My Only Friend La Croix - Chapter 3

I moved from Phoenix to San Francisco in the fall, just after the delayed summer that the people of the Bay claim hits the city in September and October. Jacob and I loaded up the U-Haul with the remainder of my possessions— most of the work had been done the night before and it had been a group effort. We made good time getting out of Phoenix, starting our fourteen hour drive across state lines on a good note.

We stopped for lunch at In-n-Out somewhere near Santa Clarita, parking the long truck in an adjacent hotel lot spanning a few parking spaces. We passed through Fresno quickly, reeling from the cow odor of middle California. Eventually we made it to Casa Sanchez in the late evening; the sun was setting as Todd let us in the gate off Dorland, the narrow one-way street between 17th and 18th. The truck took some maneuvering to fit into the seven-space parking lot. Jacob and I unloaded all of my furniture up the zig-zag flight of stairs to the second floor of Casa Sanchez, plodding up the not-quite-Saltillo tile amongst the huge monstera and elephant ear and banana plant leaves, dimly lit as the late evening dragged on. We carried up my blue couch that I’ve had since freshman year and futon which we then slapped down haphazardly in the middle of the living room in anticipation of a deep rest after a hard day’s work.

We needed to eat. It was past 10 PM and nothing nearby was open for dinner except for Big Lantern. Our hand was forced, so Jacob and I took off into the night toward 16^th. We walked by the white cathedral and noted how dead it all felt—but perhaps we were simply too exhausted to notice much. The well-lit restaurant reminded me of some of the places I’d eaten back in Phoenix: a small fountain with koi in the front and large Chinese brushwork paintings on the walls. We collected our order of Mapo Tofu and fried rice just near 11 PM and went back to eat in my apartment, sitting on the couch and floor among my scattered belongings. Neither of us said much. We promptly passed out, eyelids sparring with the dim glow of a streetlight out on Sanchez.

I had seen the apartment for the first time during a week in September. I went out to San Francisco to work for a week and find an apartment close to the office. The guys at the office and I worked hard during the afternoon, but I took off early every day to tour a place. I stayed at the Hotel Kabuki with its soft sheets and enticing fragranced soap and lotion and relaxed attendants and swanky bar with a view of the Japanese Maples and I recognized the class of the place as generally above my station; most places I went in San Francisco had a carefully curated charm, a respite from the opposite side of the coin one finds out on the street. I didn’t have time to think about the implications—only time to be impressed.

Between work and staying at Hotel Kabuki, I checked out multiple apartments. On Saturday I found a place in an old white building with a wrought iron fence and tiles above the entryway which spelled out Casa Sanchez. I did a lap around the building then went to Le Marais down in the little valley on 18^th Street. The French bakery was mostly empty except for a woman on her laptop seated at the table nearest the display case and a single man in front of me in line. He looked to be about fifty, and he had a leather vest which said “BOOZEFIGHTERS, EST. 1946” and a motorcycle helmet. He was already about on his way out with his pastries. I thought about how Boozefighters was fifty years old by the time that I was born, then I thought about how even the rough and tough need dainty sweet pastries.

I ordered an americano and an almond croissant like was apt to do in Spain and I sat and wrote for about thirty minutes before the property manager gave me a call that he was ready to show me the apartment.

He introduced himself as Todd as I met him by the Casa Sanchez gate. Todd was a stout man with stiff grey beard of medium length, jutting straight down to the earth. He showed me around the labyrinthian complex, ascending a half-flight of stairs to the second level. I was somehow already turned around. There were giant plants spewing out from the white trim around each room on the first level and a small fountain was trickling slowly in the open courtyard, washed out from the bright mid-afternoon sky. Todd let me in the apartment, which was long and narrow, but it had ample light and I liked the view of the hillside. I checked out all of the fixtures. Good enough, I had thought to myself.

I thanked Todd and went for a lap around the neighborhood again. There were yogis stretching and dogs frolicking in the open flat side of the nearby park. The metro line cut straight through the steep dug-out section adjacent to Church Street. That morning it was bright and radiant and the whole city felt warm. I felt imbued by the Saturday morning glow and the city had captured me.

Here I was, now with all of my belongings and commitment to this new place. Jacob and I rose near nine, grumbling for coffee. We were confused within the apartment complex because it was elevated a half-story on 17^th Street compared to on 18^th Street, so when Jacob and I left out of the main gate, we went for a lap around the neighborhood to get our bearings.

The sky in San Francisco takes on a peculiar gray character which makes everything else in the city pop; all of the lush greens and weird plants that stem from every corner of concrete appear all the more vibrant in contrast; nothing is washed out, no harsh light dares to dampen their beauty. The diffused light made by the clouds and the fog are what allow us to see everything for what it is.

The morning started out drab, but the weather turned and it proved to be a beautiful day. Jacob and I found a place on the corner called Spro. We had a quick cup then decided to spend the day at the park. We brought the lawn game called Kubb that we had been gifted back in Phoenix. In the grass of Dolores Park, we set up a small rectangle and placed the Kubb skulls in two lines. We stood across from each other, throwing femurs at the skulls, basking in the sun. Back and forth, back and forth: forever Kubb.

Jacob was set to fly out in the early evening. We went for a place called Woodhouse Fish which sat right on a sharp corner on Market—the building had a seat in the acute angle, maximizing the little space that the city could afford it. Jacob and I had fish and chips for the low cost of $28 per plate.

“Well, I hope that you get settled in quickly,” Jacob said.

“Yeah, I’m excited to get the place together. I’m pretty happy with the spot so far,” I told him.

We said our goodbyes as I left him at the BART station. It was comforting to have a friend see me off into this new and unfamiliar place, ushering me into his native state while he flew back to mine. We had in common, however, that neither of us knew what life might be like in San Francisco.

I heard the rain when I woke up. I rolled on my tatami and looked at the painting I had placed above my closet. The ritual helped me to feel continuity with my art—I could go to sleep dreaming of painting and the first thing I saw was the result of my labor. The red and tan painting above my closet was reminiscent of rolling sand dunes. In Phoenix I had once become so lost in this painting, unable to escape from visions that I was being crushed and rolled into these Bright Red and Naples Yellow sand dunes, grains constricting and dilating like the lens of a camera around my body. I had no longer trusted time to move forward as I was within this pinhole, this washing machine of color—though eventually, time made itself apparent, as it often does.

On my bed, I imagined myself back in the desert then focused my thoughts on the rain, knowing that I would be wet by the time that I got to work.

I sprang out of bed and stripped down, took a shower, then brushed my teeth. I opened my wardrobe and put on a pair of black underwear and jeans, then snagged a black shirt off a hanger in my closet and put on a brown corduroy over it and layered on my rain jacket. I grabbed my backpack and took my bike down from the hooks in the ceiling and coasted it over to the front door.

The mist was falling steadily through the open courtyard in Casa Sanchez. The leaves of the two-story banana plant strained under the new weight of water, but it was chained daintily to the wall, so it stood no chance of accomplishing its desire to fall straight through my bedroom and crush me in my sleep. Surely, it would not crush me in my sleep. I lifted my bike down the damp stairway and rolled it through the southern gate. The latch to the gate was within a metal cylinder, protruding inward to the complex, which was surrounded by a layer of decorative siding to prevent external from fitting through the bars. The latch reminded me of the pain-box that the Paul Atriedes from Dune has to endure so that he might prove his humanity. Was I proving anything by leaving Casa Sanchez today? I felt that I was entering a world filled with oppressive rain, cold rain, biking to and from my sanctuary. Perhaps I had to prove something every day, using the locomotion of my legs throughout the downpour, biking up the hills with a face full of mist.

I made the detour on my way north to Spro to see if I could wait out the rain. The corner café on 17^th and Church was quickly becoming my third space. I locked up my bike and approached the threshold, peeking in the windows to see who was at the bar. The rain wet my hands as I fiddled with my u-lock, now rusty to the point where I had to finagle the key thoroughly until it finally gave. The dawn had not brought enough light to the city on this January morning, so the cool glow on the white-floored and white-walled interior of the building was inviting in the drab winter.

Lynn was standing at the bar chatting with Sarah. She wore a black sports coat over a white sweater and gold hoop earrings. She turned from her conversation to address me.

“Hi, Kevin!” she said.

“Hey, Lynn,” I said.

“You’re here pretty early,” she commented, although she did not look sleepy herself.

“I guess so. I need to have my first coffee before I get my second coffee at work, you know?” I said.

Lynn laughed. “I get what you mean,” she said. “What are you having?”

“I’ll just do an americano for now, thanks. How are you?”

“I’m good. I just started teaching again so that has been taking up a lot of my time. I’m working with this girl who is so precious, she’s really good and her parents are really funny. I go over there and work with her a few times a week,” said Lynn.

“That’s awesome, glad to hear it.” I gave her a smile, then pulled out my notebook and pen from my damp backpack.

“I really like your handwriting,” Lynn told me.

“Oh, thank you—I guess I practice a lot,” I said.

“What are you writing?” she asked.

“Oh, just some things here and there. Nothing too particular. It’s mostly journaling but a lot of random observations on the city and life, I guess,” I said. I looked at her and she was looking at my notes. “I sometimes will try to write down everything that happened to me the day before with as much detail as possible. It’s just an exercise—I think it has to be good for your brain. Sometimes I’ll riff on something in particular and add how it makes me feel. Lots of times I’ll write out my ambitions or projects I’m working on,” I told her.

“Interesting,” she said. I hoped that she was interested.

“Well, here’s that americano,” she said, passing my coffee over the red espresso machine.

“Thanks,” I said.

I looked down at my notebook. Much of my writing went nowhere—it was a smattering of to-do lists or poetry. I had developed the habit of poetry in Spain. Most of my recent writing, however, was about my recent take on the cold, and the rain, and the culture of San Francisco. I did not feel at place. The delicate mix of my poetry habit and my culture shock manifested into a new form of writing. I pulled out my pen.

LaCroix glares at me from his perch in the corner. It’s not like his silvery skin stands out or anything, he thinks, surely. There’s no way he doesn’t know. My Only Friend La Croix is aware of it all! Yes! Surely, My Only Friend La Croix is privy to all knowledge, especially those thoughts which make circles in my head.

I lost my train of thought as I finished my coffee. I checked my phone for the time and saw that it was approaching 8.

I rode my bike up Church and took the right on Market and legged it up the hill on my single-speed. I cruised down Market until the freeway exit on Octavia, knowing that I needed to gain enough momentum to hit the second hill hard otherwise I would have to stand up on my pedals to make it over. My legs were getting stronger by the day and I went from huffing and puffing to taking the hill casually. I cruised by Patricia’s Green and swung up Octavia to the right on Grove.

The old office sat on the corner in what used to be the old Coffee Meets Bagel office. This affluent space in Hayes Valley was bordered by wine bars and French restaurants and there was a mix of people dressed in fancy clothes and the less fortunate homeless out on the street from nine to nine. Somehow the location felt more isolating to me than if it had been in the Mission, or really anywhere where one could get a reasonably-priced bite to eat. The closest gym was the outdoor fitness lot near Patricia’s Green where personal trainers would float around the sparse weights section and pose for interlocutors in their leggings or tight hoodies, flexing to show their beautiful bodies for those who walked their Goldendoodles or other passers-by getting an $8 latte from the Ritual café served out of a shipping container.

I called the phone and pressed star twice and the latch opened, then I carried my bike up the flight of stairs. I walked over the hardwood floors and set my bike down against the eastern brick wall. The lights were off but the drab morning glow was eking through the large windows. It felt strange that Jay and I were the only two in the vast space. I knew none of my teammates would be in for another few hours so I waltzed over to my desk and grabbed the dark mug that my mom had made me when I was eighteen then took it to the kitchen. The mug had a temoku glaze and the handle had broken off when one of the office cleaners took it from my desk and left it in the dishwasher, I presumed. I refilled the water in the Nespresso machine and pulled a pod with a coffee from Kenya out of the cabinet, then pulled the shot into my broken mug. How could a company that sold me on the sustainability impact of its work not recognize the local disparity of using disposable coffee pods? Supposedly they’re recyclable, but it seemed like the siren’s song of convenience trumping the benefits of doing it the old-fashioned way. Yet there I stood, watching the coffee pull into the dark well of my mom’s mug, rolling with the status-quo. How could I claim to be any better? I was becoming one of the tech bros, not thinking about my small actions. Instead I was helping to shoehorn a solution into a systemic problem which I did not feel that I understood.

I grappled with the required dissonance over my second coffee of the day and shuffled over to my desk. I looked out the window over by Jay’s desk and it was still lightly raining. I opened my laptop and stared into the abyss of the screen as it booted. I took a heavy breath in and out. I booted up VS Code and took a glance through the Python file that I was trying to understand for my current assignment. Suddenly the focus gripped me, and I was tinkering away with the scheduling file. I wrote a separate test file to make sure that what I was doing was remotely sane. The old tests weren’t passing. I took another heavy breath and closed my eyes. I added a point in the debugger above the point that I thought was causing the issue. Totally reasonable, I thought. I executed the tests again and sipped at my coffee.