Citizen

Untitled Part 3

Chapter 3

Gurgling in his stomach compelled Guy to rise, still in black and blue pajamas, and head for the galley kitchen. A few feet from the kitchen was the entrance to 5A August Alley. A staircase inside his apartment led to the rest of the apartment, which was above the Green Street garage door. On top of his unit were two more full-size units with their front doors also on Green Street. When he submitted his rental application, Guy thought that whoever built the post-1906 residence must have found it necessary to shimmy the entrance to 5A around the corner on the alley, instead of fitting it next to the other front doors on Green.

Guy liked the Russian Hill location and unusual apartment configuration. However, he began thinking of late that the unusual placement of his front door on August Alley must have been the work of a neophyte who had suffered a kick back during construction and had been left mentally mutilated but still a fit citizen.

Guy looked at himself in the reflection of the microwave and slid his right index finger down a long, slender nose and then along his square-cut jaw, all the time thinking about the black, all-terrain R750 FS electric fat-bike tightly garaged in front of the F-150.

Maybe a quick ride today through the Presidio or Marin.

It was 3:15 PM when he touched the YouTube phone app and danced around the kitchen to the thumping beat of Cascada's "Every Time We Touch," all the time thinking about David.

Guy turned inward. He remembered telling the African American Macy's sales clerk about wanting a manservant, the kind of guy who would shampoo, shave, and dress him every day, like the well-dressed, artfully hatted actors from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

David would take care of me like that.

The thin blue line flag hanging over the barred kitchen window gave Guy privacy, and it was a whole lot better than the lime-green mini blinds the last tenant had installed.

It's dimming outside—I'd better take a ride soon.

Neatly piled on the table was the day's mail. Before opening any of it, he tapped the app and sang along with Post Malone's "Circles" and, when it came to the lyrics, "doomed from the get-go," he thought about David.

David was an Industrial Design student at the Academy of Art and had created a prototype of a new running shoe for the Air Force. If the design were accepted, manufacturers could place bids, and, upon acceptance of the top bid, the shoe would be added to the physical training uniform. Because Guy was on leave, visiting his parents in San Francisco, his superiors asked him to try out the shoes. David handed them over, and, after Guy had run 10 miles, he calmly gave his approval for fitness and suitability.

He looked at the envelope on top of the mail pile. The return address was David's mother. He smelled it.

Lavender.

He dropped it and fell into a chair. The letter did not state David's cause of death.

The darkening San Francisco sky filled the room. He couldn't stand it any longer and headed upstairs and plummeted head-first into the white pillows on his bed. Murderous energy had to be released, but there was nothing to be achieved by unloading on anyone, not even David's mother for her omission, purposeful or otherwise, and he wept.

He heard a siren. He smelled gunpowder. There was no other reason to rise but for the sound of alarm. He threw the David letter into the under-counter garbage basket and managed to open the next one, its return address being the San Francisco Police Commission, Office of Citizen Complaints.

Dempsey and Lew had already commented on it, but Guy decided to read it anyway. By now, darkness had settled on the city. The letter summoned him to a February 4 appearance. He turned out all the lights and flopped on the minky, ivory-brown pony couch, a cozy spot if someone else's arm were wrapped around his shoulders.