SHALLOW AND DEEP

by Jason S. Ridler

Downtown Berkeley

Now

"Worried you were gone, bro."

We'd circled North Berkeley BART once, like friends who didn't want to go home. Because this is what the market wants. Not tomes analyzing the realpolitik in Stalin's Russia. Or the butchery of the Gulag in gold mining. Or anything else from my fields.

"Need fresh shots. Nothing fuzzy. Clear. A hundred. I can make anything work, but a hundred is best. Gives me variety to play with, allows for redundancy. Video good if you can scratch it."

The homeless bundle shook. Slip-on sandals and black-bottomed white socks, it nestled like a dust bunny on the outer rotunda of the station, desiccated mouth twitching beneath a yellow Warriors shirt. We descended the stairs to a parking lot we didn't use, Ford bikes with punctured tires stationed to our left.

"Variety is good. But just the face."

My next class was eight a.m., if Bernie showed.

5Chan snorted, then spat phlegm on the windshield of a red Prius. "The body is useless to the client."

A gaggle of passengers scurried out of the station with intentional steps and a panoply of uniforms: suits, skirts, bike shorts, designer jeans with custom rips, and everyone's perfume and cologne long liquidated.

"Meet in two weeks here on Saturday. Old e-mails are dead. Got it?"

I nodded. 5Chan liked me timid, quiet, and listening. Made him feel in control. And it bought me work and information.

5Chan lit up an immaculately rolled joint and took his time dragging in smoke. Hoodie, limited-edition Purple Rain concert shirt before his time by a decade, Chucks, and well-cultivated and shiny beard that smelled of pine. Berkeley trash, but "computers" got him leveled up. He had never offered me a hit.

"Two grand. More coming if you stick. No more vanishing acts. You are my golden egg, Koba. How the fuck do you do it?"

I shrugged, because it was rhetorical.

The smoke flittered out of his mouth as he spoke. "My dad was a grocer. Worked at Andronico's for years. Said that there was only two things that people always need. Bread and caskets. But he was wrong. Lust, bro. That's our bread and casket."

I just wanted the assignment, not a lesson, I had prep. We turned left.

"I saw it coming," His eyes narrowed, an oracle revealing wisdom to a plebe. "People are tired of fake. Silicon tits and Kardashian ass outside their paygrade. They want to fuck their neighbor, their boss, the UCB slut at Trader Joe's who thinks they're a cuck, their mom, their grandma. That's the escape, Koba. Slap the ex-girlfriend's face on a porn star, then watch her gangbanged and double-stuffed until she's sucking come between ten guys' toes and calling them daddy. That's the dream. That's the future, Koba. And we're the kings in Berkeley. Say, you ever want one for yourself, you let me know."

I smiled. "Can't afford our rates."

He wheezed, holding the joint at his lips. "No doubt. No doubt. Okay, back to work."

He gave me the target, then went his own way.

Walking down Delaware, I steadied my breathing while the sun flared my skin.

I knew her. But we hadn't met.

Sonja was a Republican. Former track star who hurt her knee and switched to teaching. She was recently promoted up and into the position of bulldog between teachers and parents. We'd never met face to face, but she'd given a tour around the school's cubicles once. Busty blonde, high voice, pink heels, with a lime sundress and bubbly affect that assured the parents walking the grounds that the teachers here were first-rate. "We even have PhDs in biology, history, and more. So Ainsley is getting the best." The mother mentioned her daughter had an intensive cross-country running schedule. "That's great! Where do you run?"

"My old school, and Aquatic Park."

"Me too! Maybe we can be run buddies."

Aquatic Park. Not far from me. Hell. This was almost too easy.

I pressed the crooked gate to the back entrance of my illegal in-law. My monitor shone blue in the dark, casting shadows from book towers onto the furniture of my old life. Love seat. Futon. Books. Mail about debt.

One job. Two grand. Fifty-Seven Hours of Teaching.

Thucydides warned about immediate and long-term causes for landmark events. Empires don't fall because someone dies. Wars don't start because an emperor is shot while on tour. The Soviet Union didn't crumble because Reagan was chosen by God to defeat the Evil Empire.

Beside my futon was my camera bag.

I checked the BP website.

 

Hey, Russel. Wanted to touch base. Bernie's parents have requested that Bernie find another teacher after the incident you reported. While we understand their desire, I want you to know that Berkeley Prep is proud to have you and stands by your assessment. You've done so well mentoring our most challenged students, and we know that summer is difficult in terms of hours and you'd like to maintain more than ten hours a week (believe me, I know!). I promise that we will fill your roster as soon as possible. Hold tight, Dr. Walker!

 

Sonja K. Tempest, BSc

Director of Student Relations

 

I checked my student report.

 

RUSSEL FIELDS—Student Evaluation. I apologize for the use of feminine pronouns but in the interest of time I will use she as Bernie continues to change her mind on which she prefers. Bernie arrived at class fifteen minutes late. When asked why she said "bus" even though I saw her in study hall in the period before class. As I e-mailed you earlier, the assignment sent via e-mail by Bernie was only two pages long, not ten. When I asked why it was so short she said, "I write concisely." I indicated that was no excuse and the paper was, as it stood, a failure. She said, "So what?" I said that meant she would have to repeat the entire class again. When she said, "I don't care," I informed her that without a proper paper she would fail history and not be eligible for graduation and thus could not apply to college.

At this point Bernie stood and swung her fist in front of my face while calling me a liar, someone who talked behind her back, and then called me a "cunt."

 

An hour after that report, I'd found 5Chan's emergency e-mail. My message? Can shoot.

* * *

Ducks hustled for an upper-class family's artisanal crumbs from Acme Bread on a patch of exposed pathway that ran beside the lagoon. A chunk of property that was grassy, with a parking lot for early-morning stoners and kayakers. A sax player sat on the only bench, a cut tree stump keeping him shining bright as he ran scales through game-show themes: Wheel of Fortune, The Price Is Right, and Jeopardy! before he trailed off.

I shuffled in beige, exhausted from another useless night on Indeed. I sat beneath the tree, adjusting the lens of my geriatric Canon, and then assumed the position of a bored thirtysomething taking in nature's splendor because he didn't get laid the night before. Cars rumbled behind me to find empty spots to smoke up. Behind us all, Amtrak blew its way the hell out of Berkeley. My warm-up was shooting the parade of Aquatic Park:

—One unicycle teen with handlebar mustache.

—One forty-year-old white woman in black with full makeup who pushed a five-hundred-dollar covered stroller holding a Chihuahua who eyed all with the indifference of Molotov.

—One black man and a Latina in red exercise gear, weights tied to their ankles, lapping the old man in the gray tracksuit who was almost as overweight as me.

—Gaggle of stoner chicks in black and too much purple eye shadow and band T-shirts, shambling and laughing and speaking like texts.

—A gray homeless fortysomething in long sleeves who smelled like sun-bleached urine, pulling a trolley of corporate beer cans with craft labels and Coke bottles.

Ten burning minutes later, the bouncing blonde emerged from behind the red cabin that rents three-wheeled bikes to the disabled. Sonja: fit but chubby, unable or unwilling to kill her freshman fifteen. A white-and-blue Stanford shirt and pink trunks. No sunglasses (5Chan would be ecstatic).

I focused. Then I shot her face a hundred times, tracking her, then switched from photo to video.

"You."

I released the trigger.

Bernie stood above me. Again. Baggy striped sweater. Elbows angular. Brown trousers and terra-cotta clogs. I kept his preferred pronoun in mind.

"Morning."

"What are you doing here?"

"Relaxing. You?"

"I always walk the park. I never see you."

I nodded. "Guess I'm like a ghost outside the school."

Bernie stinkfaced. "You do photography?"

"Sometimes."

Bernie had three emotions: rage, indifference, and excitement if we were talking about the manga and anime that he liked. Bernie's eyes tracked Sonja and mooned, countenance starved.

The next move would dictate my future. So I said nothing.

Bernie blinked. "5Chan?"

I exhaled and smiled.

Bernie did not. "No way."

I shrugged. Sonja had already run the exposed patch and into the thicket of shadows made by Aquatic Park's winding corridor of trees.

"You can't tell."

I put my camera down. Still recording.

"You can't say anything. I'll tell them you sent them to me."

Bernie was smart but scared and talking dumb. No one made him spend two grand of his parents' cash for pictures of teachers he wanted to fuck.

I had him. Better than a black eye he refused to give me. I stood. Bernie backed up. Leaves cut shallows of light across his sweating face. "I'm sorry you won't be in my class anymore, Bernie. I was looking forward to your paper on the Pink Triangles as victims of the Holocaust."

"Huh?"

"We made good progress." I took a step back. "Hope you can find a teacher who understands you and your interests, Bernie."

Tiny fists shook so hard I expected them to leak red and white.

"I think that's what I do best. Understand students. Help them get what they want and I get paid for it."

I tapped the camera, next to the red light.

Bernie recoiled, then stopped. "I don't get it."

I hit pause. "I'd love to be a photographer full-time. I'm really good. Especially faces." I sighed. "But not enough money in it, so I have to keep teaching. Wish I had more clients. Until then I may have to keep teaching. Including you."

Bernie's face scrunched.

"Take care, Bernie. Enjoy what you see in the park."

 

Hey Russel! I'm sorry but I haven't found any new students yet, but trust me I am trying! As soon as we have some. And thanks for taking over Camera Club! We've had some new hires and we need photo ID and pictures for the teacher wall. Can you be here at 8:00, Dr. Walker? And thanks for the specs on making it more glamorous! I can't wait. My old one has me looking like a hag! LOL!

S

* * *

"Dude, I told you. I fucking told you." Ashby BART was a concrete bunker that could have probably taken a non-nuke ICBM hit. 5Chan and I walked the perimeter, him in the lead, puffing vape in my face. "We're blowing up. I got so many orders I may need to hire more shooters."

I shrugged. "Might increase the risk."

"Shit. You're right. Dude, we are going to clear close to fifty K this quarter if you can do what you do."

I smiled.

"My work is sick and getting sicker. This last one was like sticking your weird lesbian aunt into a slasher flick and vine. I almost kept a copy. Almost."

I nodded.

"Damn, bro. Say something! You're making enough to have one of your own. Hell, I'm feeling magnanimous. I'll do a freebie. Just name it."

Never saw any of the finished work. What 5Chan did with the carousel of other people's fantasies. Bank teller. Bus driver. Clerks in designer women's dress shops. Lots of waitresses, bartenders, and other service personnel. Nurse. Hygenist. Teachers. So many teachers. Weekends in Walnut Creek, Concord, and San Leandro at gyms, outside yoga classes, and in downtown Berkeley near the theaters. And that awful parking lot at Trader Joe's.

"Really?"

5Chan held in his vape stream, then let it out his nose. "Name it."

"The one you made for the client who wanted Sonja Tempest."

He ssssss'd. "Can't do it, bro. That's the 5Chan guarantee: one-of-a-kind work for one-of-a-kind clients."

"You said name it." I shrugged.

He huffed a laugh. "Okay, okay. Just this once. Because we are on the cusp of a renaissance. But don't judge, okay? We're all entitled to our fucked-up shit."

* * *

I pushed the USB inside the port. The screen went black before Microsoft Silverlight read the file and readied it. No credits, just a fade.

There was Sonja. Sorta.

Alone on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, arms braced on the black mattress. Dirty-blond now. The outfit was official. Pencil skirt and caramel stockings. Black heels and purple blouse. But fuck if that wasn't Sonja's face.

"Hey there," she said in a voice twenty years and packs of Luckys older. "I know that right now, things are hard." She unbuttoned her blouse. "And it seems like there's no escape. And you're so alone." My gut sank. "You're different. So different there's no one you can talk to." Sonja caressed the space between DD breasts held back by a frayed black bra. "But there is someone who likes you. Who thinks about you all the time." Sonja bit her lip. "So I want you to watch this when you feel like no one notices you. No one cares. No one sees." Sonja pulled her legs open. Her cock was red and throbbing. "But I do. You make me want to touch myself. You make me want you. You make me do this . . . I know this is what you want, and I can't help it. You make me do it! I don't . . . have . . . a choice!"

 

Hey, Russel. I totally get it. We all need to find ways to make it and I'm sorry your time at BP is now over. I'd just gotten off the phone with Bernie's parents who had reconsidered their decision. So much uncertainty! Thanks so much for helping so many of our students. You'll be missed.

ST