2: Cicero's date goes awry
It has been said that a single man, between the ages of twenty-four and thirty-four, living in San Francisco, in possession of a well-paying job and an able body but not in possession of a romantic partner, can go an entire year without registering for a half-marathon, marathon, triathlon, Ironman, century, bike-packing expedition, swim from Alcatraz, or any other athletic event which tests participants’ cardiovascular endurance.
Whether this is true is an exercise left to the reader. But if such men do exist, they have never counted Cicero Augustine among their company, or even among their second circle of acquaintances. His perfect morning began with a run into the park, down JFK, around Blue Heron Lake and up to the top of Strawberry Hill to take in the glistening city below. His trusty commuter was a Surly bedazzled with mismatched X-Pac bags, on which he would cruise down the Wiggle each morning and up along the Embarcadero each evening. He ran so many races he started e-mailing race directors asking for twenty dollars off the registration fee for the privilege of not taking home another damn shirt; whittled away countless hours scouring Facebook Marketplace for discounted Paul components; and religiously attended his favorite run club on Thursday evenings only to complain about the crowds on Strava. In short, his life orbited his lungs, so that he could avoid contemplation of its sorry state. So it is not surprising that, for lack of anything more interesting to discuss, we first meet him telling his date about an upcoming race:
“I’m doing a half-marathon next month!”
“Wow. That’s long. Twenty-something miles, right?”
“Well, thirteen, for the half.”
“Oh. What do you think about while running?”
“Ha!—it’s hard to say. Nothing, really. Or, not nothing. Sometimes something. I guess I’m not sure. What do you think about?”
“I don’t run.”
“Sure, okay—how about in general.”
“In general?”
“Yea—what do you think about, in general? You know, you’re going about your day. What are you thinking about?”
“My dog.”
“Okay. Right! Love dogs! Can I see a picture?”
“Um—my phone’s in my purse.”
“Right. Okay! Anything else you think about?”
“Well, work.”
“Work! Love work. Gotta love work.”
“I don’t.”
“Right—I don’t either. It was just a phrase. I’m just saying phrases. Well, let’s talk about something more interesting.”
“What I think about isn’t interesting to you?”
Cicero took a long sip from a glass of water and smiled in silence as a waiter dropped off a plate of food. He looked across the table. Her eyes were diverted, her shoulders slouched. Time to change the subject to something more romantic.
“What are you looking for?” he said.
To this a response came with unnerving speed, thoroughly rehearsed but not once considered: “I’m looking for a man who’s secure in his masculinity. Someone who can really bring out the divinity of my femininity.”
He nodded and solemnly replied, “That’s a lot of inities.”
This was apparently a bad thing to say. On hearing it she leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and deflated what little tension had existed like a stale air mattress.
He was saved from scrambling for a phrase to prop up the collapsing conversation when a man at a nearby table abruptly stood, pushed in his chair, and with two large strides stood in front of the pair. Thick black hair, slicked back so violently it could have been combed with a knife, rained from his square face towards the shoulders of his starchy denim jacket. A matching pair of jeans completed the outfit. Dark brown eyes started at Cicero, then down at the recently delivered food: three fish tacos, garnished with two bulbous slices of peeled orange. He picked one up, tilted his head back, and took a monstrous bite.
“These are fabulous. It’s the cara cara oranges. They’re so wonderful this time of year. I love the produce here in California—love the produce!” Another bite, then a third, and the taco was gone. He grabbed a napkin off Cicero’s lap and wiped the trail of salsa running from his lip.
“I apologize for the interruption. Is this a date?”
“Yes.”
“Sure,” said his date.
He glanced over; she was looking at the man.
“Ah! My apologies. I hate to interrupt a date, and especially one that’s going so well! But I must address an important personal matter between myself and the gentleman. All I’d like to ask for is ninety seconds of his time. I’m sure the lady won’t mind?”
“The lady doesn’t mind at all,” she said, with more verve than he’d heard all night.
“Wonderful. Thanks, really, for being so understanding. It means the world. Just ninety seconds.”
“I’ll go freshen up,” she said with a smile before standing—hesitating a moment, then grabbing her purse—and walking away.
“Well. My sincerest apologies, Mister…” He snapped his fingers and pointed.
“Ci—Cicero.”
“Cicero? Hah! So much for nominative determinism.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re a dreadful rhetorician, brother. Why do you think she’s so turned off?”
Cicero had no words, so he said nothing.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what’s up? What the matter is, or what’s the matter with me?”
“I—”. He took a deep breath and was arrested by the auto-body scent of the man’s glistening pomade. “What’s up?”
“There you go! I’ll keep it short: we’re looking for a roommate. Ezzie and I. You’ll meet Ezzie, she’s wonderful. Such an angel. We live in the big yellow Victorian over on Central. We’ve seen you around, always huffing and puffing through the park—we’ve had our eye on you for a while. We’d like you to be our roommate—one time offer—are you in?”
Cicero, dumbfounded, reached for his glass of water.
“Well, say something!”
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m not sure how that’s relevant to the question at hand. But I’m Gabriel, good to meet you.”
Gabriel stuck out his hand. Cicero didn’t shake it.
“Uh… I’m good. I don’t need to move. I have an apartment. And again, I don’t know you. So. Thanks, but no thanks.”
Gabriel grabbed another taco and took a bite. “Really, these cara cara oranges. Quite good. Well, my ninety seconds have come and gone. You enjoy the rest of your date”—he glanced towards the restroom—“and just think it over for me. It’s a nice house. You’ll come around.”
A piece of paper was slammed on the table and slid towards Cicero, and then Gabriel walked away. He paused a moment, turned, and placed a wad of cash on the table with a dismissive “for the food—Ezzie would kill me if I didn’t,” as if they both knew her. Then and left.
Cicero breathed out. He picked up the cash: $100 and the paper. Written in beautiful capital lettering with a blue restaurant pen:
CENTRAL AND FULTON. CORNER. BIG YELLOW ONE. $900 / MONTH. PLEASE?
$900? This is a joke. Who does he think he is? What am I going to tell Amanda?
Luckily this question needed no answering, because ten minutes later, after he finished the last limp, lukewarm taco, it became apparent she would not be returning. Cicero flagged a waiter and paid his bill. He crossed the street and felt his legs drift into the familiar rhythm of a loop around the Panhandle, as always when he was presented with a choice. He did not walk to make decisions; he walked to unearth decisions already made. Walking dried out his mind until cracks formed, and decisions bubbled up like molten lava.
On the first lap his turrets were staffed, his bridges raised, his storehouses filled with grain. I cannot just up and move live with a stranger. But on the second lap the steady beat of the advancing armies’ drums grew, their ladders hit the walls, and their flurry of arrows flew. I don’t love living alone—perhaps I can just go check it out? His mind fell quickly—by the third lap only the citadel remained, besieged by the allure of discovering what kind of man would offer to live with such a stranger he had so disrespected—and at such a price! As he came around the loop a fourth and final time he pulled the paper from his pocket and read it as if to confirm the address, but he already knew which house it was as certainly as he knew he was headed there.
He drew near and slowed. The house sucked up his attention like a sponge, growing taller than those around it. It waited, tired, on the corner: a resolute Victorian glaring at the river of passerby below. Its cracking yellow paint drooped with the weight of the evening. The western wall was adorned with two balconies with alabaster railings, from which a pair of crows were cawing at each other. A big bay window curtained by serpentine houseplants jutted out from the upper floors; below them, the ground-floor windows were boarded up with a slipshod mixture of cardboard and paper.
He crossed the street and walked up to the house. The yellow paint stopped at the ground floor to reveal bare wood and graffiti. The corner of one window was occupied by a forlorn copy of The Singularity is Near.
He tensed when a firm arm landed on his shoulder.
“That’s been there for a singularity or two.”
Cicero turned towards Gabriel, who shook his shoulder and thumped his chest twice.
“Welcome home!”