< PreviousJack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 56Jim Stewart Just when the waiter brought our quiche, the fog drifted in. A fine mist settled down into the courtyard. There was a creaking, mechanical sound. I looked up to see a folding glass ceiling slowly cover the courtyard. The quiche was delish. When the bill was presented, there were two handmade chocolate bonbons on the tray. “Get those out of my sight,” Tom whispered through clenched teeth. They too were delish. One morning around ten, the phone rang. It was Tom. Did I have a few hours free? I did. “I’ll send my driver around to pick you up. He has a small something in an envelope for you. It’s very mild and doesn’t last long. If you want, you can take it when he picks you up. It should be coming on by the time you get there.” “By the time I get where?” I asked. “St. Mary’s Cathedral.” “You mean the Mary Maytag Cathedral,” I said. The new Roman Catholic cathedral on Gough Street, constructed in the form of a cross, was more reminiscent of a washing machine agita- tor than a crucifix. “That’s the one.” “Why are we going to Mary Maytag?” “We aren’t. You are. If you want to.” I wanted to. I wasn’t sure why. “My driver also has a ticket to get you in,” Tom said, and hung up. A ticket? Drugs? St. Mary’s Cathedral? What was going on? And what did Tom mean by his driver? I got out the Harris Tweed jacket. I was waiting on the front steps of my building when a black Ford sedan turned down Clementina Alley. On the door was the official circular seal of the City and County of San Francisco. It pulled over to the side, in front of me. I walked over and smiled at the driver. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and nondescript Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues57 tie. His dark hair was cut Marine-jarhead style. He was hot and young. “Are you Jim?” I nodded. He leaned over and opened the front passenger door. I got in. “Here’s something from Tom. He says if you take it now it should just be coming on by the time I get you to church.” He handed me a tiny double fold of paper. Very carefully I unfolded it. A miniscule teal-blue translucent square fell into the palm of my hand. I touched the tip of my tongue to it and drew it into my mouth. “Here’s the ticket,” the driver said, as he handed me an envelope. I opened the envelope. It was a ticket alright. It was a ticket to the installation of the new archbishop of the Archdiocese of San Francisco, John R. Quinn. “What’s with this car, and who are you?” I asked as he drove down Clementina and turned right onto 8 th Street. “Well, as you know, Tom, as director, has his own city car. I’m Mark, by the way.” He stuck out his hard hand for me to shake as he turned left onto Folsom with his left hand spinning the steering wheel. “I’m in the driver pool. Tom always asks for me. When he can. We ah, understand each other, you might say,” he said with a lopsided grin not dissimilar from Tom’s. I didn’t know, but I understood. Tom was right. By the time his driver reached the cathedral my eyesight had improved. Things sparkled. It was a beautiful day. I felt very in control. Not jumpy. I followed the crowd toward the main entrance, my ticket in hand. Somewhere, somebody must have taken my ticket, because I realized I no longer had it. I also realized I was inside a giant beehive. The bees were all dressed in medieval robes as the hive ascended into the bright blue sky. Cameramen buzzed about on electric golf carts, their cameras whirring. It was then I realized that Tom had not really given me a ticket to the installation of the archbishop. He had given me a ticket to the filming of a Fellini movie. Clouds of incense perfumed the Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 58Jim Stewart set, as men in long robes of white and gold proceeded at a stately pace down aisles toward the center of the universe. Off to the side, I found a pew and sat down. Suddenly other people on the pew with me arose, and then knelt on a padded prayer bench. We were in the cathedral, after all. I knelt too. Modern. Medieval. Tradition. Ancient ritual. Golf-cart media. Spaceship cathedral. Ecumenical. Roman Catholic. Orthodox. Greek, Russian, Latin. Episcopal. Lutheran. Sit stand kneel. Stand kneel sit. Kneel sit stand. More clouds of incense, as the white and gold robes returned the way they had come, back down the aisles. People were stand- ing up now, but they weren’t kneeling or sitting back down. They were flowing out into the aisles. They were leaving. It was over. John R. Quinn was officially the Archbishop of San Francisco. My translucent teal-blue transporter was gone. Its time had run out. The beehive spaceship had landed firmly back on Gough Street. Fellini had packed up his cameras and left. I walked out- side. It was still a beautiful day, but it no longer sparkled. Yellow cabs were parked along the street. Crowds of people were standing around in front of the cathedral. I got in a cab at the front of the line. “Ninth and Clementina,” I told the cabby. He took off with the obligatory screech of tires. Fog had started to drift in from the Pacific. I looked at my watch. In the four hours since Tom had called, I had passed through millennia. My mind drifted back to what the city driver had told me, while he drove to the cathedral. So Tom works for the city, I thought, as the cabbie pulled up in front of my place on Clem- entina. He’s a director for the City and County of San Francisco. Dir ector of what, you old rogue, I thought. Next >