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Group Leader
By
Bryan Stillman
He smoked his cigarette like it was life force itself. He wasn’t nervous at all. His black stretch cap was pulled low over his face, his dark brown leather jacket’s collar was pulled high around his neck; but he wasn’t chilly even with the late afternoon San Francisco summer fog traipsing through the Haight. He blew out slowly, methodically, not a jokester at a party blowing smoke rings but a man who marvels on a daily basis at the vastness of the universe. He liked smoking. He didn’t mind waiting for things to start. After all, there was so much to see and ponder.
The others gathered around, a polite distance from the smoking man. There was the woman whose own sweat sent her into spasms of self-consciousness. There was the barely legal boy who’d turned more tricks with wealthy, older gentleman than all the whores in Texas combined. There was the obese man who hadn’t looked someone in the eye for over a decade. And there was the college educated, unmarried, forty-five year old taxi driver with a savings account significantly less than the cost of a pack of cigarettes. None of us smoked though, we didn’t dare. Everything was a trigger.
This wasn’t an AA meeting; no one here could actually claim any form of sobriety. Not a chance. We were well beyond that. Sure, most of us had tried going cold turkey at least a half a dozen times. At least. Sure, a few years of seeing things from another perspective can turn things around. But we saw things from another perspective every single day. We’d been kicked out of the places that you’re sent after being kicked out of every other place. Incurable, unlovable, rejected, ridiculous, etc. All of the above. Whatever. I hate checking little boxes on questionnaires.
He wasn’t afraid to look at us. His stare made us nervous. His dashing looks and self-contained silence were intimidating, especially now before the meeting, when we were all just standing there, waiting to begin. He leaned against the old Victorian building as if they belonged together, as if even this gorgeous old building still standing proud after ninety-some years couldn’t shake the comfort he felt within his own skin. Maybe some of us were envious. It didn’t matter; none of us spoke before the meeting.
Marsha was fat and sluggish. Her once thick blond hair was now thin and devoid of color except for the remnants of a box of chestnut brown she bought at Walgreen’s. Her skin was pale and spotty with alcohol-broken capillaries and sunspots. She was only thirty-four years old but looked much older. She’d been beaten and sexually abused by her stepfather from the time she was ten years old until she ran away during junior year of High School. She’d been arrested for shoplifting, prostitution, and various drug charges more times than she could remember. She’s been clean and somewhat sober for two years, now working as a ticket taker at a theater on Geary out towards the beach. She lived in a home for screwed up people. San Francisco is full of those kinds of homes though most residents have no idea where they are. She rode in the taxi sometimes but said little.
Terry was nineteen years old and looked like an angel. A beautiful kid. When he spoke, a subtle shift occurred. A calculated awareness of his sexual power replaced whatever inherent innocence his youth suggested. He was terribly crafty and resourceful with his charm, good enough to cover a white trash background which found him living on his own in rural Albany, upstate New York, by the time he was eleven years old. Manipulation was standard operating procedure for Terry. He had blond blue smooth dazzle (meaning the kind of dazzle specific to those with blond hair, blue eyes and smooth skin), he also fell into depressions so deep and dark he couldn’t speak. He rode around in the taxi many times. The only thing that pulled him out of his depressions was work; the gratification he received by turning on some lonely old john brought him out of the muck. He lived with a high school teacher from San Jose who had a secret life that included an apartment in the city. Mr. Bob Jones was fifty-two, married, had two small children and a perfect attendance record at his local church. Terry was often attracted to good Christians with submissive tendencies. Have mercy on the criminal and all that jazz. They frequently rode in the taxi.
Antonio had achieved none of the saucy romantic drama often attached to his name in movies and the new Latino pop culture. Antonio was twenty-three years old, stood five feet seven, and weighed three hundred pounds. He filled the back seat entirely with his labored breathing and sweat soaked hidden parts. His parents had made it to California when he four years old. His mother went back when he was thirteen but his father stayed. They lived with four other Mexican immigrants all working in the restaurant business. Bussing tables, washing dishes, mopping floors: Antonio’s life had been one long cleaning shift since his mother left. He started eating heavily and never stopped. He didn’t work now; no one would hire him for anything but after-hours maintenance. His father supported him but didn’t talk to him. Antonio lived in the garage of the small house his father rented with the other immigrants. There was no heat and Antonio was only allowed to use the main bathroom when no one else was around. He pissed in the small backyard behind a thick flowering bush, which only barely covered his expansive frame. He shot down flowers with his urine like a ranger taking target practice. Antonio stared at the ground when he spoke to people; he had for years. In the taxi though, he talked, mostly about wanting to be a great chef, cooking for important people, and how much he missed his mother.
Several others had arrived while the smoking man kept smoking. Some of the stories were familiar but during rides, I couldn’t always concentrate enough to listen. I stared and watched people, which was my problem of course. I’d been slapped, punched, kissed, kidnapped, and forced to endure a variety of verbal slayings all within blocks of my below ground one room apartment just off Oak Street on Ashbury. Living in the Haight afforded me every chance possible to satisfy my needs.
I get high on staring. A great invisible cloud lifts up out of my body and leaves through my eyes when I stare into something. I stop listening to the world around me. I see only those upon whom I stare. I eat them visually. My soul is attempting to merge with theirs and see myself through their eyes. That’s mostly impossible, perhaps completely impossible, but there are many ways to attempt this. I’m an artist so everything impossible fascinates me.
If blood excited me, I’d be cut and dead. But I don’t mind verbal abuse at all; in fact, I encourage it. Sometimes there’s real affection there.
"You stupid cocksucking pig. Stop fucking staring at me. Fuck you, bro."
"Want to buy some green, pussy-boy? What the fuck’s wrong with you?"
"Dude, you’re not a taxi driver so stop asking me to get in."
Typical shit. All in a day’s labor in the Haight. I hang mostly near Amoeba Records close to Stanyan and the park. I don’t go into the park where the other laborers work since I need to work alone. I don’t ever need to go far since the action’s non-stop and I hate to walk. My Rasta couple lives near me and kidnap my ass every couple of months to give me torture via extreme smoking and sexual servitude. They’re the ones who told me about this group meeting for highly intelligent people with many lives.
"We used to think we had three children and lived a comfortable life. We all have past lives imposing themselves upon us. You’re not alone. Go listen to this man. He will show you your brilliance and help you get away from taxi driving."
As a part-time record salesman, I encounter so many different people. Some days it hurts. I always tell the group leader about what I’ve been through and whom I’ve seen that day. I’ve always been able to relate to Marsha since I spent years being emotionally allergic to sweat. I’ve been a prostitute and a drug-user. Terry’s no different than me: he grew up being exploited for his looks. I understand that. I really do. My hauntingly beautiful eyes have always drawn the undesirable to me. Antonio’s dank hovel reminds me so much of my own. He only looks when others aren’t looking. That’s the deepest form of staring, especially from a rearview mirror.
My group leader says so much with his eyes. He listens and nods his head. He mostly smokes and pulls his black stretch cap lower over his face. Outside the old Victorian is the perfect place for a meeting until the cops run us off. We sit on the ground sometimes and stare at him. He never sits; it would make him one of us and then we couldn’t listen. One day, we’ll go inside. One day, we’ll have refreshments and coffee and donations in a paper cup. One day, he’ll speak and we’ll all be saved.
Copyright © 2005 Bryan Stillman
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