Episode #2
Golden Gate Gumshoe
There was nothing like first class. For all they cared, the other passengers could get sucked out through the Astro-Toities. As long as everyone in first class had plenty to eat and drink, everything was kosher.
“Care for another Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, sir?” The first class hostess leaned over the mostess.
“Sure, why not, take it outta thish.”
I was getting a little tanked, throwing around c-notes as if they were food stamps. I had hundreds of both in separate jacket pockets.
“This is a food stamp, sir.”
The gorgeous air moll seemed to drop half a tone in enthusiasm.
“Sorry, wrong pocket…” I flipped her a real Grant and her beams went full again. She waddled away in a cruel and kinky outfit to fetch my fourth booze. There were no limits in first class.
But what was I doing sitting in this jumbo jetliner, drinking bourbon and eating parts of beef that you really had to work to get at? I had thought I’d been hired by the CIA to suffer secretly in soup kitchens, not to fly top cabin coast to coast with a lot of wealthy prosthesis manufacturers. But the suffering would come soon enough. I’d be landing in San Francisco.
I’d always wanted to visit San Francisco. And now I had my chance. After all, I had carte blanche to infiltrate and destroy the American Welfare System. Actually, it was an American Express Moneycard. But I could go wherever and do whatever I deemed necessary to stop the killing drain of dollars. So why not Frisco?
“Ladies and gentlemen of the first class section, we are sorry to interrupt your dining and cocktails but we will be landing at San Francisco International Airport in approximately ten minutes so Vhonda and I will be coming around to fasten your seatbelts for you.”
Rich people were treated pretty good. No wonder they were worried about the welfare plot.
San Francisco is a cold town. Especially at three in the morning when I walked out of the terminal and hailed a cab. It was time to go underground.
“How do you get on welfare in this town?” I quizzed the cabby, who looked like he’d read to many descriptions of what he was supposed to look like.
“Whadja fly out here to get on the dole, Mac?” He’d done a little reading about how his voice should sound too.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question. It’s classified.” I wasn’t about to blow my cover to some low rent cabby.
“Another government snoop trying to find out how the other half lives, eh?” He peeked in the rear view mirror just in time to see my face turn ochre.
“Don’t worry, pal. Your secret is safe with me. We get em all the time. I’ll drop you at the G.A. office.”
San Francisco’s Mission District was as good a place as any to go on welfare. We pulled up to a street corner with a dozen winos huddled against the fog. I jumped out and flipped the driver a double sawbuck.
“This is to keep your mouth shut.” I turned to walk away.
“This is a food stamp, mac. My bookie won’t take it.”
I quickly corrected my mistake in fear that the urchins I would soon be joining might smell a rat.
“Thanks, mac, and good luck derailing the dole train.”
I wondered if it was a federal offense to interfere with a federal worker in this way.
I could see there would be a lot of lingo to learn if I was to become conversant with the radical free lunch subculture. What, for the love of Newt Gingrich, was G.A.? Government Annuity? Gratis Alcohol? Gravy Always? I pondered the puzzling initials as I wandered further down the dark street until suddenly my eyes fell to a lit sign: San Francisco Government Assistance Office -- C.I.A. Stay Out!
Surely this was what I was looking for - a brazen haven for jobless anarchists. I decided to camp out at the front door the several hours until opening so as to make good my story of dire need.
The dawn broke over Oakland across the Bay and soon a security guard appeared at the locked doors where I stood beating myself to keep warm.
“You flush, eh Jim?”
He was motioning to my jacket. U.S. Grants were falling out because of the way my coat had become disheveled sitting on the sidewalk for a long time.
“No, no, I just happen to have a few hundreds with me. Here, why don’t you take a couple?”
"Damn sure I will, cuz! Say, why you coming down to G.A. with all this cash, huh, cuz?” He was helping himself to about five hundred smackers.
“Is this the G.A. building?” I acted real miffed. "I don’t want General Assistance. I want the …Real Estate Board.” To make sure he believed me I took out a wad of bills and shuffled them nonchalantly.
“That’s in the Civic Center, Hank. That’s uptown.”
“Thanks so much. Here this is for you.” I dropped him a bill for his trouble. He knew I was swank now.
“What’s this jive ass food stamp for, Jethro?”
He was yelling after me as I danced quickly away and boarded a bus to make good an escape.
“Airport, Bub?”
The driver easily as impressed by my bearing as the other pillars of society I’d confronted in San Francisco. I stood mute.
“This bus goes straight to the airport. Is that what you want?”
It didn’t sound half bad.
“Yes. Thank you. That where I’m going. To the airport. Thank you.”
I fell into a nearby seat. It was no use. I’d exposed myself in Frisco. I couldn’t hope to
infiltrate the breadline assassins here. I’d best fly away to another target. There I could start my work anew. Unknown. Alone. I stared out the window of the bus wondering where I’d go next. It didn’t matter, but under the circumstances, why not go first class?
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