Taste of Tenderloin (9 page)

After leaving the two in
the entryway with only the briefest twinge of guilt, he turned up
O’Farrell and spotted Shaky Jake; the old man’s Parkinson’s disease
twitched his hands and head almost out of control.

“
Man, I take anything, even
a penny,” the Vietnam vet said in a slurred voice, trying to
panhandle change from a hooded, out-of-service parking meter. He
obviously hadn’t been over to the VA clinic recently to renew his
meds.

Impulsively, the Ugly Man
dug out the remaining change from his pocket—a dime, four nickels,
and seven pennies. In an uncharacteristic charitable move, perhaps
stimulated by his lingering guilt at not helping the under-age
hooker, he slipped the coins into the trembling hand of the
hallucinating old man. “There you go, Jake,” he said, before
limping off up the street.

A few moments later, he
became acutely aware of a sharp tingling and itching sensation all
over his skin. At the time, he didn’t recognize it as anything
special. He figured it was just another symptom of alcohol
withdrawal, like the shakes, or maybe it had something to do with
the drying up of his clammy skin. He told himself that the
discomfort would disappear as soon as he had a chance to drink the
remainder of the Wild Irish Rose and towel off. He hurried along,
ignoring both the funny skin sensation and the nagging ache in his
right leg.

Safely back in the
cardboard
tent at the dead end of an alley
just down from Van Ness on O’Farrell, the Ugly Man drained the
remainder of the Wild Irish Rose in three long, satisfying pulls.
He wiped the tears from his eyes. The effects of the cheap whisky
kicked in immediately, warming him to his core and lifting his
spirits.

Slowly, he undressed to the
waist, exposing the frail, undernourished body of an old man to the
night chill. He was only thirty-eight. As he wiped down his naked
skin with an old towel, he paid little attention to the tattooed
mosaic that decorated his arms and body. It had been badly
disfigured by the burn scars, but he was concerned only with the
itching along both arms and across his chest and back. It was
driving him nuts. He rubbed the towel briskly along his right arm,
some of the skin sloughing away onto the towel. The Ugly Man
stopped and stared incredulously at his arm. Remarkably, the scars
appeared to be fading away, the brilliant colors of the
once-blemished tattoos seeming to again take prominence. He checked
the other arm: same thing, the scars shrinking away. But that
couldn’t be. The doctors had said he was permanently scarred. He
took out a cracked mirror remnant from his meager pile of
belongings and examined his face, where he’d been most badly
burned.

Jesus
, he swore silently. The heavy scar tissue had indeed
diminished noticeably. Impossible.

Maybe he’d finally gone
around the corner, after all the years of heavy boozing and not
taking care of himself. He peered intently into the mirror again,
confirming the startling change and fingering the shrunken
disfigurement.

The Ugly Man stood and
hastily stripped off his double pairs of pants. The lighter scars
overlaying the tattoos on his legs were almost entirely gone.
Shivering in the unheated cardboard tent, he hesitated only a
moment before pulling his pants back on. He hurriedly slipped on
his shirts and sat back down, stunned. Something strange was going
on, some kind of transformation; his skin was changing back to like
it had been before the fiery attack in the park in the Haight,
looking exactly as it had when he’d been elegantly tattooed by his
friend Rembrandt. So long ago…

When he finally left
the
Napa Valley in his mid twenties, he
moved to a studio apartment on Stanyon in the Haight, found a night
watchman job, and fairly soon thereafter met the famous dwarf
tat-master, Rembrandt. They both ate in the late afternoon at the
Crescent Cafe on Haight, soon becoming unlikely friends—the
backward, shy young man from the country listening, the outgoing,
hip dwarf from the city talking. Rembrandt was so artistically
talented he’d spent the previous eighteen months in Tokyo doing
full-body tattooing at the exclusive Red Crane. In his off hours,
he studied Japanese history, focusing on the Samurai
period
.

In those first few months
after becoming tight friends, the tat-master covered his awed
friend with traditional Japanese-style mythological tattoos. He
used intricate, colorful floral designs interlaced with strange
creatures and demons on the young man’s arms and legs. A work of
art that would have cost tens of thousands of dollars at the Red
Crane, the center piece finished last on the young man’s back was
an iridescent dragon that wove in and out of chrysanthemums and
long-nosed, wide-eyed demons, looking back squarely with a fearsome
red-eyed frown.

“
I’ve accurately captured
the ancient pattern, dude,” Rembrandt said reverently, finally
setting down the tattooing needles after the last session. “Now you
must adhere to
Bushido
.” He bowed formally. “Follow the Way of the Warrior, observe
the Seven Virtues like I do: Rectitude—right dealing,
Courage—respect and caution replace fear, Benevolence—aiding
others, Respect—courtesy to all, Honesty—conscience,
Loyalty—responsibility to self and others, and Honor—above all. If
you can maintain the Way, your life will be
transformed.”

He bowed again, and as an
afterthought, whispered, “Your spirit is eternally protected by a
magical web now, the dragon vigilantly guarding your
back.”

Remarkably, the prophecy
started to come true. The young man began to emerge from his
shyness, meeting people more easily—even girls—gaining confidence
and self-esteem. He even received an outstanding performance report
at work.

Then, the terrible
accident.

The young man was driving
himself and the tat-master home after a wonderful party on the
peninsula with a group of Rembrandt’s fans. He suddenly lost
control on Highway 101 near Candlestick Park. The Volkswagen Bug
flipped over and over, shearing off a highway sign, crashing
against a power pole, and igniting into flame. Miraculously unhurt,
the young man scrambled from the car, leaving his unconscious
friend trapped in the burning wreck. Too frightened to risk a
rescue, afraid the vehicle was going to explode at any minute, he
stood by and did nothing.

Rembrandt never regained
consciousness. Six hours later, he died from the injuries at UCSF
Hospital.

Even after so many
years
, the guilt-ridden Ugly Man had a
catch in his tightened throat when he thought about his only true
friend. He’d squandered so much in his cowardice. He sighed,
wishing he had another half pint to help him get through the night,
and crawled under his raggedy blankets, trying to relax and fall
asleep. But his rest was disturbed by the memory of his own fiery
attack in the park.

Soon after his friend had
died and he’d lost his job and apartment on Stanyon, the Ugly Man
had been forced to move into a pup tent in Buena Vista Park in the
lower Haight, living near the other homeless people back in the
heavy brush and trees. One night, six months or so after moving
there, he had been attacked by a gang of teenage thieves, robbed,
beaten with a baseball bat, doused with barbecue fluid, and set
afire. His right fibula had been shattered, his face and most of
his body covered with third-degree burns. In a haze of pain and
disorientation in the ambulance, he had realized the thieves had
caught both him and the dragon off guard and smothered his
protective web with a blanket of agony.

He had recovered to a
degree only after nine long months of hospitalization, skin grafts,
and intensive therapy. His wonderful tattoos had been badly
disfigured by burn scars, his friend’s masterwork practically
destroyed. Perhaps most heavily scarred was the Ugly Man’s soul.
He’d eventually ended up in the ‘loin, living in a cardboard tent
and spending most of his monthly SSI on “medicine” from Wild
Bill’s. Avoiding all unnecessary human contact, he had become
fearful and paranoid, just another one of the nameless, forgotten
derelicts shuffling the streets. He had remained convinced, in his
few lucid moments, that the fiery scarring was undoubtedly a kind
of retribution for abandoning his friend in the flaming car wreck.
The accident had ended his attempt to live the Seven
Virtues.

In the late morning,
the
Ugly Man awakened with a start.
Something was noticeably different. Sucking in a deep breath to
clear his head, he realized he wasn’t covered with sweat. No, and
his skin wasn’t hurting either. He felt okay. The best he’d felt in
years. His hands weren’t shaking, and he didn’t feel sick to his
stomach at all. He held up his arm and examined his skin.
Amazingly, the scars were almost completely gone. The tattoos were
becoming brilliantly alive again.

Early that evening, he
walked
down O’Farrell with a little spring
in his step. He still didn’t have the shakes, despite the fact that
he’d had nothing to drink all day. He’d even risked the proximity
of others by eating over at St. Anthony’s—put away the whole meal
and didn’t get sick. Once he had picked up his SSI check and cashed
it over on Haight, he even hesitated to retrace his steps to Wild
Bill’s.

Eventually he decided to
buy a half pint for backup, just in case he needed something later.
He often awoke in the early morning hours, badly needing another
drink even after his nightly pint. He headed for Wild
Bill’s.

A block from the liquor
store, he stopped, spotting a pair of mean-spirited drug dealers
attacking a skinny young guy. Big Foot, a heavyset huge man wearing
a Raiders black pullover with the silver number 77, and his thinly
built, equally creepy sidekick, Sleepyboy. The two thugs were
pummeling their victim with lengths of bicycle chain, pounding him
unmercifully right in the mouth of a nearby alley, completely
visible to passing traffic.

“
Ya gonna come up wif da
bread now, white boy?” Big Foot growled. He was almost out of
breath, but continued his flailing exertions.

For a moment, the Ugly Man
just stood rooted to the spot and watched, wincing with each
delivered blow until Sleepyboy took out a large can of lighter
fluid and a cigarette lighter and aimed the makeshift flamethrower
at the hapless, battered victim. With a newfound surge of courage,
the Ugly Man stepped into the alley and shoved Big Foot from
behind. “No,” he rasped, stepping closer to Sleepyboy and slapping
the can from his hand.

Big Foot turned to face
him, amazed anger written all over the dope dealer’s pudgy
features. “Hey, hey, whatcha doin’, muthahfuckah?” the huge man
sputtered. “You buttin’ into our bidness?” He lashed out viciously
with his piece of bicycle chain. The Ugly Man ducked nimbly. The
chain just grazed the top of his hood as the bludgeoned victim
scrambled up to his feet and darted past him out to
freedom.

“
Lemme light the ole fool
up, Biggie,” Sleepyboy said, picking up the lighter fluid and
flicking the cigarette lighter. “Fix his burnt-up ole raggedy ass
for good.”

The Ugly Man backed away,
staring at the lighter flame fearfully, questioning the wisdom of
his impulsive act.

“
Yo, go ‘head, torch him,
Sleeps,” Big Foot ordered.

The Ugly Man spun around
and fled quickly up the street before Sleepyboy could spray him
with fire. Ignoring the ache in his lower right leg, he ran almost
as fast as he had when he’d been a young man playing soccer,
dodging skillfully in and out of the crowd, reaching his block in
less than a minute and a half. Pausing to catch his breath, the
Ugly Man glanced back. He could see neither of the dope dealers in
pursuit, but he knew they’d be coming for him soon. No question
about that.

At that moment he saw a
ball bounce out into the busy street, and from the corner of his
eye, he saw a youngster dart into the street after the
ball.

“
No!” he cried out
hoarsely. Time seemed to slow as several thoughts rushed through
his head:
You can’t get involved here;
they are coming; they will probably kill you.

He ignored the cautionary
thoughts. With long strides, the Ugly Man bounded into the street,
deftly dodged a vehicle and scooped up the child and ball. He spun
180 degrees as adroitly as Reggie Bush, holding out his hand and
stiff-arming a taxi to a brake-squealing stop, before finally
handing off the crying child to his mother, who was still standing
frozen in the doorway to the You-Do-It laundromat.

“
Hey, yo, dude, way to go,
man!” said Double S, a legless black man who roamed the Tenderloin
on a scooterboard. He stretched up and offered the Ugly Man a high
five.

The Ugly Man slapped Double
S’s hand, then nervously looked back down O’Farrell, remembering
the threat of the two drug dealers. Still not in sight. He let a
sigh trickle across his lips and glanced again at the grateful
mother and her child. She held her boy tightly in her arms, talking
to two female friends, gesturing at him and nodding.

Waving back, he smiled with
pride and moved along for a few steps, but for some reason he
stopped and shifted his gaze overhead. The nightly mist had
thinned, and here and there bluish-crystal stars glistened against
the black backdrop of space. It was an unusual sight this time of
year; the fog usually shrouded the night sky from view. For a
moment, the break in the fog and rare sight took his breath away,
providing ice for his bruised soul. Momentarily, the smells, the
sights, the sounds, and all the nastiness of the ‘loin were gone. A
sense of gratitude for just being alive overwhelmed him—something
he hadn’t felt for a long, long time.