THE FOOL
Gigi-Giangiobbe-Rodriguez

         The man on the bicycle’s name is Tony, short for Antonio. Antonio was his father’s name, sour on his tongue like spoiled milk. He ditched Antonio and he goes by Tony, hoping he can pass as an Anthony. He had always thought Anthony sounded like someone who graduated from high school, maybe even from college. Someone with a dad who didn’t punch on his mom every night and whose mom didn’t have two separate personalities on a good day. Tony could have been the guy who graduated college if he had kept pedaling, but as it was, he hopped off his bike and wandered, often. 
         Tony had one hand on his ruby red bicycle and one hand on his cherry red gasoline drum that he just filled to the brim. Tony is as red as they come. His nose and ears are crimson from the gout. His eyes are bloodshot from years of drinking, smoking, and crying. That, and he doesn’t get much sleep. He’s been called a commie, socialist, anti-capitalist, revolutionary, Rudolph, bashful, flaming, angry—and he was most of these things. Even his bank account inched closer to being in the red every day. It wasn’t that he had spent more money than he’d made; the real problem was that he hadn’t had a job in decades, and that was just fine with him. 
         He was pedaling through the Tenderloin district in San Francisco, where he had lived for twenty‑five years. He had seen more grown men’s pricks and backsides last year in the Tenderloin than he did in his whole tour in Germany. Very often, the noise and smells of this neighborhood brought his mind traveling back to the barracks, to a time when he didn’t know what tomorrow would bring and it scared him, but at least he hadn’t completely given up yet. His mp3 player broke last week, so today while he rides he hums “Killing Yourself to Live” by Black Sabbath. He has a beautiful voice, though no one 
ever hears it. 
         Tony was well aware as he wandered through the streets that people assumed he was homeless, and that comforted him. The average person with their life together doesn’t bother to look at homeless people, to really see them or ask how they’re doing. He doesn’t want eyes on him, or questions directed at him. Today, as he made his commute in obscurity, he was bringing his full gasoline drum to his fire engine red Buick Skylark, which had been sitting in the same spot for months, on one of the only streets in San Francisco that remained unmetered and unpermitted. He had only received two street-sweeping tickets the whole time his car had been there, and that’s because it is an insanely steep and zigzaggy hill that most street- sweeping drivers conveniently “forget” to go up on their weekly route. 

                                                                                 ***

         He pedals past the weirdos he feels kinship with in the Haight Ashbury neighborhood, nodding at the few that make eye contact, keeps riding past Buena Vista Park, and hops off when he hits Belvedere Street. He squints through his sweat and scans the middle of the block for his rusty Buick, where he knows he left it. It takes him several seconds longer than it should to realize his car has been towed, or stolen, it really doesn’t matter which.
       Lungs burning with exercise and rage mingling with humiliation, he throws the gas drum and hears it thud and crack. Angry tears burn his eyes and he hopes someone lights a cigarette right now right this very moment and blows it all to fucking hell. Tony wishes he had a lighter or cigarettes on him because he is starting to get some sick thoughts and wants to do some sick things, and then the corner of the letter in his shirt pocket pokes him and snaps him out of his fury. He starts to walk his red bike over to the park, leaving the leaking red drum and the memory of his red car behind. He is drawn to a grove of towering eucalyptus trees, their bark torn and falling apart. He walks for a while as his anger turns to sadness and self-pity, the emotion he is most comfortable with. After about an hour, Tony finally sits on a large tree stump and feels for the contents of his breast pocket. Avoiding the piece of paper, he grabs the doobie next to it instead. Shit, he thinks, I don’t have a goddamn light. He walks up to a homeless man and offers a couple hits for a spark. 

                                                                                     ***

         By the time he returned to his stump, Tony had calmed considerably, and the breeze filtering through the grove was tepid like his mood. He took off his shoes and felt the grass with his toes. There was a letter from his son in his pocket that he hadn’t found the courage to read yet. His son had not contacted him for years, and considering Tony’s absence and behavior he more than understood this choice. Seeing the envelope in his mail slot made Tony feel both excited and ashamed. He took the letter out of his pocket and stared at his name on the envelope, inches away from a little red stamp, and was hit by a wave of nausea and jitters. Maybe after this smoke I’ll read it. But probably not. Most likely not. Where he sits, the salty ocean air is veiled by an herbaceous, arboreal smell. The eucalyptus trees and sweet bay laurels commanded his attention, and so while he sat and smoked he stared up at their peeling trunks. Every day it gets a bit harder to breathe, and the joint is probably hurting more than helping him, but he doesn’t care. Tomorrow, he will read the letter. Tomorrow.