February 5-7, 1982
Ballard Dist., Seattle, WA
Frances and Timothy leave the Sunset Hotel, where they live. They come out of the alley, around the corner. Half way down the block three men are tearing off the facing of an old building, on a ladder and leaning over the roof, with claw hammers and a crow's foot. One Eskimo, two pale Scandinavians, young, energetic.
Timothy (to one of the blonds): What are you going to replace that with? (No answer.)
Frances (to Timothy): Maybe he heard you but didn't understand. He looked puzzled.
Timothy (louder): What are they going to do here?
Scandinavian: I don't know.
He keeps working, talking to the other blond. The Eskimo says nothing. Frances and Timothy walk on a few feet. Someone yells, they turn to see. An old man, must be in his seventies at least. White hair, kind of long. Goatee.
Old Man (yells at the workmen): What the hell you guys doin' now? (He's teasing, obviously knows them. He seems familiar with the place.)
He's all sharp angles, the jaw, the nose, the brow, the toothless mouth. Blue cataract eyes that don't converge. He looks at Timothy.
Timothy (quietly to Frances): He looked at me with one eye, it's not so apparent that they're not straight.
Frances: So he could see, maybe. He's only about half as tall as you. Bird-boned.
They walk back, stand in a cluster of three looking the building over. On the broad side of the building a faded blue sign says, "Freddy's".
Timothy (to the old man): Are they going to put up aluminum siding?
Old Man (nods): She doesn't know what she's losin'. It was the best tavern in town ... it was the best.
Frances: Why are they doing it?
Old Man: The law won't let 'em have a tavern there anymore. They're gonna make a deli outa it. Ain't nobody gonna go there. What are they gonna do with it? Where are they gonna eat? (He points off to the right) There's Bergan Square. (He points the other direction) And there's the other park. They call that Hickie Park. (He laughs.)
We’re close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. He's pickled.
Old Man: It was the best.
Frances: I guess you'll have to find another one.
Old Man: I already have. (He points across the street) They closed Freddy's, but they all go over there.
He starts across the street, drops his cigarettes.
Frances (runs after him, taps him on the shoulder): You dropped your cigarettes.
Old Man: Thank you. Thank you very much.
Leaving the old drunk man, they walk in the crisp air back to the Sunset Hotel. Timothy notices that the sidewalk is dotted with red drops that looked like drying blood. About one every six feet, like a sanguine trail in a mystery story. Frances agrees that it is blood, and they follow the drops to the back entrance of the Sunset Hotel, which they haven't used before. Up the steps and at closer intervals now, the ominous trail leads to the first room and stops. Three drops outside the closed door. Had someone fumbled for his keys right here, bleeding from a barroom fight a few blocks away? Or had it been a nosebleed?
Timothy: Is he dead inside? Should I call the landlord?
Frances: I think it's a man. A woman would take care it, stop the bleeding. I think it's an older man, late middle age, husky, dark hair a little too long. A quiet man, a lonely man. No skid row bum. They don't live in this hotel. Or do they?