ocean Beach last Sunday. Remember that warm day? They're pretty salty. So I'll have to fall back on my old competition Speedos. Hope I won't be too obscene."

He held up red shorts from a drawer. They looked small.

"Those won't be too tight on you, will they?" I wondered how much anatomy they would reveal. Enough, I hoped.

"I just don't want to embarrass you. Or me." He half smiled. I might have blushed a little.

"I've seen people before. Should I wear the one-piece I keep at the gym, or stop at home for a bikini? I guess we won't be able to hide any gross deformities."

His eyes moved slowly up and down me. I blushed again. He smiled. I quivered.

"Go with the bikini. Our navels will be exposed. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

He tried to keep a straight face and nearly succeeded.

"And should I bring footwear? Do we walk to the pool barefoot? I have Tijuana's finest Goodyear-soled huarache sandals with the sand washed off," he offered.

"Yes, bring those, and your sexy little shorts, but that's all. Romero and Julia supply towels."

"What, am I just a sex object?" he teased.

I blushed once more but I pushed my back straight and my boobs forward.

"You have a problem with that?"

"The day is young and we've had two lunch dates already. I am putty in your hands."

We shall see about that, I thought.

=====

We piled back into my Beetle and I drove to my place at the edge of the Western Addition and Inner Richmond districts, only a long block from Geary Street, the gym, lots of easy shopping, and the bus stop.

My home is the opposite of 'fancy'. I live in a ground-level apartment behind the building owners Beryl and Terry's garage and below the first floor flat. I am half-buried; the living room window opens to the level of the back yard, which is Figgy's only outdoor space. He is too smart a cat to venture further into the hazardous world.

A sheltered walkway stretches alongside the house from the front gate to the back yard; my entry door lies halfway down its length. A long, dark hallway debouches into my modest quarters.

I sleep in one good-sized bedroom and the other is my studio. The bathroom sports a shower but no tub, and also a dwarf-sized over-under washer-dryer, cozier than a laundromat. A tolerable dining space opens beside the adequate kitchen. The living room offers a soft sofa and easy chair, bright TV, decent stereo, and my classy little library of books and records.

Nate followed me to the living room. I had not decorated the long, dark entryway. He did not stumble.

"Take a seat on the sofa while I find my swimsuit," I told him. "Don't mind Figgy, that's Señor Figueroa to those recently introduced. Don't worry if he doesn't appear. He can be shy, I mean prudent, around other people. I'll be right out."

I delved through clothes drawers for my most modest two-piece suit. Wait, that one is for grandmas! I am slinky. I can wear a slinky bikini!

I came to the living room and saw Figgy sniffing at Nate's knees. Nate reached down and scratched between his ears. Figgy turned his head. Nate scratched under his chin. I could hear Figgy purr from ten feet away. Figgy jumped in Nate's lap and went belly-up in submission. Nate scratched his belly. Figgy purred louder.

Figgy approves a newcomer? Inconceivable!

"I think your cat likes me," Nate said, and continued belly-rubbing.

"You have just won the Señor Figueroa seal of approval," I marveled. "That means you're okay. But let's go now. He'll be here when we get back. Don't mind all the hair he sheds."

Nate carefully deposited Figgy beside him, stood, and brushed off a small coating of long, black hairs. "Doesn't seem very shy to me." Figgy stood and meowed softly. Nate reached down and rubbed Figgy's head. More purring, louder. I smiled.

"He's never been like that with anyone new. Anyone! Okay, follow me."

Nate might have watched my butt on the way out to the sidewalk. I might have wiggled a little.

=====

Julia welcomed us into her gym. "Back again so soon, Lydia? And who is this big fella here? It looks like his first time so today is on the house."

"Nate, meet Julia." They shook hands. "No workouts today; neither of us need that. But some time in the pool would be nice. Anyone else here?"

"Leila and Mitzi are still splashing around in there. Nate, you'll need a locker key. Here." She pulled one, dangling from a large safety pin, from the hookboard behind her front counter. "Pin it to your suit and have a nice swim." She eyed him.

We headed into the men's and women's locker rooms. I examined myself in the mirror after donning the fairly skimpy bits of cloth. Yes, I looked good, and not just good for an old broad!

Nate looked even better in his tight Speedos. I could have determined his religion. Julia saw him walk toward the pool. She whistled. I grinned. Nate looked modest.

Leila and Mitzi were breast-stroking slow laps together. They looked up, saw Nate, and both whistled. Nate grinned. My smile was a bit strained.

I paddled to the center of the hot pool and watched steaming plumes condense against the cold translucent glass enclosure. Nate quickly swam a few fast laps around the pool, splashing Leila and Mitzi, and then drifted to float on his back near me. I heard him breathe next to my ear.

"Better than the beach?" I asked playfully.

"Warmer than beaches this far north. And better company than most."

We could not merely float passively. Neither of us carried enough body fat for buoyancy. We both had to wiggle our feet and hands to ease around the surface. Not watching where we were going, we repeatedly bumped into each other, and into Leila and Mitzi, and laughed.

"This is great," Nate said. We had climbed mostly out of the water. We sat side by side at the pool's edge, our legs lazily kicking, our feet sometimes brushing. "I love having the warmth soak into me and ease my muscles. Biking is hard work."

Black-haired Leila climbed out and sat on Nate's other side. "You work on a bike?" she asked. "You race, like Tour de France stuff or something?"

"Pedal my ass all over town, I do," Nate teased. "Pumping a courier bike over the hills. I'm paid a little to stay in shape."

Dirty-blonde Mitzi climbed out and sat beside Leila. "And a nice shape it is! I guess that beats paying gym fees."

"Don't let Julia or Romero hear you say that," Leila said, wearing a fake frown.

We four barely-clad adults displayed taut bodies. We splashed feet and legs in the warm water. We all examined each other with mixtures of interest and fear; I did, at least.

They're in no better shape than me, I thought, and no prettier. Their navels were no cuter. No real competition, I hoped, even if their bikinis were smaller than mine. Was I really competing for Nate?

Nate stretched his arms overhead, flexing his manly musculature, twisting his torso. I thought I heard tendons stretch and pop. We females cast lustful eyes on him. He grinned and boldly eyed our boobs and flesh. He licked his lips. We laughed, me a little subdued.