Page 9 of There Are No Saints

My life with my mother was chaotic and miserable, but I saw beautiful things created all around me. It gave me hope that loveliness could bloom out of ugliness and scarcity.

Now it feels like a plug has been pulled. All the artists are draining away, fleeing to Oakland or Portland or even L.A. where they can at least find commercial work.

The spaces they rented are snapped up by tech companies and software millionaires who gut the historic buildings, filling their wood frames with gleaming glass and steel.

Logically I know I have no right to hold on to any of it—I own nothing myself. I’ve barely got eighty dollars in my bank account.

But it makes me so bitter to see it all disappear right when I’m finally old enough to take part.

I dress in my work clothes, which are just cut-off jean shorts, athletic socks, and converse sneakers. So far I’ve successfully avoided any job with a dress code.

I plop down at our rickety breakfast table, canvasing Frank, Heinrich, and Erin to see if anyone knows of affordable studio space.

“Not me,” Heinrich says glumly. “I’m looking myself.”

Heinrich always finds studio space hard to come by because his work is based around electrical illumination. He requires torches and soldering equipment, and he’s set at least one place on fire before.

“You could try applying to the Minnesota Street Project,” Erin says.

“Good fucking luck,” Heinrich scoffs. “They’ve got a hundred applicants for every space.”

None of this is improving my mood. I gulp down some of Frank’s awful coffee while forgoing the toast. We’ve got fresh croissants at work. My boss Arthur never minds if I steal a few.

“Mara,” Erin says. “You owe me twenty-eight dollars for utilities.”

Internally groaning, I dig in my pocket and pull out the twenty-dollar bill I was hoping to use for groceries.

“I’ll get you the other eight dollars after work,” I promise.

I’ve never known what it would be like to swipe a card without wondering if the balance would clear. I’m on some kind of hamster wheel where the faster I scramble to earn money, the faster the ground slips away beneath me.

On the other hand, I’ve never starved yet.

I run to Sweet Maple, showing up sweating and puffing, the effects of the shower already obliterated. Arthur shoves an apron at me, saying, “Move your ass, I just sat three tables on the sidewalk.”

San Franciscans’ commitment to eating outdoors even in the shittiest weather will never cease to impress me. We’ve got heat lamps and umbrellas for the chilliest days, but I don’t think anything short of a direct lightning strike would keep our diners away.

Granted, we’ve also got the best goddamn brunch in the city. I carry out heaping plates of asparagus omelets, crab benedicts, and our famous bacon until my arms are shaking.

Whenever I see anybody I know, I sneak them free mimosas. Arthur doesn’t mind that either—he may be rude and overbearing, but he’s a sweetheart to the core, and this is his way of supporting the community.

When Arthur finally lets me go, a much-needed seventy-two dollars in tips stuffed in my pocket, I’m sprinting to pick up the dogs on time.

I brought my skates in my backpack. I take the dogs all around Golden Gate Park, letting them pull me along, only working on the uphill stretches.

Bruno is being a shithead as usual, trying to tangle the leashes. I rub my knuckles across his thick skull to remind him we’re friends. He’s an oversized mastiff, too big for the little apartment in which he resides. I don’t think his owner ever takes him out beyond our excursions.

The dogs make me happy becausethey’rehappy. They’ve got their tongues out, scenting the peppery eucalyptus in the air. I breathe it in too, closing my eyes so I can taste it in my lungs.

I’m thinking about the piece I’m working on in Joanna’s studio, wondering if I can finish it before I’m kicked out of her space. It’s too big to move easily. If I could get it into the New Voices show, that would be something . . .

Something pretty fucking unlikely.

God, I wish I could sell something.

Erin sold a painting for eight hundred dollars last month. Covered almost all her rent. What a dream that would be.

I think about the showcase a few weeks back. Alastor Shaw won a ten-thousand-dollar prize. Nowthat’sa fucking dream. I could practically live a year off that.

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