Free Telegraph Hill by John F. Nardizzi Page B

pile
of flannel shirts on the floor. Prints hung on the walls, pop art drawings of
women or tropical beaches, stuff usually seen in health clubs and dentist’s
offices. The featured reading material was TV Guide, set neatly in the middle
of the table. A halogen floor lamp tilted dangerously on the carpet, promising
facial injuries to anyone sitting on the white sofa. The room’s notable lack of
personal effects made it strangely memorable, some horrific bodysnatching
nightmare. Who really lived here?
    Steven excused himself, took a piss, and returned
to his spot on the sofa. His body looked soft as oatmeal; he hadn’t pushed it since
high school.
    “Why are you looking for Tania again?”
    “Her family is concerned about her. They haven’t
heard from her in years.” Ray paused. “How did you get to know Tania?”
    “Met her in a club. Best girlfriend I ever had.”
Steven sat back and sighed. He looked ready to unburden himself of some
baggage. Ray decided to just sit back and let the man unwind.
    In 1990, Steven had moved to San Francisco from
Brooklyn. He embraced the open atmosphere that pervaded the city. He met
superstars of remote art forms: Jade Vortex, a fire-breathing stripper; Pamela,
whose one-woman show in South of Market warehouses involved her feeding live
armadillos with organic pineapple held in her labia. He had fallen into the
underground club circuit, where various groups rented out warehouses on weekend
nights and threw raves that lasted into the early morning hours. Steven
reminisced as he sat splayed on his sofa. “For two months I just smoked dope
and partied. And I was actually meeting girls, good-looking ones too. I dated
40 year old women who educated me in ways I had not considered.”
    One night he attended a party on Townsend Street
with a friend. As he sipped a beer, he saw an Asian woman walk to the bar. She
was tanned, about five feet tall. Her black hair was streaked with blond. Her
face had a regal sadness to it, a touch of wisdom that lifted just another face
into stardom. Her name was Tania.
    “She really put the hooks in me. I mean, look, I
know I’m not the best looking guy—why kid myself? And I usually don’t bother
with the best looking girls—boring women who look good but have nothing to say.
But there was something so seductive about her. So I talked to her. Even a
blind hen gets a seed now and then.”
    “And how did the blind hen do this night?” Ray
asked.
    “Very well. I brought her a drink and made stupid
jokes. She laughed at everything I said. We spent the night talking and
dancing. She had lived in Hong Kong. She told me stories of her home. We left
the club together at 3:00 AM. Everything went perfect, just one of those
perfect nights.”
    After leaving the club, they saw a bus parked with
its “Not In Service” sign lit; the driver was heading home for the night.
Steven joked with the bus driver who, in a jovial midnight mood, took them on a
wild careening trip over the steaming manhole covers of Kearny, up to the light
show of Broadway. They got off the bus and ate seafood at You Lan. Afterwards,
they went back to his apartment and screwed happily until dawn.
    The next morning Tania was quiet, and she left
quickly, refusing to have coffee or even accept a ride home. Steven had been
reduced to begging for her telephone number, which she reluctantly gave. Steven
leaned forward.
    “After a few weeks of tea and coffee cake at four,
I was frustrated. We couldn’t go back to the mood of that first night. So she
finally told me why she was acting so weird.” He looked at Ray with a sharp
nod, ready to divulge pivotal details. Showing his readiness, Ray opened his
hands.
    “She was an escort, a hooker. And she said that
guys don't stick around for hookers.”
    “She told you that?” asked Ray.
    “Yeah. That was why she was so cold—she thought
that we could never have a relationship because of what she did.”
    “But you felt differently.”
    “Yeah,