Snitch World by Jim Nisbet Read Free Book Online

he’d first come to San Francisco, in the latter third of the 20th century, Klinger felt entirely at home. He turned up in early fall wearing a hickory shirt and jeans over long johns, and wool socks within a knackered pair of cork boots. He’d left his ten-gallon straw hat behind the seat of a hay truck whose driver woke him up in time to drop him off at the 505 feeder to I-80 West, just south of Wycoff, California. The guy had picked him up in Weed, allowing for the first continuous four hours of sleep since he crossed the border at Grand Forks, British Columbia—about 800 miles and a week before.
    But the point was, at that moment, dressed as he was, broke and alone, he’d never felt like he belonged someplace like he felt he belonged in San Francisco. People smiled at him on the street. In Washington Square Park two hours later, Klinger was sitting on a southwest-facing bench in the northeast corner of the park, his eyes closed against the afternoon sun. A guy sat down next him. Klinger didn’t open his eyes. The guy asked where he was coming from. Alogging camp about two hundred miles north of Spokane, Klinger told him, still not opening his eyes, north of the Idaho panhandle. What brings you to San Francisco. I heard it was a nice place. The damn truth, the man said. People seem to want to talk to you here, Klinger ventured. I first came here in a boxcar, the man said, in 1929. Klinger opened his eyes. The sunlight was brilliant, and he blinked and squinted. Didn’t have a red cent, the man continued, and that didn’t make a bit of difference to the first two or three hundred people I met. Klinger turned for a look. The guy had on a blue blazer with gold buttons, a red silk pocket square, white duck trousers, blue socks and a pair of tasseled black loafers. Met a guy called Harry Bridges. Ever hear of him? Can’t say as I have. One of the founders of the ILWU. ILWU … ? International Longshore and Warehouse Union, the man patiently explained. Then he chuckled. Damndest Australian you could ever hope to meet. Anyway, he found me a job on the docks. Later, we got our heads busted, did a little jail time together, and pissed off Joe McCarthy. A few years after the war, with a wife and a third kid on the way, I got into advertising. The man smiled at a pigeon nodding its way through a circle on the sidewalk in front of the bench. The money was better, but it was nowhere near as much fun. Now I’m retired. He sighed. Been retired. My wife parks me here every morning for an hour to take the sun while she attends her Tai Chi class. San Francisco’s been good to me. He held out his hand. Name’s Jimmy. Klinger returned the handshake. Hungry? Klinger nodded. Let’s go. The man stood slowly. There’s a good breakfast on the other side of Columbus—although, he winked, this being North Beach, you can get an argument about every word in that sentence.
    Jimmy bought him breakfast. Not even to hear his story, did Jimmy buy him breakfast, though he got someof that. No, Jimmy told Klinger, as they shook hands and parted, never to meet again, it was a pleasure to watch a hungry man eat.
    And where the fuck is Jimmy this morning, Klinger muttered, trembling on the chilly street. Deceased way less than half the time between then and now, no doubt, he scowled. Even Jimmy’s kids are probably dead by now, and maybe I’m the only man in this town that remembers him. What kind of a fucking human being am I? Did I ever help a guy out like he helped me? How can I help other people if I can’t even help myself? Now there’s a reason for self-improvement. Or an excuse for devolution. That logging camp might have been the last honest work I ever did. He squinted. I can’t remember.
    Back to the firing squad. Two days and six bucks to go. Carry-out destiny. Always round up, if you’re feeling pessimistic, and round down if you’re feeling otherwise, a meager dichotomy that leaves me pincered between five and six bucks. Klinger