Entry XLIV--That picture of Gerri Santoro

First time it sinks in that I'm home again is when a big ex-jock yup in a three-piece clips half my body with his sharp elbow and sharper briefcase.

First time I've been downtown since I moved away...and it hasn't changed a bit.

Lived and worked here for so many years, but truly had enough of the place. Did my time, as it were. Have absolutely no desire to return now that I've tasted life out in the neighborhoods.

A surreal headrush overtakes me as I emerge on Market St. after ascending from the dull lighting of the Montgomery St. station.

It's usually warmer-and sunnier downtown than it is in the Haight, and sure enough, the glare sends me scurrying for my sunglasses.

As always, Ms. Cabal offered to send me a town car or limo or something, but would rather come here on my own terms--as futile a gesture as that may be.

Straight down Montgomery, searching for our meeting spot. End up passing it; the low-key entrance to Circa, the even lower-key restaurant Ms. Cabal owns.

Don't even need to inform the doorman who I am; he recognizes me spot-on even though I don't know him from Adam...or Eve, if he dresses that way after hours.

"Mr. Grimm, welcome to Circa. Ms. Cabal is expecting you, of course. Please follow me."

He's even more of a swisher than Ms. Cabal's butler--and I also notice he seems to relish calling her 'Ms. Cabal', whereas for me, it's more of a requirement.

He leads me past the common riffraff and to a secluded backroom in which only one table is situated. The table at which sits Ms. Cabal.

Busy as always, she fiddles about on her laptop, not acknowledging my presence as the waiter seats me and hands me a menu all in one well rehearsed smooth gesture.

Everything in and about Ms. Cabal's life is impeccable. Everything, that is, except for me.

The wait stands at silent attention as I half-read the menu, waiting...

After conducting her business, only then does Ms. Cabal raise her chin and meet my eyes with her smoldering gaze, still potent on a sunny afternoon.

"Hello, Darwin, thank you for coming."

"Hello, Ms. Cabal. You're welcome."

Only after my proper response does she relinquish her grip on my eyes, and by extension, my entire being.

She gestures blithely at the menu half-danging from my fingers, cuing me: "Order anything you like," Ms. Cabal says to me, then turns to the waiter, "I'll have the Alaskan baked salmon."

Damn her continual precise assuredness, never gives me a chance to order

Flip the menu to the waiter in resignation, "Salad of the day, French dressing."

"Very good sir." He responds ever so professionally, even though I know he's suppressing a sneer at my decision to forgo the vinaigrette choice of dressing.

With the waiter out of earshot, can speak more freely with Ms. Cabal, "I didn't know we were going to have meetings in public anymore, I thought they were confined to dungeons and places like that."

Without looking up, Ms. Cabal promises me, "If you would like to be entombed in a dungeon, I can arrange that quite easily. I'll simply tell the waiter to cancel the salad and no one will be the wiser."

Gulp down hard at least twice if not more; not sure if Ms. Cabal would actually do it, but do know she's certainly capable of doing it, and that's all that matters far as I'm concerned.

As always, Ms. Cabal doesn't allow any misconceptions to linger and proceeds to clarify, "Dungeons are not necessarily because you have been been exceedingly pleasing me; I could not have imagined the Cult being more of a success if I had completely constructed it myself out of raw subatomic particles."

"Thank you, Ms. Cabal." It's always good to be on her good side.

"But as I informed you at the onset of this venture, I always had much more extensive plans in mind when it came to this organization and that which it will represent and that which it will become.

"Already having published a decidedly feminist-leaning book and now having co-founded a cult that counts women as half its membership, the next logical step is for you to become involved with a woman's clinic."

"An abortion clinic?"

"Yes. There is need for one in the South Bay."

"Yeah, I read about the last one down there closing last month. But how the hell am I going to open up an abortion clinic?"

Having already read my mind to understand exactly where I'm coming from, Ms. Cabal answers, "Darwin, how often are you going to forget how wealthy I am? Not to mention the access I have to the world's top venture capital investors. Money is never an object."

"Then why not open up your own clinic?" I ask rhetorically, knowing how wrong I am before the last words left my lips.

But to rub it in, she tells me anyway, "For the same reason that I did not write the book myself.

"And you realize you won't be in this alone; at FireWheel alone you have Doctor ? and Anna Belmont is a nurse at your disposal."

"Yeah, if they'd even agree to do it. They became Wheelers to live, not looking for jobs. I mean, Doc's retired."

The disgust in her eyes is more than I can take, have to look away, across the room at anything, nothing, just not her eyes.

Not that it matters. Not like I can escape her voice, her presence:

"Darwin, you should know by now that I would not have even brought up Anna and Doc's names unless I knew they would be amenable to our proposal. I should clarify; Anna will jump at the chance. Doc will take some convincing--that's where you come in. You can convince Doc to work at the Clinic."

Know I shouldn't challenge her, but what the hell: "Why is it so important to have Doc be part of it? Surely there are plenty of unemployed abortionists we can hire?"

Her eyes morph into sinister slits as she informs me: "Because I wish to better integrate members of the cult with this venture. The continuity is critical to maintaining our unified vision. And frankly, I'm more than a little disappointed that you do not share that vision at present.

"You will share it in the future," Ms. Cabal assures me and the shiver covers me from the part in my hair to the annoying callous on the bottom of my pinky toe.

But it's not a shiver that lasts very long, because I know she's right and before too long I'll come around to her way of thinking. It's just that she springs everything on me all at once, it's hard to process everything and come to sound decisions sitting here. Especially with my stomach starting to grumble.

Right on cue, my custom salad is placed before me and it's green fresh and confirmed delicious once the first forkful is placed in my mouth.

"Do the main courses taste as good as the salad?" I ask.

"Why don't you order one and find out?" comes her rhetorical response.

Fortunately, the obligatory pause in our conversation that comes with the consumption of food slows things down, allowing me to catch up to my thoughts, Ms. Cabal already long since having done so.

It also allows me the time to formulate questions I'm usually so shitty at coming up with on the spot.

"Why is an abortion clinic the next most logical venture, if those were your words?"

"Actually, you said it better than I did originally. That's why you are the writer."

She takes another seemingly scrumptious bite of her salmon before answering my question:

"And it is your writing you should be reflecting back upon. What was the subject matter that garnered the most attention? The most controversy? The most emotional and visceral responses?"

Crunch on an crunchy crouton that contrasts perfectly with the crispness of the lettuce. Even I'm not so dense that it takes me that long to recall: "Abortion. The essay on women's rights."

"Precisely. More than anyone else, the Bye Bull struck a chord with women. It's been women that put you on the bestseller list and it was women who made up the majority of your lecture audience."

"I thought you put me on the bestseller list."

"And what gender am I?" she rhetorically reminds me.

Before the croutons are wiped out, start to come around to Ms. Cabal's way of thinking. (Like when don't I?)

I mean, eventually the cult had to do something, right? Something in a social context, I mean.

And I suppose working toward women's rights was an inevitable direction, if we were truly to go up against christianity.

More I think about it, more it appeals to me-what will better piss off the bomb-hurlers than if I start a clinic? What better way to raise a middle finger to all the motherfuckers who burned my books and threw bombs at me or got a secret thrill in their pants when they heard one was thrown at me.

And what the hell, if Ms. Cabal's footing the bill for all this, might as well just go along for the ride like I have everything else since I first met her.

Soak up the last of my inappropriate dressing with the last forkful of lettuce and at that moment, allow my mind to be excited about the idea of the clinic.

If this time with Ms. Cabal has taught me anything, it's that the human mind can dictate one's interest or lack of interest in a given subject. Simple--and as complex--as that.

Naturally, I need not express my new found conviction in words--Ms. Cabal has already picked up on my latest reflection and she smiles approval.

A hyper headrush of spontaneity sweeps over and renders me gushing: "Can't wait to tell the others about it; I'll convene a special meeting tonight, I think everyone's going to be home."

Her warms smile of endorsement is instantly discarded in favor of stern advisement: "You'll do no such thing. You will inform the other members of FireWheel at the special media event I've planned. I want the cameras to document the moment when you first share the announcement for the FireWheel Clinic with your co inhabitants."

"Media event?"

"Yes, DVNT will be shooting a documentary inside the flat."

"You're asking me or you're telling me?"

"What do you think?"

Look away, grinding my teeth in frustration. Always kneeling before her. And why not? Wouldn't be in this position, wouldn't be with Cassandra, would be stuck in my crummy apartment not far from here if not for her. Besides, didn't I just decide 4.2 minutes ago that I was going along with the whole clinic idea? But DVNT? I've always despised their conventionality. Now can they possibly serve our interests?

Again, no need to vocalize--either speak it or think it, but no need for both--and she's already answering my concern:

"The publicity generated by a DVNT report will aid greatly in the funding of the clinic's construction and maintenance."

"Yeah," I counter weakly, "but do we really want all those cameras snooping around FireWheel?"

"Snooping? You're being paranoid, Darwin. No one at the cult has a thing to hide. DVNT will be there a week from Saturday. You are to make sure that everyone is present and available for the entire day."

"That'll be real easy," I snap back

"I'm not concerned with how easy or difficult it is for you Darwin, just make it happen. You have over a week, and nothing else to do with your time. I won't ask you again."

I'm more enslaved than an atheistic serf during the Middle Ages.

She doesn't appreciate that thought: "Why don't you finish your salad and think about how you're going to make sure next Saturday runs as smoothly as possible rather than indulging in self-pity."

Stuff the final wedge of Romaine, tomato and one more of those tasty croutons into my mouth with resentment that she picks up on and won't let go of:

"You're not any kind of 'slave' Darwin, anytime you want to give this all up and leave this all behind, you are welcome to do so. But you know in your heart we are building towards something here and you're not about to give that up to what, return to your previous life? So please just go along with the plans I am laying out before you and the reason I invited you to lunch today."

Determined not going to think my thoughts around her, but just speak them all--creeps me out less when she responds.

"You're inescapable. It's not like I can possibly doubt you, now can I?"

For the first time in a long time (ever?), she didn't expect that from me and she readily acknowledges it, "That is why I chose you to be my writer Darwin, it's not many who catch me off-guard--I fully anticipated you to continue battling me on the subject. Apparently it doesn't take a cold dungeon to render you compliant with my desires."

Can't help but self-consciously twist my head over shoulders left and right, to ensure no one heard her allusion to our cellar dwelling. Another futile gesture on my part; our backroom location ensures complete solitude.

Also realize our conversation has come full circle from discussion of literal dungeons to virtual slavery.

She looks over my empty plate and then up at me: "I know you don't want a ride home, so you are free to leave anytime you wish."

Meaning I should leave now, she's done with me. Which is fine, so I rise from the table, wiping off my chin as a means to conjure one more question:

"As for this clinic...what exactly will be my role?"

"Why Darwin, you'll be the clinic's Executive Director, of course."

Knees go all spaghetti, throat hard apple lump at the prospects.

Ms. Cabal catches my fright and laughs, "Relax, I'm kidding. Do you think the custodianship of a woman's clinic would be entrusted to an introverted male writer with absolutely zero experience in the area?"

A sharper, more condescending laugh follows and that would really hurt if it wasn't so true.

Ms. Cabal sends me off with one more verbal sticky note: "Remember Darwin, you are to have that discussion with Doc as we discussed. I will call you early next week so we can firm up more details about the clinic and the DVNT shoot."

"Yes Ms. Cabal." Also learned to never end a conversation with her with anything but complete compliance. Can argue and disagree and challenge in between, but not when it's time for me to leave her presence.

And leave it I do, and before I exit our private back room, can already hear her back on the laptop, communicating with the rest of the world.

A calming relief to hit the busy frantic frenetic downtown streets; can walk and burn off some of the nervous energy that is invariably stored up whenever I have an encounter with Ms. Cabal.

Fast as my pace is, mind is racing much faster than feet with all that is about to transpire. Jeez, just when I was getting used to living with nine other people after a lifetime of solitude, now I have to deal with building a woman's clinic and entertain pukes from the TV channel that scores number one in ratings with assholes between the ages of 18 and 49.

Took the Muni underground back to the upper Haight, and though the street itself was packed as it often is, I was essentially oblivious to them all.

Dragged my feet up the stairs to the flat and into the hallway and down to our room. Was glad no one was lurking about, not in the mood to talk.

For that reason I'm not thrilled to see Cassandra painting; always feel like been throough the wringer whenever I've had an encounter with Ms. Cabal and this time is no different.

AT SOME POINT
Even though Ms. Cabal instructed me otherwise, going to tell Cassandra about the clinic. She deserves to know/But is it because she deserves to know, or because she'll be rightfully pissed when she finds out I didn't tell her first?

Doesn't matter, going to tell her. What's Ms. Cabal going to do, suddenly appear in a cloud of smoke and freeze Cassandra so she can't hear?

My fear is laughable, or would be, if I didn't know just what Ms. Cabal is capable of--pretty much anything and everything.

Slowly remove my coat; generally hate prolonged deliberate measured actions, but really hoping this time they help me unwind from the encounter.

"So how did your meeting go with Ms. Cabal? You said you were going to eat at her restaurant? How was it? What did you eat?"

A rapid succession of questions like that means she's in a good mood; a welcome relief. Take a quick glance over at her painting and it looks like it's going good.

Figure I'll start with the easy answers: "Had a salad. Pissed off the waiter when I asked for French dressing on the salad of the day."

Cassandra playfully pops her head out from the easel, rolling her eyes: "Hm, I wouldn't know anything about that, now would I?"

Of course her comment is totally sarcastic--pretty much every time we've dined out, I've managed to piss off at least one waiter or a cook if not both with my 'menu modifications'

We share a laugh and it feels good, like when we first kissed.

Damn, if she could just be like this every day...or even every other day, I'd settle for that, and it would do wonders for our relationship in the midst of Firewheel

Do my best to keep the conversation innocuous until it's time to drop the bomb "The food was good--for a salad; the restaurant was fine--I didn't really look around at it much. You know how I am..."

She nods complete understanding.

"She made an interesting proposal..."

"She wants to marry you?"

"That sort of proposal wouldn't be interesting, it'd be outlandish."

Never realized how much the creative process--and success with it--was so integral to Cassandra's mood.

"She wants to open up a woman's clinic--an abortion clinic. She wants it to be an extension of the FireWheel cult.

Cassandra ducks her head back behind the easel, resuming her brushwork and ostensibly, to mull over what I just disclosed.

"That sounds great."

"Really? You really think so?"

She throws me a funny look, as if surprised how geeked I am over all this: "Yeah, sure...why wouldn't I? I mean...I keep thinking of that picture of Gerri Santoro."

"Who?"

"Santoro. Gerri Santoro. Back in the 1970's, when women libbers were fighting for abortion rights, they used a picture of her to symbolize their cause. It was a real gruesome picture of her after a botched abortion went wrong and left her dead."





SHE APPROVES, SAYING SHE KEEPS THINKING OF THAT PIC OF GERRI SANTORO, PLUS IT MIGHT BE A CHANCE TO GET SOME OF THE WHEELERS OUT OF THE HOUSE

SHE ACTS LIKE FIREWHEEL IS AN EXPERIMENT THAT'S GOING TO END SOMEDAY; AND MAYBE IT WILL, BUT ONLY IF THAT'S WHAT IS MEANT TO BE BUT NOT BY DESIGN--UNLESS IT'S MS. CABAL DOING THE DESIGNING

SOME POINT

Feels like my heart is up in my throat; having to broach the subject of the clinic with Doc is making me more nervous than any time I had to ask a woman for a date. With woman, it was the fear of rejection. With Doc, it's the fear of having him leaving, leaving FireWheel that much weaker.

Had to wait for the opportune time for Doc to be alone; as he is now, reading a novel that looks like it's called Presumptuous Proposal. Can tell by where the book is open that he's still early into the read, which is a good sign, don't want to bother him during a climactic moment.

Also wanted him to be alone because I want to ask him this with Anna absent; she could affect his reaction, and ultimately, his decision, by her presence, either positively or negatively, and don't want to chance it.

Course he'll discuss all this with her at some point before making an ultimate decision--I want him too, but don't want her here running potential interference when I first lay it on him.

"Hey, Doc, how would you like to un-retire?"

"How's that?"

Should've known better; un-retire's not even a word. Besides, so nervous, I'm breathing too fast, and I spoke too fast:

"I mean to say, how would you like to go back into practice, at least, working for the soon-to-be--, or at least, eventually-to-be-formed FireWheel Clinic for Women."

Really impossible to describe the complex look on Doc's face as he attempts to process what's just been laid before him. Can see a mix of joy and anticipation that meaningful purpose brings--but also the guarded reserve that comes with his age and the uncertainty wrought by this sudden challenge to his retirement/the notion that he had retired.

But think the joy and anticipation are winning out: "What would you need me to do...?"

His response is optimistic; he didn't shoot me down, or try to pin me down for money, just "what do you need"--which is also a more positive phrasing than if he had asked "what do you want?"

Still, am going cautious with this, every step of the way:

"Certainly no one's asking you to work full time--"

"Who's 'no one'?"

Chuckle over Doc's sharpness, "I'll explain all that--I'll explain everything, just as long as you agree to do it, cause don't think we can pull it off without you."

"Who's 'we'?"

Could give him another stall, but figure owe him something; don't want to lose him before he's even joined up:

"The Clinic will be founded by me, of course, and D'mona Cabal. Do you know her? She published the Bye Bull."

Instant recognition flashes across Doc's engaging face; if we could all be as youthful as he is at his age. Doc makes me feel old, and maybe one day I'll tell him that.

"Of course," Doc responds, but then a quizzical look takes over, "I didn't realize you were still involved with her."

Swallow hard due to the myriad of implications of his statement--though I'm entirely positive he meant it in the most professional manner.

Still, my response stumbles out of the gate, "Uh, yes, actually, eh, I, that is we, still do business." Some clarity comes. "That is to say, she invests me in my ideas. Or if she doesn't invest in them, she finds someone who does."

"That must be wonderful; to have someone so powerful like that in your corner."

Internalized bitter chuckle; usually it's me sitting in the corner with Ms. Cabal; but Doc doesn't need to know that. Although power does play into it, that's for sure.

"Yes," I respond politely, "it's a tremendous advantage if you're an idea guy with no money, as I tend to be. She can turn my dreams into reality--she already has--and there is a tremendous opportunity with this clinic before us to make a difference."

jesus, better slow down there, Darwin, you're beginning to sound like a promotional pamphlet.

Shut up as Doc seems to be locked in thought--I've said enough; not many words are necessary when it comes to Doc, just give him the basic facts and he'll process the rest and come to a sound decision. Already realized that about him in his short time here.

And neither does it take him very long to reach a classy conclusion: "First of all, thank you very much for even considering me, especially at my advanced age, for such a prominent honor--"

"Your age is irrelevant, Doc, you--"

"Please, let me finish while I have the words assembled in my mind. Though I did officially retire, I will admit that I have felt an emptiness in my life ever since. An emptiness I have attempted to fill both by moving in here with you and the others, and more recently, by engaging in a relationship with a woman some 40 years my junior>"

All I can and allow myself to do--is nod.

"But there is nothing like the interaction with a patient and the satisfaction in guiding a patient through an ordeal like abortion. If people only knew the pain in being an unwanted child,they wouldn't be so quick to condemn abortion."

Nod total agreement, adding: "Anyone who opposes abortion hasn't thought the issue through. Certainly no male who opposes termination of pregnancy has ever thought it through."

My conviction seems to embolden Doc, or at least ply him more flexible. "So if, and only if, I agree to this, when would this start? What would my specific responsibilities be? Would Anna be involved?"

"I don't know, I don't know, and yes. In fact, I was hoping you'd discuss the issue with Anna, and save me the tension and the trouble, frankly."

My request brings a bemused smile to Doc's face: "Why, Darwin, was it really so difficult for an experienced public speaker like yourself to approach a humble old man like myself?"

"Harder than all the speeches I'd have to give combined, Doc, let me tell you."

Doc seems almost touched at my admission. "Why, son?"

"Because I didn't want you to think I just invited you to live here to recruit you to work at some medical clinic--especially being that you made it clear that you are retired when you moved in here, not that you probably ever suspected I'd be inviting you to join the staff at a woman's clinic.

"I'd never want to lose your friendship, Doc, especially now that I've known it."

Touches Doc even more, and he deflates some of the emotion by cracking, "I know you just said that to get me to work at your damn clinic."

That draws a much needed laugh from me. "Thanks for making it easy on me Doc. Take all the time you need to think it over."

Course, what I want to say to Doc is: "Listen, Doc, you'd better say YES by next Saturday, 'cause that's what Ms. Cabal is expecting..."

But all I do is flash a parting smile his way and stroll down the hallway back to my room. Just have to hope he's going to say yes and I won't have to try to conjure up some other way to convince him.