Arnon Grunberg

San Francisco

San Francisco was organizing a pajama party. I’m often their only customer on Saturday night, and apparently they wanted to fix that by throwing pajama parties. The invitation said: “Pajama party! Come as naked as you dare! Second drink on the house!” When I stepped inside San Francisco at ten thirty, I was the only one there again. Samia, the dancer from Brazil, was behind the bar. When it’s quiet, she stretches her left leg up around her neck to postpone the decline that awaits us all. She wasn’t wearing pajamas.
“I’m here for the pajama party,” I said, taking my regular seat.
San Francisco used to be a restaurant, but the New York City Department of Health shut down the kitchen. The kitchen is still there, with silverware, pots, stove, everything. But they don’t cook anymore. Regular customers who want privacy can have themselves locked into the kitchen at night. The only thing is, the kitchen is apparently infested with mice, and one night a lady in a fur coat claimed she saw a rat in there.
At eleven-thirty a dwarf in a white sweater entered San Francisco. It didn’t take much to see she was wearing pajamas underneath the sweater. She’d brought along another dwarf who’d also put on her pajamas. I’d never seen them there before. They looked like sisters.
‘The pajama party can begin,” Samia said, and she turned up the volume on the stereo.
The two dwarves were drinking pina coladas as if they were giants instead of dwarves.
After giving me a few serious looks one dwarf came over to sit next to me and said, “Why aren’t you wearing pajamas?” It was a good question, actually. “I don’t have any,” I answered truthfully.
She picked up the invitation and read, “Pajama party.” To apologize for my pajama-less presence, I bought them two more pina coladas. I looked at their nighties, but I didn’t dare to ask whether or not they were cold. From their conversation I understood that they were waiting for a guy named Fred. But why here, I wondered, and why in pajamas? It must have been about two when the door flew open. “Finally,” the ladies said. The visitor was a gentleman. Not in pajamas but in a tuxedo, although he had either lost, or taken off, the bow tie.
“What’ll it be?” said Samia.
“You know that better than I do.” He had the aggressive look of someone who’s been taken in by life and has come to the conclusion that the world is full of assholes. I wondered if this was Fred.
“It’s pajama time,” the dwarves said. The more pina coladas they drank, the more they looked like children who had lost their way.
“This one’s one me,” I said. This small gesture made the bow tie-less gentleman a little less tense and aggressive.
“An Arab,” he said with no further introduction, “is in love with his camel. He travels all the way across the desert, following his camel. But every time he tries to jump it, the camel runs away. Suddenly he sees a beautiful woman whose car has broken down. ‘Fix my car,’ she begs, ‘and I’ll do anything for you.’ He fixes her car and says, ‘Now you hold down this camel for me.’ I love disgusting jokes, I’m Pete.” From his jacket pocket he took a pile of business cards and tossed them on the bar. “Locksmith and security systems. For a really secure house, call Pete. I’ll give you a nice price, on call night and day.” ‘That goes for you, too,” he said to Samia. “Take my card. Tell your friends, ‘Pete, the best security systems in New York City. Specializing in single women; they need it most.’” He ordered a whisky double, then whispered in my ear, “I rented everything I’m wearing,” and walked over to the two dwarves. He put his arms around them and said, “You’re my little camel babies.” Apparently, they liked being camel babies to Pete, the security man, because they giggled like schoolgirls.
A minute later they were dancing. With every song they grew more passionate and moved closer together. Later on, Pete started lifting up the dwarves, making their nighties fling open halfway. In the end they were flying through the air, with Pete kissing their belly buttons.
Samia had put her leg around her neck again and I started playing pinball. I did notice that the dwarves and Pete disappeared into the kitchen. And that it got to be five o’ clock and Samia disappeared into the kitchen too. By then she wanted the last of the pajama party guests to leave.
I was on my way to a new personal record. Still, I heard Samia saying, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” She kept repeating it as if it were the same kind of exercise as putting your left leg around your neck. It made me think of that report in the paper about a lady who always took her dachshund into bed with her. One night she accidentally hugged her dachshund to death.
When I turned around, Pete was standing behind me. He had a dazed, almost blissful look on his face.
“They got into a fight,” he said amiably. Then he took his business cards from the bar and slipped them back into his pocket.