Curled in the Bed of Love Read Online Free PDF

period, I’ve been taking classes at the community college, and I do real well in my courses, but it’s hard to finish them because I can never count on making it to class.
    Mrs. L. asks me where she can buy some of the famous San Francisco sourdough to take home. “I’m sure you would know the best place.”
    She has real manners. When I recommend the Boudin Bakery, she thanks me with strict graciousness. I bet she has a spanking clean kitchen at home and makes Mr. L. mow the lawn weekly. I bet they go to a church with cushioned pews and no kneelers.
    A crackling noise comes from Mr. L.’s corner, and I know he’s studying the map. “There’s a cable car turnaround right there by Ghirardelli Square,” he says. “It looks like we could take the cable car back to the hotel afterward. Then we could let you go when you drop us off.”
    â€œWell, you could,” I say. “But the lines are terrible. Too many tourists right there. I tell you what, though. I could pick you up when you’re done and drop you off over on Bay Street. There’s another cable car line there that not everyone knows about.”
    Mr. L. says, “We don’t know that we’d find you when we wanted you, do we?”
    Some people really want you to work for their forgiveness. And he probably assumes I’m trying to get another hour’s fare out of them. I don’t have another fare scheduled till six, and I really do want to make it up to him, erase the disappointment from his memory. “After that mix-up at Lombard Street, I’d like to treat you to an extra hour,” I say.
    â€œThat’s not necessary,” he says.
    He’s embarrassed. The men usually are. When I get these businessmen in the car some mornings, offer them fresh orange juice or the newspaper, crisply folded, I have to insist on these little luxuries, and they’ll take what I offer, if they take it, without a word. But the women, even the executives, are more open about wanting to be pampered. I’ll glance in the rearview mirror and see them trying out the footrest or investigating the refrigerator just to see what they could have if they wanted it.
    I try to come up with a way to get Mr. L. to see I really want to be generous, that I’m not just thinking of the tip. The other drivers think I’m a dope. Any little extras—drinks, food—the driver paysfor out of his own pocket, and with the liquor especially, the hope is the customer will pay a dividend on your generosity when he leaves a tip. I stock the bar with Johnnie Walker Red; a lot of the other drivers just pour cheap scotch into a Johnnie Walker bottle. But I feel sorry for these guys, having to live all the time in falseness. That’s the real misery to me. Then you’re really a lackey.
    â€œMrs. Lesser’s not gonna want to wait in that long line in this cold,” I say. “And why should she when I’m right here?”
    Once we can agree that we’re doing this for Mrs. L., not him, Mr. L. goes along with the idea. I pull into a red zone so I can drop them off right smackat the foot of the wharf, because you’re not restrained by the rules when you’re riding in a limo, and then I make a big fuss of coming around to open the door, prolonging the moment when they can enjoy the envy of the pedestrians passing by us.
    I pull away to find a place where I can park on the street for an hour. Parking is a nightmare in San Francisco, and you get so you know every little side street where there’s a chance of finding a spot, just like you know the location of all the public restrooms. I look for parking near the housing projects, because the tourists take one look at the cinder-block buildings with rusted metal grilles over the windows and decide to fork over ten bucks for a parking garage. I pull into a spot and crack the window for some fresh air before turning off the engine. I might get