Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice (14 page)

“Hey, I'm already pleased.”

After breakfast, I called home to deliver the news. Mama answered the phone. I took a deep breath. “Mama, I've made some new friends and I'm gonna stay in San Francisco and look for a job.”

For a minute Mama was speechless. Then she shouted, “Jean Eloise, have you lost your mind? None of us can rest with you all the way out there alone.”

I tried to reassure her. “San Francisco is safer than Chicago.”

“I don't care about crime statistics. The only safety is in the Lord. I need you to be nearby, so I'll know what you're up to.”

“What about what I need?” I asked.

“You're not ready to be out there in the world all by yourself.”

“I read that mother birds kick the baby birds out of the nests when it's time for them to fly. Well, it's time for me to test my wings.”

“Ray, come to the phone. She says she's going to stay in San Francisco! She's talking some foolishness about needing to fly. See if you can bring her down to earth. I have to take something to calm my nerves.”

“Jean, what's going on?” My father sounded concerned. “You've worried your mother half to death. She had to take a blood-pressure pill and lie down.”

“I'm sorry, Daddy, but I've gotta do what's right for me. I have to live my own life.”

“You ain't into something out there are you?” My father asked, lowering his voice.

“Of course not,” I answered. He made it sound like I was part of a drug-smuggling ring. “I'm not stupid. I've got sense enough not to get involved in any mess.”

“I thought so. But you know your mother has bad nerves.” Daddy paused. “We're so proud of you, Jeannie, we don't know what to do. We'd hate to have you so far away.” I could hear the emotion in my father's voice. And I was touched.

“I still love you all. I'm just checking out the possibilities. If things don't work out, I'll be back. But I'll never know if I don't try.”

“You gotta point there. You know, I was younger than you when I struck out on my own,” Daddy admitted. “But, I guess you're just more protective of a girl.”

“Some women have a sense of adventure too, you know.”

“I suppose you get that from me,” Daddy bragged. “Well, if you're doggedly determined then go'n out there with your bad self. Remember, you can't hit any higher than you aim. So, reach for the sky. And while you're trying out your wings, don't forget your roots.”

“I won't, Daddy.”

8

“I'm a San Franciscan now,” I announced to Traci over a burrito in the Mission District. “I've got a job interview with KPIX tomorrow. I even hopped a cable car in the middle of Powell Street yesterday and went to Fisherman's Wharf. I can't believe that all those dumb tourists line up at the foot of Powell and Market streets waiting. And to think two weeks ago, I was one of them.”

“A true San Franciscan doesn't even ride the cable cars,” Traci said between swallows of Mexican beer. “And we wouldn't be caught dead at Fisherman's Wharf. Unless it was in the middle of winter when the place is deserted.”

“I'm not going to lie to you, Junior. Riding the cable cars up and down these steep hills and listening to the clanging of the bells does peel my paint. Maybe I'll have to get that out of my system before I can become a true San Franciscan.”

“Well, you might not be a true San Franciscan, but you're sure full of beans,” Traci teased.

“Can't I be excited? I'm in this beautiful city with a beautiful woman. Of course I'm feeling my oats.”

She laughed. “Can you keep a secret?”

I nodded.

“Even us jaded folks like to hop a cable car every once in a while for old-time's sake. We just tend to get the urge in January.”

I sat across from the interviewer, who insisted I call her Vickie rather than Ms. Hauser. It was only my first interview. I'd just opened the job-hunting book
What Color Is Your Parachute?
, and I didn't even know the answer yet. I got to face the window that looked out on the bay. Everybody seemed to have a view in this town. I reminded myself not to get too distracted.

I was thankful that I'd packed my beige skirt and white blouse, although I could've gotten away with my pantsuit. Vickie was wearing a navy one. I still had to adjust to these dark colors in the middle of summer.

“Jean, I must say that I'm really impressed,” Vickie said, looking up from an open folder.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, briefly making contact with Vickie's green eyes. Maybe in San Francisco, a blonde had to compensate by having short hair, and not wearing makeup. Probably you wouldn't get any respect otherwise. If you were blonde, slim, wore a dress, and had hair down your back people would probably think you lacked leadership qualities. Vickie was a tough blonde, I decided.

“I believe that you're perfect for the Minority Outreach Training Program.”

“Well, thank you.” I wondered why I was perfect for a training program. I was already trained. Hadn't Vickie seen my résumé? I decided to hip her to the facts. “As my résumé indicates,” I said sounding like a job-hunting manual, “I worked at a TV station in Evanston the summer before last, and at a radio station in Normal last summer.”

“Yes, I see, station WILD, Normal, Illinois.” Vickie smiled and winked.

“I think it was pretty tame by San Francisco standards.”

“You know, they say, ‘You get an interview because you're qualified, but you get a job because someone likes you.' Jean, what can I say, I like you.”

“Thanks,” I said, not knowing what to say after the interviewer says “I like you.” It would sound silly to answer “I like you too.” Although I'd be willing to say it if it meant getting the gig. “Does that mean that you're offering me the job?”

There was a moment that seemed like an eternity and then Vickie nodded and said, “Yes, welcome aboard.”

“Thank you,” I said letting out a breath. It was too good to be true.

“Vickie, I'm really excited by the opportunity of making a contribution to KPIX.” You don't have to sound so damn formal. You've already got the gig, I criticized myself.

“Well, Jean, we're excited about having you, regardless of where you end up being assigned.”

“Assigned?”

“Yes, KPIX is hosting the two-week training program, but after that you could end up anywhere. Maybe even Normal, Illinois.”

Ha, ha, very funny, I thought. “So I might not be working in San Francisco?” I tried to mask my concern.

“Chances are, you wouldn't, since your interest is in news reporting. Right now the only need here is for minority account executives.”

“Maybe I'd be open to sales.”

“There's still no guarantee that you would be placed in San Francisco. A prerequisite for the Minority Outreach Training Program is that you be willing to relocate.”

“Well, I'd really love to be a reporter, and I would love to work in San Francisco, too.”

“You and everybody else,” Vickie groaned. She opened the drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes. She pulled out one and offered me the pack.

“No thanks,” I said, watching a ship gliding across the water.

“Jean, the only entry-level jobs in the media here are clerical and production-assistant positions.” Vickie puffed furiously on her cigarette. I felt like I must have driven her to smoke.

“I'm willing to start on the ground floor.”

“Those jobs are often part-time, and they pay less than four dollars an hour.” Vickie exhaled.

“Money isn't everything. An opportunity is all I want.”

“Are you sure that you want to turn down
this
opportunity just to hold out for something that may end up being a dead end? Is it
that
important to stay in San Francisco?”

“I love this city and I've met people here. I don't want to relocate. I just located.”

“Well, there must be something in the fog,” Vickie declared, and blew smoke practically in my face. “Sorry,” she said, waving the air. “I know people with master's degrees waiting tables on Union Street, and Ph.D.'s driving taxicabs. They'll take any job just for the privilege of living in San Francisco. Personally, I need a certain amount of comfort.”

“Maybe when I'm older, I'll feel that way, too.”

Vickie almost choked on her cigarette.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you were old. I mean you're not old.”

Vickie shrugged her shoulders, but her finger wiped at a wrinkle under her eye. “I just hope that you're not making a big mistake.”

“I hope not either. But I feel like San Francisco is where I can really blossom.”

“Spoken like a true dreamer.”

“Working in the media in San Francisco would be a dream come true.”

“Well, if we get an opening that you would be suited for, I will give you a call.”

“Thanks a lot. I really appreciate that.” I stood up to go.

Vickie hesitated. “Jean, let me be frank. Dreams die hard in this town.” She mashed out her cigarette. “San Francisco has the highest suicide rate in the country.”

I swallowed. “I'm sure it won't come to that. I'd head back to Chicago before I'd head for the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Well, I've tried to level with you.”

“I think you have.”

“It's just that an opportunity like this doesn't come across my desk every day. They're not like BART trains. If you miss one, you can't just catch the next one.”

“I know.”

Vickie lit another cigarette and inhaled. “Jean, a smart flea knows when to hop.”

I leaned toward the door. I wanted to hop on out of here.

Vickie suddenly mashed her cigarette out. “Save yourself some shoe leather. Accept this slot in the Minority Training Program!” she insisted.

“I'm just not willing to relocate at this point.” I sighed. “But thank you very much for considering me.”

Vickie stood up and extended her hand. “Jean, good luck, then. And have a nice day.”

“Thanks.”

“Jawea, the mail's here,” I called down to her in the small yard below. “Your
Sojourner
newspaper and your Ms. magazine came.”

Jawea continued to sway with her hands and feet. It looked like she was dancing in slow motion. It looked weird.

“Jawea, did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you, but maybe I don't give a shit!”

I was taken aback. Just last night Jawea had said I had a tall spirit. And that I projected beautiful energy. We didn't see each other that much, but when we did, everything seemed cool. I thought that Jawea liked me, that she was glad I was living here.

“Jawea, I don't appreciate you talking to me like that.”

“Well, I don't appreciate your interrupting me when I'm practicing Tai Chi.”

“Well, you didn't have to get funky. I didn't know what that was. I've never heard of Tai Chi before.”

“Ok, Stevie, just try and tune in to the vibes a person is putting out before you insert your energy into their space, from now on, all right?”

I sighed and walked away, rather than telling Jawea that she could tune in to kissing my ass.

I went back into the pad and found Traci in the kitchen. She was getting stuff together to make a salad for Pat's birthday party.

“I just told Jawea the mail's here, and she went off on me.”

“Is she doing Tai Chi?”

“Yeah, that's what she called it.”

Traci set a big pottery bowl on the table. “Don't go to Hollywood. She just didn't want anybody to break her concentration.”

“Well, I didn't know. Jawea's the one who went to Hollywood.”

“Don't take it personally. It wasn't about you. Jawea is studying to be a master.”

“At the rate my job hunt is going, maybe I should join her.”

Traci kissed me on the cheek. “Don't worry, baby, you'll find something. But maybe you need to forget about the glamour jobs. There's way too much competition. Everybody can't be Barbara Walters.”

“Hey, I'm just trying to use my skills.” I watched Traci cut up vegetables.

“Maybe you should consider working with your hands, doing manual labor.”

I shrugged. “Not intellectual enough.” I crunched on a carrot. “How come it's potluck? Are they that poor?”

Traci shook her head as she sprinkled sunflower seeds on the salad in the big pottery bowl that Jawea had made. “No, 'course not. I mean, they're downwardly mobile like everybody else. Gretchen actually comes from money. She's in a land-surveyor apprenticeship. And Pat goes to the People's Law College. Her parents own a dry-cleaning business back in Philly. I'm pretty sure Pat grew up middle-class.”

“I just never heard of a birthday party being potluck before, that's all.”

“Everything out here is potluck, you'll see.”

Traci began stirring together her secret herb dressing.

“Are you sure they wouldn't rather have some fried chicken?”

Traci sighed. “Most of them will be vegetarians.”

“Even the sistahs?” I imagined they'd be glad to get their mitts on some of my fried chicken.

“There won't be that many sistahs there.”

“Why not? It's Pat's party, isn't it?”

“That doesn't mean anything. Pat is a feminist first, black second.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Remember, this is San Francisco.”

My baby had been right, I'd never seen folks get so excited over a salad before. Me, I wouldn't mind sucking on a bone right now, I thought, surveying the table full of breads, quiche, dips, vegetable dishes, and this cheese that reminded me of cement. They even had the nerve to have that nasty Perrier water that Traci insisted I'd get used to. That's what people had said about sexual intercourse with men, too—that I'd get used to it. Maybe, if Myron had believed in longer foreplay, it wouldn't have hurt. And if Skylar had lasted more than two minutes, I could've gotten used to it. Just when it started getting good, it was over.