The Short Stories of Sean Labbe
Sean Labbe is an English graduate of the U.C. Berkeley. After a stint of editing computer manuals such as PCTeX's user guide, Sean is now teaching in Turkey, in a small town about an hour outside of Istanbul.
Mr John Abbot lived in a small studio apartment on Russian Hill because it was as close as he could get to downtown without actually living in North Beach or SoMa. They were sunny, hot and noisy. Russian Hill was on the other hand misty, cool and quiet. The hill itself acted as a natural barrier to stop the windblown fog from reaching North Beach and it was on this side that Mr Abbot lived, on Greenwich, just down the street from tall Mediterranean-style buildings. People walked and people jogged in the neighborhood. They smiled and sweated self-satisfaction and went on and on about the choice location. But Mr Abbot was not so quick to shower it with praises. It was true that a pleasant view of the bay could be had from Larkin Street. That was, as he was quick to point out, if you could get past all the tourists clamoring for a shot of Alcatraz and the long lines of rented cars lining up to go down the crooked section of Lombard Street. The area was not as safe as people liked to make out: at night car alarms frequently sounded in the neighborhood; and, though an iron gate with a trick latch guarded the walkway to Mr Abbot's front door, once he had caught some crazy homeless woman who reeked of urine sleeping under his front steps. There was a small wooden deck shaded by a tree there but it was usually too cold to sit out on it. In the back was a well-kept garden visible from the kitchen window, but the view from the bay window in the front was of a sloping street: most days he kept the shades closed. The kitchen was floored with smooth brick and the apartment was floored with hard wood. Mr Abbot's futon bed was kept folded in a small still corner next to which he had set up a small desk and computer.
In the morning, Mr Abbot ground the dark whole coffee beans he bought down at the Royal Grounds café on Polk Street. He prepared the grounds in a French press and heated milk in a little stainless steel pot. Making the coffee gave him almost as much of a charge as drinking it did: the grinder whirred; the aroma of the beans wafted; the kettle whistled; the plunger slid smoothly down; and his spoon tinkled as he added dark brown sugar to the brew. He did have an old set of fine cups---presented as a wedding gift---but he drank his coffee in a large singular pintsized mug. He downed his morning unparticipated cup at his computer, which he used for two things: to keep track of his stock portfolio, bluechips only, and to keep a daily journal, which he was now using as a place to save the parts he had culled from his old handwritten journals. He had begun journal writing in an effort to access the power of the unconscious and evoke creative ability: he had read books about this. He had followed the instructions of a start-to-write book and had bought unlined journals so as not to be limited by lines or page margins. But now the resultant sloppy uneven scrawl now irritated his eyes when he read it and, once he had gone through them all with a fine-tooth comb, he was planning to discard the majority of the journals. They were old, they were musty and they took up too much shelf space.
The coffee finished, Mr Abbot got ready for work. He shaved and dressed. His hair was dark but a number of gray hairs had woven their way in and now lent his head a tweedlike appearance. He applied brylcreem conservatively and combed his hair over to one side. Then it was time to go. He worked as an accountant at the North Point Safeway, which he walked to: it kept him spry, even if the morning breeze blew his hair around. His office, cloistered from the surrounding din of shoppers shopping, was near the fruit and vegetables. It was small and windowless but he kept the door closed. His was a monkish soul and he prized nothing more than calm and repose. Little in life marred the straight ledger lines ruling his brow. Still, he would eject any member of the staff with the impertinence to barge in on him: no, the floor buffer could not be found in his office; no, the step ladder was not in his office---it never had been and it never would be. He kept the books, though in actuality the books were an ms-dos computer program in which he posted credits and expenses; ledger books and double entry were a thing of the past.
Mr Abbot had married, fathered no children and divorced. The divorce had had nothing to do with the lack of children; still that had exposed the overall bankruptcy of their familial situation. With no children for what reason should they have stayed together? He had trouble evaluating whether a situation was good or bad or whether he was happy or sad. If anyone asked him how he did he would first be startled by the intrusiveness of the question and would reply: well enough. For him to acknowledge he were sad would mean he would be obliged to act. But he could never be sure if what he felt was genuine sadness or what everyone felt all the time. It was not really bad, just a gnawing emptiness. To act he needed to be free of all misgivings. He was not. Rather than act and appear foolish he would prefer to sit with his arms folded on his folded futon. And what if he were sad now? How long was now? In his journal he had written that now as a period of time lasted approximately twelve seconds (he had gotten the figure from the Grab Bag in an issue of the Sunday Chronicle) and that by the time one expressed this concept a new now had arrived. He added his own gloss: the now that is becomes the now that was to make way for the now that will be. Now he was divorced. Now his ex-wife was happy. Then she was not. What the new now would be nobody knew.
After working his shift Mr Abbot was very tired and walked on heavy feet up the Chestnut Street hill to his apartment. Rays of sunlight crashed down from the sky with what felt like actual weight until he walked into the shade and then it was cold. Carloads of laughing people drove past him. Contented couples in new sedans passed him with their windows rolled up. Unaccompanied women avoided making eye contact. Mr Abbot said to himself:
---Ex, hex, no-sex. All these word bear more than a passing resemblance to each other. Why doesn't anyone else find that even remotely odd?
After six straight shifts (Mr Abbot had to fill in for the Saturday relief because the Saturday relief was vacationing and he would in turn get the next Friday off), he dragged himself up the hill. His humor turned black:
---Marriage? Just buy a house for a woman you hate and save yourself the aggravation!
He spent the evening in the same way he spent most evenings: in front of the television. He was a film buff and had a stack of videotapes to prove it. He especially liked melancholy foreign films---ones with wry ironic endings pleased him most. As they were more ironic and grittier they were more realistic than the typical Hollywood movie. The Italian film he had recently rented, Cinema Paradiso, was a good example. Though he reckoned the film erred on the side of sentimentality the thought that the principal character lost and never saw again his youthful love seemed to him a particularly pathetic touch and pleased his sense of irony. He even found himself wiping away a tear at the end of the film: it was because of the music, which was overly emotional. Now if that had been an American film the two would have met again somehow somewhere and it would have all fallen to pieces and seemed trite and contrived.
Now and then Mr Abbot would take out and put on and twirl the old gold wedding band around his finger. He could not help but feel foolish for thinking the ring exercised a negative influence on his life. The hex of his ex! He would not put it past his ex, what with her crystals and New Age books to go to someone to have a hex placed upon him. He could find no other explanation for his recent spate of bad luck and then he despised himself for coming up with such a flimsy excuse. There was no hex. It was all his fault. The Sunday after the six straight shifts he was in something of a downturn that even the brewing of the coffee did not change. He boarded the number 28 bus bound for the Golden Gate Bridge with his wedding band in his pocket. At the first tower he took the wedding band out of his pocket and flicked it and watched it, goldflashing in the late afternoon sunlight, plunge and get swallowed up by the leadcolored water of the bay. He waited a few moments. The dull monotonous roar of the wind sounded in his ears. As he walked past the groups of tourists to the bus stop in the parking lot he cast anxious glances over his shoulder, left and right: what if someone had seen him flick the ring from the bridge and what if that someone reported him? He would be cited and somehow it would get back to his work and he would appear foolish. Then what would he do?
The iron gate screeched when he returned to his apartment. He sat on the folded futon. All was calm; he had made a clean getaway.
The next few days crawled by noiselessly. Mr Abbot sensed no discernible upswing in his luck and had all but forgotten about the wedding band---it really was kind of a goofy thing to do now that he thought about it. Still in the back of his mind he could not help but think that even the most drastic measures apparently were not drastic enough.
Off from work Friday afternoon he walked down Chestnut Street. He was on his way to the Gateway Theater to see a film called Equinox. A daytime showing would be just what he needed: two hours in the dark where no-one would bother him. On Columbus he passed a woman and their eyes briefly met. The woman stopped and flipped open a street map. He walked on but stopped and turned around a block later. The woman was still there, her face deep in the map. Should he go back? Offer to help? No. Then there had been a chance; now it was too late. The woman would remember that he had passed her and had come back. She would think it was some kind of come-on and he would appear foolish. He snorted: that was foolishness too because probably the woman would not even remember him. His vanity was all that was foolish! A minute passed. The woman still looked her street map over, lost. Was now the time? Now was the time. He walked back and came up behind her and asked:
---Do you need any help?
Nothing. He asked a different question:
---Where do you want to go?
In a foreign accent the woman replied:
---I want to go to 'aight-Ashbury.
Mr Abbot pointed to the far side of the street to a bus stop where he told the woman she could catch bus number 15 and that would take her to Market Street and there she could transfer to bus number 7 and take that into the Haight.
---The 'aight?
---Yes, the Haight. Haight-Ashbury.
The woman made no movement and Mr Abbot started to move away. The woman followed and asked:
---Just an instant. I take bus…
Mr Abbot took her to the stop. The woman asked:
---Is it far to walk?
He shrugged. He was going to be late for the film and if there was one thing he could not stand it was late arrivals bungling into the theater. But if they hurried he might still make it on time. He said:
---No, I'm going that way myself. But I'm in kind of a hurry.
At Union he gave up on the film: he would never make it on time now.
Her name was Sophie Dubois and she came from Montreal and was in San Francisco for the weekend. She had come with her brother who worked for a telecommunications firm. He had been sent to Fremont to check up on some equipment. He traveled a lot and she was able to get her ticket to fly free because of the Frequent Flyer points her brother had accumulated. They were to return to Montreal bright and early Sunday morning.
Mr Abbot and Sophie walked down Columbus and waited at Powell Street on the small concrete island in the middle of Market Street for the bus. He warned Sophie that she should be careful with her backpack because somebody might try to steal it if she did not watch out. He explained to her how the transfer tickets worked: they were valid for two hours and were good for two additional rides during that time frame.
Sophie was tall, taller it seemed than he was. She had long dark hair and a red birthmark over her left eye. She had an angular strong face which, though her arms and legs were tan, had a reddish tint to it. Her smile revealed strong teeth that were slightly uneven. It did not add up, he could put his finger on it: she was not beautiful but he found himself leaning in closer to her or staring at some feature of her face. Her imperfection made her perfect and he wondered how all this could be possible, how all this could be happening with someone like her. What it was he did not know, but whatever it was, he thanked his lucky stars it was happening to him now.
Once they arrived in the Haight they cut across to a small café with seating outdoors to take a coffee. Inside the music was loud and ugly and the kids behind the counter were pretty snotty to Mr Abbot but he just paid and even dropped a couple quarters into the tip jar at the side of the cash register. Outside with the cups of coffee he sat, not spilling any. Sophie offered him a cigarette and said:
---Uh, I just remembered. I don't know your name.
---Call me John, he said and took a cigarette.
Sophie made a funny face and then lighted his cigarette for him with a goldplated lighter. He coughed: he had not had one in years. Rays of sunlight slanted in through the leaves of the trees and they talked and talked about everything and nothing: it was funny but they could understand each other despite the language barrier. Sophie's brother was coming up to spend the weekend in the city too; and, when some furry person was not attached to the payphone, John called hotels for them. It was no small trick to find a hotel with two double beds so they had to settle for the York Hotel which had twin beds instead. Sophie telephoned her brother, Stéphane and he arrived at seven and then they all piled in the Chevrolet Corsica the company let him use and drove off. Suitcases covered the backseat and John shared the frontseat with Sophie. He tried to follow Sophie and her brother when they spoke French but could not bring himself to try his meager store of schoolboy French on them, most of which he had actually learned from French films. But he was catching on and he started formulating simple words and phrases in his head. Every now and then he offered a direction in French:
---Tournez à gauche.
---Ce n'est pas loin.
At the York Hotel John helped them carry their bags up to their room on the fifth floor. They settled in awhile. It was getting cool so Sophie took out a sweater and slipped into it, raising her arms high and pulling the sweater over her head, trapping her hair. They all rose to leave and outside, while they stood waiting for the elevator, John looked down through the middle of the stairway: it occurred to him that the stairway looked like the one used in the film Vertigo. He would have to check that out.
Despite his general distaste for the area, John led them down Grant Street to North Beach where they had a Chinese dinner at the New Sun Hong Kong restaurant. It was the only restaurant John knew of and was willing to bank on. After the meal, Sophie complained jokingly that there were no mints and that all the restaurants in Montreal had mints. John said:
---I wish then we were in Montreal.
Sophie laughed and touched John's arm. She had a fine-boned hand and caressed his arm goodnaturedly and remarked that the material of his suit was very fine.
Outside North Beach was reeling with sound and color. People were everywhere in the buzzing night streets. Stéphane wished them a good night and set off for the hotel. John took Sophie to Vesuvio and they sat up in the mezzanine. The waitress came and John ordered:
---A pitcher of Anchor.
There was a poster of Jack Kerouac stuck up in the window across from them. Kerouac used to come to Vesuvio and drink like a fou, John explained. Sophie said that Jack Kerouac was of French Canadian origin and John felt foolish because he had never really read anything by Kerouac. Sophie mentioned québecois} poets and writers but John had never heard of them. At about one-thirty they decided to call it a night and agreed to meet the next day.
Late the next morning John awoke and showered and shaved. He sat for a while on the folded futon and leafed through the paper. At twelve-thirty he locked his apartment and hesitated on the small deck. He kicked off some fallen leaves and then made off down Larkin Street. He stopped in a corner grocery store, bought some peppermint candies and arrived at the York Hotel at one o'clock sharp. Sophie was waiting outside on the front steps. She held up some car keys and pointed to the Chevrolet Corsica parked across the street and said:
---Do you trust me?
---Well, yes, I suppose so.
John offered Sophie the brown paper sack from the corner grocery store and said:
---It's for the rest of your trip.
Sophie opened it.
---Oh you remember!
Sophie popped a mint into her mouth and unlocked the door. John got in. She drove off when he told her it was okay. He directed entirely in French, it all coming back to him now, and his tongue felt limber and loose. In the Haight they parked and shopped in secondhand clothes stores and had burritos for lunch, Sophie pointing at the different steam trays full of black, whole and refried beans and asking what they were and then doing the same for the kinds of meat filling. They sat outside, ate as much as they could and threw away the rest. Sophie ate another mint and offered one to John. She wanted to go to the park. John said:
---We can't drive into the park from here. They close it off on Sundays. We'll have to drive out towards the beach.
---I want to go the Golden Gate Bridge also.
---Well, we'll see what we can do about that.
Leaving the Haight the traffic was thick and Sophie got mixed up and ended up climbing Parnassus. John turned her back around and they took Stanyan to Fulton and turned left. They turned into the park at 36th Avenue and left the car near Spreckels Lake. Gulls flew overhead. They walked to the enclosure that held the buffaloes. Sophie exclaimed:
---Les bisons, les bison!
They walked around to the casting pools. They walked around to the stables. They watched horses being trained and broken for riding and Sophie said it was sad because you could tell the horses just wanted to run and be free and how nice it would be to run and feel the wind on your face and in your hair and be free. She had been born in the Year of the Horse, she added, and could imagine how they felt. John nodded. For some reason though what she said annoyed him but he did not say anything back to her about it. They walked to the Zephyr Café and had hot apple cider spiked with cinnamon sticks and it was late afternoon by the time they got back to the car. Sophie asked:
---Can we go to the bridge now?
---First let me show you the richest neighborhood in San Francisco.
They drove along Ocean Beach on the Great Highway up to Point Lobos. They drove down Clement. Sophie switched on the radio but bumps in the road kept knocking the station in an out of tune so John turned it off. They made a left into Lincoln Park and parked the car along the road on the bay side of the golf course. John pointed:
---There's the bridge, see.
---I want to go to it.
They looked out over the rooftops of Seacliff. They watched a falcon sitting in a tree and waited for it to fly to see its wingspan. Another falcon flew by. Sophie made excited gestures towards it. The first falcon stretched its wings.
---I wish I had a good camera. I would like to take a lot of pictures of the faucons, a lot.
They walked back up the hill to the car. Sophie said:
---Now can we go to the bridge?
John directed her through the Presidio and told her too late when to turn and Sophie had to double back to get to the parking lot. Parking was free near the old World War II bunkers and there were few tourists too: he knew this. They got out and locked the car. On the small twisting dirt paths the wind was strong and Sophie's coat rippled and snapped. She acted as though she was about to take flight while gulls reeled about overhead in the air and made jokes all the while:
---We could lie here and get a tan.
Sophie hustled out ahead onto the bridge and John held back: it was strange that there were nobody walking on that side of the bridge. Sophie went ahead all the same and then John figured out why: this side was only for cyclists. Sophie shouted:
---Come on! Come on!
---Okay. But only to the first tower.
Cyclists flew past them and Sophie tossed her head up and gave them a dirty look if they said anything. At the foot of the tower she tried to find the best angle in which to take a picture with her pocket camera. John tried to find a place out of the wind. He stood well away from the guardrail and leaned over to look down. The surface of the water was scaly and rough as the wind tore across it. Gulls reeled about. The wind lashed at him and a cyclist almost crashed into him. Sophie's mouth was moving but John could not hear what she as saying in the wind. Her hair was flying around her head. She started back and John followed. Cyclists flew past them yelling:
---Wrong side! Wrong side!
Back in the car they sat for a few minutes to warm up. Sophie popped a mint in her mouth. They decided to get something to drink and Sophie wanted to go to North Beach.
---Again?
---Yes, again, and again and again, always again.
Kites soared and spun through the air high above the Marina Green. They flew through green light after green light on Bay and found a space on Chestnut Street. Getting out, John looked up and down his old stomping ground: how many times had he walked it to work, oblivious? A numbness starting in his stomach crept up his chest and lodged itself in his throat: Monday morning he would walk it again and Sophie would be gone and he would be alone.
They walked down Columbus, stopping at a corner market where Sophie bought a pack of cigarettes. When they crossed at Broadway she asked:
---Aren't we going to Vesuvio?
---No, we're going to try another bar.
---Okay.
At Specs, John ordered two bottles of Anchor. Sophie offered him a cigarette and lighted it for him and they watched the thin threads of smoke climb towards the ceiling. It seemed like they were again hitting the same conversational ground, talking about Kerouac again, but then, one word led to another, linking together in a chain of give and take which they pulled first this way and then that, all the while enjoying themselves even when getting tugged in a way they had not expected. They talked about living together, she talked about her boyfriends, he talked about his girlfr--- (yeah, right, as if), well, he could not call her that. He stiffened. It would seem odd for a man his age never to have married. After all he did not want her to think he was gay. He mentioned his marriage briefly. Sophie asked:
---No children?
---No. None. We never really talked about it, never really found the time.
---They're a lot of work.
She paused for a moment and then went on:
---Do you think you will you ever go back to her?
---No. It's over. Fini.
They finished their beers and John ordered another round. Sophie said she had been living with a man for the past few months. She said:
---But I think one day it's just going to go boom, kapow!
---What's his name?
---You will think this is funny but it's Jean, like you, well, really, it's a very common name, in fact.
---Yes, that's true.
Their beers finished they picked up their stuff to go somewhere else. Sophie wanted to go to where there were young people and music and dancing. They walked up Grant Street. A band was playing at the Lost and Found but the bar was overcrowded and they walked on. Roughlooking beggars stuck out grubby palms at them from the stoops where they huddled and John and Sophie switched sides and walked on. Sophie said:
---In Montréal we do not have these beaten people with blood on their face, crazy, in the streets.
---Welcome to America.
At the Savoy Tivoli Sophie grabbed John's hand and leading him in said:
---Let's go in here. Can we, can we?
The Savoy was full but they found a spot at the bar and John ordered two bottles of Anchor. They looked for and found a table in a corner between the pool tables and the open front windows. They observed the other couples laughing amongst themselves, kissing sometimes. They grew silent for a moment then John asked:
---So tomorrow you go back. Are you excited?
---No. I have a lot to do. I must look for work, starting on Monday.
---We should stay in touch. You want to stay in touch?
---I can give you my address.
---Will that be okay with Jean?
---It will make him very jealous.
---Good. Please take mine too.
They wrote out their addresses on napkins, finished their beers and glanced at the clock: it was already after midnight. John said:
---You should probably get going. Your brother will be worried.
---I can call him. Oh it's too late. He goes to bed early. I will have to be very quiet.
They got up from their table and walked down Union. When they arrived at the door of the Chevrolet Corsica they stood facing each other for a moment. Sophie looked at John and John looked at Sophie. Her pack of cigarettes peeked out of the pocket of her coat. John heard the distant pounding of his heart in his ears. Now what to do? Now was the time. It was all like a movie. He spread his arms and came to Sophie and took her in his arms and embraced her and she accepted his embrace and embraced him in return and held him.
Some time later John was aware of the sound of traffic and leaned up on his elbows and moved hair out of his eyes. Sophie's hair was fanned out on the seat. She wet her lips and swallowed and took deep breaths. John was aware of his own shortness of breath. He shifted slightly and his foot opened the door and the passenger light came on again. He leaned down to kiss the skin of her chest and saw a design.
---C'est une Pégase, Sophie explained.
John kissed it and pulled his foot in and the passenger light went out.
They awoke the next morning in his unfolded futon; he first while she dozed, snoring quietly. He went to make the coffee, heating the milk and water, and then pouring the water over the grounds in the press and the milk into the server. She stirred as its aroma filled the apartment and he washed the dust off his fine cups and saucers, poured out the coffee into them and placed them on the counter. He set the server down on the counter next to the cups and the sugar bowl. She got out of the bed and threw on his shirt.
---Good morning.
---Good morning. Coffee's ready.
---Good.
They finished their coffee and Sophie asked if she could take a shower. John nodded and checked the time: she would have to hurry or she would miss her flight. He sat on the futon while the shower ran and did a mental inventory of her clothes on the floor: her jeans were rolled down as though they had melted, her socks stuck in the cuffs and her underwear in the seat. He opened the shades and looked outside at the street. It was going to be a nice day for once. The shower stopped and he closed the shades up as Sophie came out of the bathroom. She dried off, pulled on her clothes, and then asked to use the phone. She called the hotel. Her brother was not in the room. She left a message for him that she would be around with the car in fifteen minutes. She hurried now around the room gathering the last of her things. John walked her out to the car. They hugged again and some of her hair, flying around in the wind, kept whipping her face and eyes.
She got in the car, started the engine, rolled down the window and said:
---It was because of you I had so much fun.
---We really had a good time.
---You have my address?
He patted his pocket. Then she drove off.
The week passed. He plunged himself back into his work at Safeway. Even though he had not written to her yet, every day, after the long climb up Chestnut, he entertained the thought that today he might get a letter from her, and every day, nothing but bills addressed to Mr John Abbot in computer print-out came. He started noticing things. Everywhere he walked he saw Chevrolet Corsicas. A beggar with a clean face and a Montreal Expos baseball cap asked him for spare change. He heard French being spoken: in cafés, here, there. Walking through the aisles at work he saw a bottle of wine that caught his eye: Clos Pégase. Sophie. Everywhere he went now: Sophie, Sophie, Sophie!
His nights became broken and sleepless and as he lay with his eyes open on his side on the mattress, his arms around the pillow, her name sounded and rushed with the flow of blood in his ears. He awoke a wreck. People at work who never used to speak to him asked him if he was all right. He nodded off at work in front of the computer. In the middle of the next (yet another) sleepless night he resolved to write a serious letter to her and sat at his little desk to get it down: he had a lot of vacation days saved up and he would come to visit her in Montreal---soon.
He mailed the letter and ordered an airline ticket with his Visa card over the telephone. He would arrive in three weeks. Still no word from Sophie. He purchased a travel book on Canada. Still no word from Sophie. He would arrive in two weeks and he needed to give her his flight number and arrival time. He tried information for the address Sophie had given him; the operator offered him her félicitations on his French. He dialed the number. A man's hoarse voice answered:
---Âllo?
---Sophie est là?
Click. Mr Abbot dialed again.
---Sophie est là
---Elle n'est pas ici.
Click.
Days passed and, finally, a letter arrived from Sophie. He opened the letter carefully with his letter opener. His eyes flew down through the handwritten lines, the ledger lines of his forehead flying into disarray until his circling eyes found the bottom line of the page and circled again and again and flew up and down. Then, the ledger lines of his forehead settled once more into their customary position.
He went to work and took the letter with him and read it now and then throughout the day. Some lines stuck out and he did not need to read all of them to remember the whole: it would be a great pleasure for her to show him around her Montréal; Les Francofolies were in full swing and the weather was très agréable. She hoped he was not coming just on her account. He sat in his chair. Now what to do? He trudged up the hill to his apartment. He sat on his folded futon with his arms crossed and fidgeted. Was now the time to act? The French press perched on the stovetop looked pathetic and contemptible to him. Now was the time. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the airline. He canceled the flight. It was a good thing he had called now because he would be reimbursed the price of the ticket minus only seventy-five dollars. It would have been worse the next day. If he had waited until then he would have been reimbursed the price of the ticket minus one hundred and fifty dollars. Within six weeks the credit would show up on Mr Abbot's account.
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