The application to be an Oakland Police Officer took about an hour to complete. It was no different than a standard civil service job application. As they were both finishing, Jim looked up. “Damn, D. I bet this takes a long time to process.”
“Ya, probably. Which is why I’m still banking on the German restaurant. I figure they’ve got to be kind of desperate if the only qualification other than a general knowledge of beer is ‘ability to speak German.’ I mean, my German isn’t that good.”
“Dude, your German is way better than mine.” Jim had taken German with Devonte in their fourth year at the University of Chicago, as a way to fill out their schedules. Jim had also taken four years of German from Frau Martinez at Southwestern, but Frau Martinez only spoke German as well as the American soccer star Jermaine Jones spoke English, so those four years were more about eating schnitzel and spaetzle and wearing lebenstraum, or was it lederhosen? He didn’t know until he accidentally suggested that Bavarians commonly wore the Nazi political ideal during UChicago Oktoberfest and got straightened out by Herr Doctor Müller.
“Fine, maybe you’re right,” said Devonte. “Shit. It’s almost two fifteen. I gots to be at the place for the interview by three.”
“We can walk it in that time. Let’s go. Maybe they’ve got an extra position for a server. I could serve for a week or two, right?”
In three minutes flat, Devonte had changed into his best suit, with black tie. Jim was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over jeans and flip flops. “Really, man? You’re gonna wear that to an interview at a German restaurant?” Devonte had the same tone and inflection as Herbert Morrison watching the Hindenburg pull into Lakehurst in May of 1937.
Jim countered with an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. “Eh, this is California. Even the governator would wear this to a restaurant.”
When they walked up to Schatzi, the only car parked on the street out front was stamped with the logo of the San Francisco Health Department. “Fucking shit. Not again. Not today.” Jim was furious.
Wanda Washington had worked for the City since she was ten. She convinced he summer camp counselor at Hamilton Rec Center in the Fillmore to let her keep score for the Adult Basketball league on Friday Nights. Bill McGill had nothing better to do than start his Friday drinking four hours earlier, (At the time, Glenn Burke, the inventor of the high five, was with the Oakland A’s and also Bill’s paramour) so Wanda’s help was a blessing to him. When the boss realized several months later that he was doing that, Bill was reassigned, and WW Basketball Services, likely the recipient of the only business license ever granted to an eleven-year-old in the history of the City, became a scorekeeping contractor for the City of San Francisco.
She saved the scorekeeping and later refereeing money to go to college, started at Cal in Pre-Law, switched to Biology, and got hired back in the City after graduation as a health inspector. She convinced her pastor to invest in farmland north of Gilroy in 1992, based on some tips she’d heard from classmates. When he sold out at the top of the market twenty years later (Instagram needed a campus) he set aside five percent for her as a thanks. When he surprised her with it, she decided she’d take retirement after twenty-five years of city service and finally travel across Africa with her wife, Cleo.
Wanda Washington had exactly five days until retirement when she walked into Schatzi that day. She had asked to go out in the field until the end so that she could avoid the drudgery of the desk. When she heard Jim Brightest complain, she shot him a confused look. “Ain’t nothin wrong with today, Google boy. Whatcha on ten for?”
“I’ve had a bad week, I’m sorry. Lost my job on Monday.”
As she hung the A in the window, for a 91 percent inspection rating, she said, “Oh hon. I’m sorry. I hope you find something. I bet these folks are hiring, they look like they could use some help. The Chef is screaming something awful, sounded like Russian, but it could have been Ukrainian...”
“Not German?” Devonte interrupted.
“Hon, I studied German. Thought in High School that I was gonna do the Peace Corps saving Namibians from drought. Turned out they didn’t want a big black girl from Cal to go teach the white people how to take care of themselves in a desert. Or anywhere, really. It hurts a lot to miss that first job, ya know? A Berkley girl, rejected from the Peace Corps.” Wanda looked out toward the wharf, wondering whether the Namib desert would seem as empty and wide as the ocean. “But I’m finally gonna get to visit Namibia in a week, so I’m golden. Y’all have a beautiful day, now.”
“Ok, you too, ma’am.” said Devonte, and walked inside.
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