Falling in Love in San Francisco Right Now

By Laura Boles

It’s the classic romance: impossible. Anna Michaelson is a dedicated, wildly liberal housing activist, Michael Hayek is a do-nothing frat boy with a rich family addicted to high end real estate deals. They fall in love. In San Francisco. Where having sex with a hot Republican might be OK, but falling in love with one is definitely a crime against humanity.

Falling In Love in San Francisco Right Now, you have to think about politics. What are yours? If you don’t know and don’t care, then you best not move to San Francisco, the city with the highest housing costs in the world, a booming economy, and a high concentration of progressive wankers and conservative assholes. They say love makes the world go ‘round, but in San Francisco it’s class warfare, gentrification, greed and corruption that makes the heart pound faster, and not in a good way. How can two people in love transform a city?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543913064

Book preview

Nineteen

Anna, you’re single again. Fiona sounded happy about it, but she was probably drunk.

Tinder. Match. OKCupid. Anna didn’t need to spend any more time online, and all those dick pics were fucking awful. Who would sleep with a guy just by looking at his dick? You’ll be meeting new guys, Fiona continued. You need to start thinking about what your deal breaker is. Mine’s Tevas with socks.

Anna, Mark and Fiona were at LoggerHead, an annoying hipster bar on 22nd and Mission, almost empty at four in the afternoon. The reclaimed wood counter was piled high with fresh rosemary, basil, and parsley. What was the parsley for? Really, people should just drink martinis. Simple drinks with lots of alcohol in them. All these farm to table cocktails were just another excuse to flash cash around. LoggerHead had a good happy hour, though, and she and her friends were broke. Of course they were broke. They lived in San Francisco and even with rent control they spent three quarters of their income on housing.

Tevas and socks, huh? Even if it was Ryan Gosling? Oh, come on.

"Anna, Ryan would never wear those Velcro sandals. I mean, at the beach or something, fine, but nobody should be walking around with Velcro on their shoes in the city, in a restaurant, in a bar, anywhere. Why would they need Velcro, anyway? What are they, so old they can’t bend down and tie their shoes? Is buckling and tying too much for them?"

Those guys are all into efficiency. Maybe the Velcro is what they call a life hack. Anna said. And you, Mark. Marky Mark. Do you even have a deal breaker? You and your slutty ways. She was never going to slut-shame a woman, but Mark, he kind of deserved the word. He said he always used condoms, but she worried.

I do have a deal breaker, Anna. Thank you for asking. As the only fat gay man in all of San Francisco, I have to say my deal breaker is men on diets. I don’t mean, like, normal healthy eating, I mean you know, those paleo people and stuff. The aruvedics. The juicers. He broke off his rant and peered at the giant movie screen at the back of the bar. Hey, it’s Katherine Hepburn.

This bar showed Turner Classic movies on a real movie screen, but only in the daytime. At night it showed 1960s B-movies featuring big busted women in pedal pushers driving vintage Cadillacs and shooting people.

"I think it’s Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, Anna said. It’s about a white girl bringing a black guy home to her parents. In 1967, right? Back then, that was a big deal. Nowadays, nobody cares. Or nobody admits they care. Politics, now, that’s different. If I brought a Republican supporter home my Dad would have a fit."

Republicans. Not hot. Not hot at all. Mark shook his head in dismay.

I know. It’s interesting. We can fuck any color person, any age, any gender, animals, whatever, but ideologies cannot be crossed. Nowadays, politics is definitely the smoking gun. Anna said, staring into space and drumming her fingers on the table.

"Well, for you. Mark said. You have a lot of deal breakers, girl. Venture capitalists, bankers, tech guys. How you ever gonna get laid?" Mark pointed his costume jewelry-bedecked hand at Anna, pursed his lips together and winked.

Easy Anna shot back. Everyone in this neighborhood thinks exactly like I do.

Um, I don’t know about that Fiona jerked her head at the bar.

Three guys were sitting down at the bar, talking very loudly. They were groomed, which in itself was telling. Men here in the Mission had better things to do than indulge in expensive beauty regimes. Property developers Anna hissed to Mark and Fiona. I guarantee you they do not live in the Mission. Or no, maybe they do. In one of those new million dollar lofts. Look at them. They don’t care that people are losing their homes here, driven out like, like refugees or something. Property developers, real estate speculators, the Mission was crawling with them. Every spare lot and run down building was fair game. They were the big players in town, because they could put together the packages necessary to build a larger building. The capital, the financing, the architect, the contractor, the permits, the parking. They brokered the deals. They were very cozy with the Board of Supervisors and the mayor. They were taking over her city, and she hated them.

These guys here were yelling back and forth about how some woman was a DC 10 but a New York 6. Really? Guys still talked this way? Wasn’t this 2016? Normally she liked to listen in and report their conversations later on her blog, but today she just couldn’t be bothered, and plus, her blog was called News from The Mission, not Sexist Assholes in My Neighborhood Bar. One of them took a bill out of his wallet, waved it at the bartender, and actually said: That’s for you. And then: we’ll get a ‘round of Johnny Walker Blue, ‘bro. The bar tender slavishly dragged out a footstool so he could get down whiskey bottles from the top shelf.

Yeah, they’re pretty bad. Fiona agreed.

See, I wouldn’t care about a guy wearing Tevas and socks. I don’t care so much about what someone wears. Anna had to yell over the three men at the bar.

Well, that was clear. From Brian. Mark grimaced at her. Irritating. Why did Mark have to bring up Brian? She shouldn’t have broken up with him. After all, he was dedicated to progressive politics. She was old fashioned. Sexist, even. She wanted a guy to conform to some offensive Disney movie standard, which was absurd. She didn’t like talking about Brian. Her reasons for dumping him were politically suspect, and she hated to be wrong.

When in doubt, change the subject. Those corporate guys are the worst. She nodded her head at the three at the bar, yelling out encouragement to one another as they pounded hundred-year-old scotch. I would never go out with a guy like that. I would never sleep with any property developer type. Because they’re douches.

What? Mark cried out over the din.

"I said: I would never sleep with a guy who wore a suit that costs more than my rent. she yelled. Just at that moment the three at the bar stopped arguing. Anna’s statement boomed across the room. The elaborately tattooed women in the booth sitting next to them grinned. Their sentiments exactly. The three loud mouths at the bar swiveled to look at her. So what if they heard? So, what are you guys doing tonight?" she asked in a normal voice.

Well, well. Look who’s coming to say hello, Mark murmured. Anna’s deal breaker, or one of them, was at their table, leaning his hands on it, like he owned it. He probably did. People like him were buying up all of the Mission District these days.

Can I help you? Anna asked icily.

Couldn’t help overhearing. The man smiled down at her. Anna got the impression of a lot of white teeth. Rich man teeth.

His friends from the bar called out, Hey, Michael, forget about it, man. Come on do another shot.

But this man Michael ignored them. He was a little drunk already, Anna could tell. She was only glad she had run into him now, early on in the evening, instead of late when he had drunk an entire bottle of that whiskey. Those guys were awful when they were that fucked up. Grabbing at women, pinching them. Often they hired escorts for the night, and they made those poor women fawn all over them, serve them drinks and sit in their laps. Disgusting. These guys were alone. For now.

Michael looked over at his friends, waved at them, and continued, I have to take issue with what you said.

Anna’s mouth twitched. "Issue? You have to take issue?’ She said ‘issue’ very primly, mocking him.

Yes. Issue. Issue Issue Issue. I have to take it. Must take that issue. The issue is, you just announced to everyone that you wouldn’t sleep with a guy who wore a suit that was, like, more than your rent. And I am that guy. So....

"She won’t go out with them but she will sleep with them." Fiona told him. Thanks, Fiona.

Really? Hmmm. Challenge accepted. You don’t know, how it is with me right now…. I’m….I’m… I’m intrigued.

It should have sounded like frat boy line, but instead he said it with a little conspiratorial smile, like you and he were in on some secret joke. Bringing you in with him. And the stutter- as if he was thinking about it and he liked this brand new idea. His eyes were deep set and dark brown, his nose was a little hooked, his lips were full, his smile blinding. His suit hung on him just right, and his very white shirt was a little unbuttoned, the tie loosened, to show the light brown, smooth skin. Anna stared at his hands, big hands, with that huge ostentatious watch hanging loose on his wrist. She looked up at him and said, I won’t sleep with them. My friend is an idiot. Look, I’m sorry you overheard...what I said. I didn’t mean....

Oh, no, I’m sure you did mean it he replied, his eyes meeting hers. You’re not the type to say things you don’t mean, are you? Anna shook her head. See, there you go. I’m not bugging. You have a right to your opinion.

That’s Brooks Brothers? Looks like it. Mark stroked the material. What year? Looks a little vintage. The big lapels.

Yeah, it’s Brooks Brothers. Yeah, lapels are coming back, right? Don’t know whether to wear a wide tie, too. What do you think? He looked at Mark with great seriousness.

No, keep to the regular. I like this color scheme, too. Mark waved his hand down the man Michael’s chest. The pinstripes and the white shirt, Looks very Dirty Harry.

I always wear white shirts. Have a thing about ‘em. This shirt is iron-free. Have you heard of this miracle?

Mark widened his eyes. No! Well, yes, but tell me anyway.

Well, this shirt does not have to be ironed. Ever. And look at it! The man took off his jacket. The two friends at the bar hooted. To them he barked: "shut up! He resumed his charming chatty demeanor, leaned over and put his sleeve up to Mark’s face. See, you, look at it. No cleaning bills, no hassle, I can leave it on the floor like all my laundry and....."

Mark and Fiona were rapt. What was wrong with them? Anna had to put a stop to this. Um, we aren’t interested in your shirts she told Mr. Brooks Brothers. "We were just talking. To each other. You know."

Oh, I’m sorry. Just thought I would come over and say hello. With your classy statement about my suit and your rent, and whatnot. He flashed them another dazzling smile and swept the three of them with his eyes. Don’t mind us. We’re drunk. He turned and lurched back to his friends, who slapped him on his back and demanded he take another shot.

Anna rolled her eyes, gulped the rest of her beer, and stood up. I have to go. Fiona and Mark were still watching Mr. Brook Brothers. She waved her hand over their eyes. Hellllooo. I’m going now. Gotta drop in on dad and he goes to bed early. Fiona dragged her eyes from the three men at the bar. One of them had his phone out and was frantically punching into it as the other one barked out numbers at him.

That calculator is fucking wrong. Run ‘em again! one of them bellowed.

That guy was ad-or-able Fiona cooed. I hope he comes back. A little too much money to be, like, really hot, but still. He had an appeal. Maybe he’ll come back when you leave. Leave. She flapped her hand at Anna. Nah, just kidding. See you. I’ll drop by the Bean tomorrow on the way to work, say hello. Get myself a free smoothie. The Bean was their shorthand for the Bean Shoot, the cafe where both Mark and Anna worked. Text me. Email me. Write me, call me page me, knock on my door. She stood up and gave Anna a hug. Fiona was small, but her hugs were very forceful, and she held on to you for longer than you wanted. Anna liked that, though.

It was just as well she was leaving. Mr. Brook Brothers’ two friends were now toe-to-toe, bellowing at each other and he was trying to insert himself between them, but they kept pushing him out of the way. Who fought in bars at their age? She wasn’t in high school anymore. Macho idiots. No way would she ever get with that.

Mission Street was a wind tunnel. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and scrolled through her phone, looking for emails from David Campos’ office. San Francisco was run by a Board of Supervisors, one elected from every district. David Campos was the Mission District supe, and he was central to Anna’s fight. He was sponsoring an ordinance to curb development in the Mission, and she was trying her damnedest to coral all the members of Mission Neighborhood Association into voting for him come November.

No emails from Campos, but emails from plenty of other activists, nonprofits, and lobbyists trying to curry favor with her now that she had grown Mission Neighborhood Association into a real force. Mission Neighborhood Association, otherwise known as MNA, had about four hundred committed members determined to put a stop to property developers’ obscene profits at the expense of Mission District residents. Developers were always trying to get out of building affordable housing, and they should be allowed no loopholes, no excuses.

She stopped on Mission and 24th to answer emails. As she stood on the corner, poking at her phone, several women stopped next to her, looking at her anxiously and waiting, small children in tow.

Anna Michaelson? one of them asked timidly, pointing at her. She nodded and smiled encouragingly at them. They probably got her name from a referral. All the nonprofits in town shuffled the poor of San Francisco around like cards. These ladies probably wanted her advice about their evictions, but her Spanish wasn’t good enough. If she had gone to the high school down the street, her Spanish would be great, but dad sent her to that fancy hippie private school in the Haight and she learned all about class struggles and white privilege instead.

She tried English first, but when none of them understood, she used her lame Spanish. La clinica esta abiertat los lunes de dos to ocho. Noche. La Clinicia en Mision y decimoctavo. They stared at her blankly, their faced lined with fatigue and worry. They were probably in their twenties, but they looked twice that old. She fished a few flyers out of her purse and handed them to the women. They clutched the flyers in their hands and tried to tell her more, but her Spanish was so slow and there was no housing for them, not in this town, so she just smiled a lot and repeated the information about the clinic. The women smiled sadly at Anna and pushed their shabby strollers away to their apartments crammed with hot plates, coolers, children, sleeping men. Not that they were home much- they all worked three minimum wage jobs. Minimum wage was ten dollars an hour in San Francisco, but that was a complete joke.

She returned to her emails. The election was coming in a few months, things were heating up. Even with their huge campaign donations, those big property developers would not get things all their own way, for once.

She shoved her phone in her bag and started walking again, but it was slow going because she was approached by Manuel Ortega, a restaurant owner losing his lease, Mrs. Contreras, a cat lady losing her apartment because of lease violations, and Dan Shelby, a young, reedy-looking white artist who had lived in the Mission all of a year whose rent was being raised. Dan Shelby talked at her way too long, probably trying to hit on her. She shut him down quick. He was interesting, his art was actually good, but it would be an exercise in futility. She couldn’t go out with anyone. Brian had been a disaster. She was too hard to please, too needy. She never thought of herself as needy, but Brian told her she was, and she felt ashamed to be one of those women, the kind that harassed men all the time into paying attention to them. She should be single, anyway, so she could stay focused on MNA.

She was saved from David Shelby by a backup beeper from a construction truck. After yelling over the relentless beeping, she shrugged helplessly at him and hurried off.

What the hell? It was after six. Those developers had some gall, keeping work going past their permit time. Everywhere she looked old pastel Victorian houses were being razed for new sleek modern lofts. Things were changing so fast she kept saying, ‘Remember when?’ and ‘when I was a kid’ like an old lady. The neighborhood had been so poor, and now it was so very rich. Mission Neighborhood Association would go down fighting.

Around her the Mission was humming. All kinds of people out on the street, kids, grandparents, teenagers. Music stores, struggling for survival in the age of the device, blared Nicaraguan salsa. Agua Fresca carts served bright fruit drinks from carts, men leaned against bodega walls smoking and playing cards, emaciated drug addicts crossed the streets randomly, dodging the BMWs driving past. In with the liquor stores, smoke shops, and Dollar stores were up-scale boutiques selling beard oils, candles scented with mushrooms, and macramé caftans. Blue State Disneyland- when really, this neighborhood needed more hardware stores, groceries, and, like, shoe repair places and stuff.

The food in the Mission was still the best. Pupusas, melting with cheese, slathered in fresh slaw. El pastor, dripping with pork fat and chili oil. Beef tongue tacos at La Taqueria. The worst crime was here. Drug deals, check. Robberies, check. Car jackings, check. Muggings, check. The poor half of the Mission preyed on the rich half. The streets were always crowded, for San Francisco standards. Everyone was out in the streets, playing music, hanging out on stairs, leaning against walls brightly decorated with murals. All the money in this city, you would think all these people would be gone, but they weren’t. They stayed, much to the dismay of politicians, developers, bankers, everyone. Nobody wanted these people. They were poor. Oh, the politicians and the rich developers wanted to paint them all as mentally ill addicts, but most of them were just poor.

Those Brooks Brothers guys, with their fucking Johnny Walker Blue, they should see the real Mission. All they knew was the Foreign Cinema (the day they opened that restaurant was the day the Mission died) or the Nihon Whiskey Lounge, where shots were fifteen dollars each. They should meet Mr. Ortega, or Mrs. Contreras. Well, Mrs. Contreras’ apartment stunk like cats, and Mr. Ortega, well, she was pretty sure he had a massive drinking problem, so maybe not them, exactly, but the general idea was pretty good. Maybe she could start giving tours, sort of meet and greets. Not that she actually knew any property developers well enough to ask them to do such a thing, but still.

Lost in thought, she turned into dad’s house at 3356 23rd street. Built in 1910, right after the San Francisco earthquake, it had charming ornate Victorian trimmings, narrow, elongated windows, a small yard surrounded by an old, intricately fashioned wrought iron fence. It was painted lavender, pink, and yellow. The landlord let dad choose the colors a long time ago. The building was owned by some big property developer company downtown, but they did a good job of keeping the place up. She let herself in to the front lobby with her key. Dad lived on the top floor. He couldn’t get down the stairs anymore because of his knees, but he could never move. Never. He had a prime rent controlled apartment in a charming, palatial Victorian in one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods. He would have to stay, even he was trapped up there for the rest of his life.

An idea- dad could give Mission tours. He was a good conversationalist, very chatty. He spoke great Spanish and fluent Arabic. If his knees could stand it....maybe he could get one of those cart thingys people used to ride around in grocery stores. She started walking up the three creaky flights of carpeted stairs. Dad would be good at giving tours and talking with people. She could call him a Mission ambassador, something like that.

She would not be the right person to give tours. She could lead meetings, push legislation through City Hall, and advise people on their rights, but she could not chat. Small talk was not her thing, and people had told her she could come on a little on the grim side, but she didn’t care. Those guys in the bar just now, for example-wearing watches that cost fifteen thousand dollars each. Please. War was the only thing guys like that understood.

She used her key to open Dad’s door. The apartment smelled like old books. She walked down the long hardwood hall, lined with Arabic calligraphy paintings, and pictures of her parents and their friends horsing around at Stinson Beach in the ‘80s. The apartment opened up in back to a large living area. Dad was there at his desk by the window, working on his calligraphy. He had taken it up when Mom died six years ago, and he was really good now. He even taught classes back when he could get down those steep stairs. What was she going to do about that? He would never be a shut in, he knew too many people, but still she was depressed for him. Didn’t he get sick of staying up here day after day? If she asked him point blank about it he would just deflect and become irritating and extra cheerful. She slumped on the shabby couch covered with old Moroccan cushions.

Hi, Dad. She picked up an old Economist magazine from 2013 from the coffee table and started leafing absently through it.

Hey, sweetie! His paint brush, wet with black ink, hovered over the paper, waiting for inspiration, or maybe for his hand tremors to subside.

How’s your knee?

Oh, it’s alright.

You need surgery, Dad. I sound like a broken record. You need surgery. You need surgery.

I know I need surgery. We’ve been over this.

She heard someone walking around outside in the hall. The building was so old you could hear everything. She hauled herself off the couch and peered out the front door. She heard heavy footsteps going down the stairs but she didn’t see anybody. Someone had slipped an envelope under the door.

It was an eviction notice, elaborately worded in legalese. Fuck. She scanned the letter briefly. She knew the drill, she had seen dozens of these. God damn it. She shoved the letter in the pocket of her skirt and charged down the stairs.

Nothing but the best. That’s what Michael heard growing up. His father said it, and his older brothers, Murad and Peter, now said it too. It was the Hayek family mantra.

Nothing but the best. The best cars, definitely. The best food. The best clothes. The best women- busty blondes for casual sex, but good Arab women for everything else. What his brothers liked, Michael had to like too. It was just easier that way.

They had just closed a huge deal for developing a prime site at 25th and Valencia, the heart of the Mission. It had been years in the making. His brother Peter had spent days down at the Planning Commission. Murad, meanwhile, had lined up the financing, but the permitting was so slow the financing fell through and he had to start over. And over. And over. It got so the bank officers actually laughed at Murad when they saw him. They all hung out at the same places, so they saw him a lot, but Murad didn’t care. He got in their faces, and got the money. Millions of dollars. And now, they had the go for a four story luxury condo building. Woo-hoo. More dorms for grown-ups.

They had dragged him to the signing, even though he had only worked at Hayek for a month. They had met in a banker’s boardroom with a bunch of other men in suits, and after some back slapping, sports talk, and bad jokes involving balls and erectile dysfunction, they had all signed piles of documents and climbed in bed together. That’s how his brothers referred to deals. Climbing in bed together. After, Peter and Murad were jubilant. They had done it again. Every developer in town had either passed on or dropped that property- the neighborhood groups in the Mission were formidable, and plus you couldn’t build that high there, the zoning was restrictive, but the Hayeks knew what to do and they had done it and now they had a deal that would pay them out millions. They couldn’t lose, not in this real estate market. The three of them piled into Murad’s Mercedes SUV and went drinking.

No wives, Murad said. Murad was the only one with a wife, though. Peter had a girlfriend, but she was an investment banker and they didn’t go drinking at four in the afternoon. Michael didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend, and if he did he wouldn’t want to bring her drinking with his brothers. They went to a bar Murad knew called LoggerHead. He said it had good liquor and weird cocktails made out of plant extracts or some shit. Murad and Peter knew the cool places, and they liked throwing their money around. It was embarrassing, but thrilling. Murad would walk into a bar, a restaurant, a club, wave his wad of hundred dollar bills in his Louis Vuitton clip, and soon enough they were getting the best table, the top shelf liquor, making friends where ever they went.

Growing up, he had never really known what his brothers did. They were ten and eleven years older than he. He knew they worked in real estate. He knew they had an office, and made tons of money. When he was in high school, they would show up for Sunday dinner in brand new sports cars, barking into their phones until his mother made them stop. They were constantly either raising money or spending money, and that’s all Michael knew. Now, he was working (if you could call it that) with them, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around it all. Both Murad and Peter carried in their heads a revolving rolodex of contractors, bankers, loan sharks, architects, lawyers, accountants, and friendly city officials, all of whom his brothers juggled and played off against each other with zeal and apparent ease. Their cell phones were their life blood, they often had two calls going. They placed one caller on hold, yelled at the other, and then switched off. Murad even had two cell phones and sometimes barked into both at the same time, one on each ear.

His brothers were crazy, but hey, they worked hard. They had earned their money. That’s what he told himself today, as he watched Murad wave his money around in front of a bunch of snobby Mission types. Everyone, but everyone, liked money. It wasn’t like Murad was waving a dead hamster around, although from the looks they were getting from the three sitting in the booth across from them, he might as well be. These hipsters. Always so uptight and judgmental until Murad bought them a thirty dollar shot of whiskey and all of a sudden they were telling you all about the nonprofit they worked for or the app they invented that, like, told you when to feed you cat or some shit.

The three across from them were looking pretty sour, they might need some monetary lubrication or a charm offensive. Murad and Peter were getting loud. Peter, like the idiot he was, had brought up the Battery Street deal, the One That Got Away, and now his brothers were screaming at each other, veins popping out on their foreheads, banging their fists on the bar repeatedly for emphasis. They both subsided at once, and a woman’s voice rang out over the suddenly quiet bar.

I would never sleep with a guy who wore a suit that cost more than my rent. the blonde sitting at the booth was telling her companions. Michael glanced at his brothers. They didn’t notice, they were gearing up for another go-round. Time for a little charm, a little Michael magic. He pounded down his shot and went over there. The