Wake-Up Call. Joaquin De Torres
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of back roads to get to my favorite market on my way home. Another 20 minutes of driving off the main streets and into a few residential areas finally brought me to a small strip of stores, restaurants and boutiques on the north side of Oakland.
I pulled up in front of Fresh Mart Sato, a Safeway-size Asian market equipped with its own restaurant, take-out counters, as well as the aisle-by-aisle selection of exotic foods, vegetables and products from all over Asia. California is famous for these markets. Sato’s take-out line in particular, rife with steaming, freshly made delicacies, was ranked in the top 35 in the Bay Area, but it might as well been number one because I never went anywhere else.
I already decided mentally want I wanted, so this would be quick. The parking lot seemed pretty full, but I found a place near the far end of the strip mall adjacent to a park. It was a small park with copious benches, a bicycle path, walking paths, children’s playground, and a nice view of the surrounding hills marbled with houses. I’d had a long day, so I thought to eat my food in the park and relax, instead of taking it home. After I parked, I just sat for a moment to review my day, taking in the view of the park on my left, the row of stores and Fresh Mart Sato to my right.
You can’t save the world, Javier, I thought. At least you’ve given your best effort. You’ve got other patients, and more are surely to come. Move on, brother. Despite trying to suppress my dejection with encouraging thoughts, I was still saddened by the thought that those efforts would be for not. Doug Tuckman was probably dead.
I reached for the door handle when my cell phone chimed. It was a text but I didn’t recognize the number at all. Oh, shit! Now I know! It was probably the Alameda police department with information I had requested. Earlier I had received texts from the Oakland, San Mateo, Hayward, Richmond, Palo Alto, El Cerrito and Berkeley police departments to see if anyone with Doogie’s physical and mental description had been picked up lately. I had also made similar calls to several major hospitals and emergency rooms. They all answered with negative replies. So far, so good. Alameda P.D. was the last station I’d been waiting for today. In the coming days, I planned to go beyond the Bay Bridge and search in San Francisco itself. Doogie may have found a way to get across from Oakland to San Francisco by jumping into the back of a container truck, stealing aboard a Bay transport ship, hitchhiking over the bridge, or found some money to buy a BART train ticket. I don’t know. All I know is that San Francisco has about 7,000 homeless people. In a city just under 47 square miles, that’s about 140 homeless people per square mile. I had my work cut out for me.
The cell chimed again. Please, be there, Doogie, I thought with little enthusiasm. And please, don’t be dead. But when I read the message, I was pleasantly surprised to see it was from Brittany Tuckman.
Hi! Any leads on my brother yet? Let me know when you have time next week. Let’s do lunch! Brit
P.S. Now that you have my number, call me anytime. ;)
A dark cloud suddenly lifted off me. I needed that, someone to bring some kind of cheer into my long fruitless day. It was nice for her to say “my brother.” But although it was a nice text, I had nothing at all to report. I was about to check my calendar for next week to answer her when I heard a large metallic crash off to my left. I snapped my head and saw that a couple of teens on bikes ran into, or kicked down one of the large trash cans at the entrance to the park about 30 yards away, spilling its contents onto the grass and pebbled walkway. They laughed and just kept going, and I wondered if they’d done this to every trash can in the park.
This pathetic generation of youth! Assholes!
I retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the box I keep in my glove compartment, and got out to clean up the mess. I looked around and saw no one else nearby I could voice my displeasure to, so I got to work. I set the can upright again and took out the huge plastic bag within and began picking up the spilt trash. I looked in the direction of the perpetrators as they rode away and shook my head in disgust. After I cleaned up the pebbled trail, I moved to the smooth pavement of the bike path and cleaned that up. As I stepped onto the grass where most of the trash lay, I noticed someone beside me also picking up items.
“Can you believe this generation of kids? Delinquent bastards. Disgusting!” I spat without looking.
“D-D-D-D-DISH…KUSHHH…T-T-TING!” the person slurred loudly. I spun around, alarmed and astonished. Standing there with an armful of trash waiting for me to open the bag was Doogie Tuckman.
Chapter 3
A Perfect Stranger
I simply stood there, not knowing whether to feel shock or exhilaration. One thing that I noticed right off the bat was that contrary to the photos I had of him, he did not have a misshapen mouth. In the photos it was prominent and grotesquely distracting. The right side of his mouth actually slacked, pulled down by some invisible weight hanging from his lips. But as I looked at him, his mouth was perfectly normal.
His eyes! These, too, were different. In the photos they were droopy, dopey-looking. And his right eye was off-center; a lazy eye looking away while the left looked at you. But I was now staring at two perfectly normal eyes looking straight at me. Body-wise, he was the same as in the photos: short and obese. He wore a blue, plaid long-sleeve shirt, jeans, a camper’s sleeveless vest and a gray hoody—all of the ensemble was dirty, stained and tattered. He wore knee-high rubber rain boots caked in mud, and on his head was a knit winter cap. He had found a way to shave because his face, huge and round, was not shaggy as in the photos, but covered with dark spiny whiskers. I didn’t know what to say. I was still holding the bag of trash, and he was still holding an armful of trash. He decided to talk first.
“T-t-t-traaaa-shhhhh! E-e-ev-v-v-very-wh-wh-wh-ere!” He was looking at the bag I held. I came out of my stupor and opened the bag wide. He stepped forward with a limp and opened his arms. The trash tumbled into the bag. As he bent over to pick up more, I simply stood there and watched. He cleaned up the grass area and I put the full bag into the canister, peeling off my gloves and dropping them in.
“B-B-B-B-B-BYE-BYE!” He turned to leave, but I jumped in front of him.
“Don’t go!”
“Wh-wh-why?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Wh-wh-why?”
“I’ve been looking for you for weeks.”
“Wh-wh-why?”
“I want to help you.”
“Are you the commander?”
My heart stopped.
“ARE YOU THE COMMANDER?” he repeated with more firmness.
His question, both times, were without stutter or slur. His voice was clear, and the underlying tone, lucid. My mind and my pulse raced uncontrollably. Somewhere within this jolt of electric shock I realized I had to say something.
“I’m Javier Flores. I’m a doctor.”
“Are you the commander?” Again the question, but I knew neither the reference nor inference of which he spoke. He shook his head woefully, dropping his eyes, and turned to leave.
“No, but I know the commander!” I didn’t know what else to say. I thought about the dream, so vivid in my mind.
“Prove it.” Doogie’s eyes remained coldly on me. I had a hunch and I thought I’d try it.
“Wait here.” I ran back to my car and rummaged through the lidded compartment between the seats. I found what I was looking for and ran back to him. He had not moved from his spot. I held up a quarter between my index finger and thumb. His eyes widened. Then I closed the coin within my palm.
“Come with me,” I said. “And maybe we can find the commander.”
“You are not the commander,” he declared firmly, and began walking off.
“Doug!” I called out. He ignored me. “Doug Tuckman!” He kept walking. “DOOGIE!”
He