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     Reaching the lobby I exit the hotel via a side entrance and step outside onto Ellis.  The night’s wet fog swirls over my body and cools my rage.  Walking barely a half-block, I cross Mason and immediately enter another favorite watering hole on the corner at Ellis and Mason: Coffee Ron’s.

     It feels good to escape the damp, frigid grip of the rolling fog outside, the cozy bar’s atmosphere being completely hospitable.  There are no televisions here.

     I’m safe...I’m home, dear reader. 

     Only two other customers are loitering on the premises, indicating a typically slow, foggy evening in “Frisco.”

     The bar here has been built low - resembling a lunch counter – and as I take my usual seat at the counter, the lady bartender glances up, smiles and nods.  I wink back.  She’s a dishwater blonde from Finland, in her mid-thirties, fairly attractive, hasn’t been in the States too long, and speaks with an accent.  I’ve been a regular for the past three days and we’ve struck up a friendship. 

     Strictly a bar-type friendship, dear reader.

My Finnish-Bartender and jukebox-buddy.

     The sound system in this establishment is quite good, with a remote jukebox selector behind the bar.  She straightaway performs two tasks, which pleases me.  The Finn drops a quarter in the jukebox and cranks up Chris de Burgh’s “lady In Red.”  Then she pours me a shot of bourbon with a beer chaser and sets them in front of me.  I hand her more quarters for the jukebox.

     There’s an even smaller diner next door to this bar.  My newly found Finnish pal gets me a load of home fries and onion rings, through the open service window at her station, which connects the bar to the diner.

     This is my birthday dinner, dear reader.

     During the next hour we polish off the fries and rings, play our favorite songs on the jukebox, and I down two more beers plus a half-dozen bourbons.

     Around 10:P.M. I pay my bill, leave the Finn a generous tip, and flag down a cab eastbound on Ellis.         

     Now for my birthday cake, dear reader.

     I tell the driver: “M-Mitchell B-Brothers O’Farrell Theater...and don’t spare the horses.”

     Oh, yes...by this time I’m half in the bag, dear reader.  My stutter is still with me, but my troubles are far behind.

     The taxi plows through the fog, six blocks later it hangs a right at Polk, and two blocks later reigns in the ponies at the corner of Polk and O’Farrell.  We’re now in the northwest corner of the Tenderloin.  I pay the cabby, tumble out of the taxi, cross O’Farrell and enter the delicatessen at the opposite corner. 

     Moving to the cold cuts section, at the rear of the shop, I have the sandwich boy make me an egg salad - with lots of mustard on sourdough - to go. 

     The young kid constructing my sandwich is dark and swarthy, with the hint of a mustache, speaks with a thick Arabic accent, and looks at me nervously (as most Muslims presently do in this country).  A Syrian family owns this deli; I’ve dealt with them during the past four years and they seem to be regular people.  Even so, I haven’t seen this nervous kid before - perhaps he’s a newly arrived cousin from Syria - and I sympathize with him.  What a terrible period for an Arab kid to take up residency in the States.

     “Mar haba...keef haalak?” I ask in Arabic, with a smile, as the kid starts to work on my sandwich. 

     I’m saying: “Hello...how are you?”  It’s odd, dear reader, when I speak a foreign language...I don’t stutter.  Why is that? 

     He glances up; surprise registers in his large, brown eyes.  He’s a skinny kid...maybe 18 or 19. He then mumbles, “Bikhair, shukran (Fine, thank you).”

     “Al hum-du-lilla (Wonderful),” I respond.

     Finally the kid smiles - I’ve broken the ice - but he still can’t make me out.  How do I know Arabic?

     I leave the kid to his puzzlement and sandwich construction, hunt up a Snapple and a Mars Bar, move to the front of the deli and pay for these items along with the sandwich.  I recognize the older Syrian cashier and we conduct our business in Arabic, which always gives him a chuckle.  I stuff the Mars Bar in the front pocket of my Levi’s, and go back to retrieve my sandwich; placing the Snapple and sandwich inside a paper bag. 

     Afterwards I stumble back across O’Farrell to a garishly lit theater.

 

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