A Well Worn $20.

The $20 dollar bill was well worn and had the look of being freshly laundered. Its days of inflicting paper cuts were over and it was just a matter of time before the Mint got to it and exchanged it for a cuter, younger bill. I balled it up and put it in my pocket next to other bills in the same condition.

At the register, I paid for the meal with my credit card, like I had done the 50 or so times before. I had the Petaluma omelet (chicken apple sausage, spinach, mozzarella, mushrooms and salsa) with a Diet Coke; Wolfie had the usual: sesame bagel with cream cheese and milk. Neither of us had deviated in our breakfast choices in 5 years or when he moved into solid foods.

Waiting for the clerk to return with the Diet Pepsi and milk, I rummaged through my pocket searching for a tip. I pulled out a faded dollar and made sure the clerk see me put it into the tip jar. I don’t know why I waited, but everybody does. The clerk’s eyes brightened and he responded, “Thank you very much, Sir. Thank you.” The response was excessive for a dollar tip and made me a little embarrassed.

Wolfie and I walked upstairs and took our regular seat overlooking the main floor of the restaurant. It was early and only a quarter full with small families and early rising college students. Before sitting down, I thought about the clerk’s response. It didn’t make sense. It was only a dollar and didn’t warrant so much enthusiasm. Did I tip $20 dollars?

I checked my pockets and there was no badly worn $20 dollar bill. I checked again and then pilfered my wallet. There was a $20 in the wallet, badly worn, but I wasn’t sure if it was the $20 I was looking for. I sat and ate breakfast, with my mind on the $20 and my $20 on my mind.

On our way out, I stopped at the counter, under the guise of asking for water, even though I was aware that a pitcher of water was available next to the utensil counter. While asking for water, I peered into the stainless steel vase that doubled as a tip jar. Alternating between looking at the clerk and the vase, I visually searched for any sign of a 2 or a 0. I didn’t see either.

Leaving the restaurant I accepted that I either lost a 20 dollar bill...or I didn’t. I convinced myself I didn’t.

Jack Martial Arts

In the 2 years that Jack had been delivering to the hotel, he had not spoken to the doorman. They acknowledged each other’s presence with nod or slight gesture of hand, but hadn’t taken the step of introducing themselves. Both were comfortable with this informal relationship.

Last week Jack walked through the front door of the hotel on his way to the elevator. The doorman nodded, John reciprocated but this time he followed him to the elevator. They stood in silence, eyes watching the round floor buttons above the elevator move down from the 4th floor. 4-3-2-1.

Once inside, they repeated the same behavior, watching the floor buttons move up this time. Jack broke protocol:

“How’s the tips here?” looking straight forward, eyes on the illuminated buttons.

“Fare to medium,” appearing to mock his tone, void of expression.

On the 4th floor, Jack got off and doorman stayed on. Neither said goodbye.

When Jack returned to the lobby, the doorman was back at his post. On his way out Jack decided to introduce himself:

“Hi, I’m Jack,” extending his hand.

“I’m Tsan,” pointing to his name tag.

“San?” Jack said, squinting at his name tag, hoping that his printed name would help with the pronunciation.

“Tsan…like Tsan,” once again pointing to his name tag like it would help. Jack thought of his friend Dano who would introduce himself as “Dano…like Drano.”

Jack forced a smile, regretting that he asked. He walked toward the door.

“Jack. Martial arts,” Tsan yelled, not explaining the context of martial arts after Jack’s name.

Jack turned and forced another smile. “Huh?” he replied, pondering if Tsan thought his last name was Martial Arts.

Tsan yelled again: “Jack, you know you hunch over when you walk, it’s not good for your heart.”

This got Jack’s attention, as his glass was always half empty. In 5th grade his teacher told him he would get an ulcer if he didn’t stop worrying.

“I do? You think so?” he said, not questioning the snap diagnosis of a stranger.

Tsan followed Jack outside and asked him to clutch his hands behind his head, like he was a prisoner, and to sit on a bench that was outside of the hotel. Jack obliged and sat down.

Tsan climbed over the backrest of the bench but couldn’t get a good position. He asked Jack to twist his torso where his shoulders were parallel with the bench. Tsan stood on the slanted bench next to Jack and jammed his knee into his back while pulling back his shoulders. Jack grimaced in pain, heard a crack and for a brief moment felt some relief. Before he could raise a concern, Tsan’s knee collided with Jack’s lower back. Feeling great pain, Jack jumped up and was on his way.

That night while lying in bed, Jack worried about what Tsan said about his posture and heart. The next morning he woke up and couldn’t move is neck.

The Right of Kid Cupcake

Jay told us he was fighting at the Cow Palace in a few weeks and asked us to come. I assumed he was fighting in an amateur boxing tournament, not some street brawl at night in front of the building. But this was Jay, so you never knew.

For the past few years, Jay went to a local boxing gym to learn the craft, sport or whatever you want to call it. According to him he was pretty good and he proved it many Friday and Saturday nights on the faces of patrons at bars in San Francisco. I had never seen him get into a fight - by the time he reached this level, I had refused to go out with him because I knew how the evening would end - but I heard about all his exploits on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Jay lived upstairs in our warehouse and was a frequent visitor in our space.

His stories made me uncomfortable, but Jay was highly intelligent and a great storyteller and always spun the violence into an entertaining story, rather than a bloody fight. While churning out lore after lore of fist fights, we sat rapt, guilt ridden for enjoying his exploits. We were anarchist punks and while we would rather engage the system than individuals, the brunt of his lashings was always yuppies or jocks - people that deserved it? Knowing this made everything a little more palatable.

Three of us made the trek to the Cow Palace, not knowing what to expect. My history with boxing had mostly been Ali, Frasier and Foreman - The Thrilla in Manila and the Rumble in the Jungle – and I assumed this would be like that but on a much smaller scale.

There were 2 rings set up in a large hall next to the main room, where I saw many concerts in my youth. The room looked like it was used for conventions and, by the smell of it, 4-H events. Large, boxy and unassuming, fold up chairs circled the stages and bleachers bookended the rings. Not wanting to get too close, we sat in the bleachers. Jay was first on the card.

Like professional boxing matches on TV, they announced the boxers over the P.A. Jay pranced in, ducked under the ropes and danced around the ring, throwing fake punches, before returning to his corner of the ring. A man that looked more like a fellow boxer than a trainer stood in his corner and encouraged him before the bell rang. I imagined he was saying something like: “Pick and jab,” “don’t’ get caught in the corner” and” keep your hands up.”

We moved forward as the bell rang. For 3 rounds Jay went toe-to-toe with a more experienced boxer, landing punches and taking 3 in return. We were having a great time seeing our friend get beat up in a controlled environment. We yelled, “Run, Jay, Run,” as his relenting opponent chased him around the ring, looking to back him in a corner.

At the end of the 3rd round, the bell ring and Jay lost by a decision. He was bruised, a bit bloodied and beaming with pride. We were impressed and couldn’t wait for his take on the fight; we were sure it would be the exact opposite of what we saw.

While waiting around for Jay to clean up, we watched the other fights. The fighters got progressively bigger, meaner and more brutal. The last fight, between Irish Danny Maguire and Pat Lawlor, proved to be the best fight of the night.

Irish Danny was first to enter the ring. As his name echoed through the hall, I looked around and noticed the crowd had gone from friends and family to fans of these 2 boxers. The Sunset district look was in full force: Irish, white, 20 – 35 years old, mean looking, shaved head, baggy trousers, backward baseball caps and NBA tank tops, specifically the Boston Celtics. It was like House of Pain was playing next door.

Seeing that the propensity of violence in the crowd increased considerably (we were long hairs), we situated ourselves opposite from where they congregated and tried to blend in.

As they announced Irish Danny Maguire, his fans stood and taunted the crowd, throwing their hands up and bouncing up and down. The P.A. blared Jump Around by House of Pain; As they announced Pat Lawlor, the other half of the crowd, dressed exactly like Danny Maguire fans, stood up, threw their arms in the air and bounced up and down to the tune of Jump Around by House of Pain. It was almost like they were fighting for rights of the song.

Not to be out done my Danny Maguire fans, Lawlor fans unveiled a homemade banner on what looked like a queen size bed sheet. With a crudely painted of picture of the Pacific Ocean with a rainbow over the ocean, the banner said, “Pat Lawlor, The Pride of the Sunset,” the later following the arch of the rainbow. It was a beautiful sight – all homemade banners have a tinge of beauty.

Almost immediately, Lawlor fans screamed out addresses in the Sunet and Parkside, neighborhoods in San Francisco: “48th and Taravel,” “23rd and Judah” and “38th and Lawton” and many more. Maguire fans countered with more addresses. I assumed this was where they lived and customary at these type of events.

As the bell rang, the crowd of tank tops surged and we moved back to the bleachers. While Lawlor and Maguire beat shit out of each other, Jay appeared in street clothes, holding a gym bag. He looked like he had showered. His face was a little red, but he looked good.

Downplaying losing the fight, he reached into his bag and pulled out his boxing shorts. Embroidered along the front of the waistband were the words Kid Cupcake. I hadn’t noticed the name when he was fighting. Jay said that they made him turn the waistband inside out, which explained his “short” shorts.

I don’t remember who won the fight, but I do remember how it ended: an all out brawl between the Maguire and Lawlor fans. It was fitting end to the night.


.

Speedboating Baseball

Somehow he had become a big baseball fan. Even though he was only 5 years old and had trouble pronouncing last names like Uribe and Rentaria, he loved the game and would sit through 9 innings without a break. We started collecting baseball cards and it wasn’t long before Emmanuel Burriss’ card replaced his teddy bear at bedtime. I was thrilled because I loved baseball…and because it was so damn cute.

His first game was a Monday night vs. the Braves. I bought tickets on craigslist in the Club Level to avoid the requisite drunks that inevitably populate sporting events. The level offered easy in and out access, shorter bathroom and concession lines and had an enclosed area to watch the games on flat screens in case it was too cold. It was a little more expensive, but it was his first game and I was hoping to avoid a drunken brawl between Giants and Braves fans.

The game was exciting. It had great pitching, stellar defense, plays at home, home runs…and the obligatory drunk. Regardless of how much you pay for a ticket, you can’t escape the drunks. Lesson learned.

In a sea of white baseball fans, 2 young African American men strolled down the aisle carrying 2 beers a piece, garlic fries and hot dogs. It was the second inning and they sat 2 rows in front of us. After putting down their food and beer, the taller, leaner one of the two – the one that got the ladies – stood up, pulled out a 5th of Hennessy from his back pocket and took a long drag. He did nothing to conceal what he was doing. Grimacing from the bite of alcohol, he turned around and addressed the crowd: “Who’s a Giants fan? Stand up if you’re a Giants fans? Come on!” Nobody stood up. He waved his hand us and sat down, grumbling how he was the biggest fan. I leaned over to Wolfie (son) and said, “He’s funny, isn’t he?” hoping to defuse any subsequent actions brought on by his behavior. He wasn’t long for the game.

At the end of the inning he and his buddy left, returning in the bottom of the 4th with more beers and snacks. For the next 3 innings, he chided every opposing batter with taunts and swears and befriended the 2 pre-teens sitting next to me, much to the chagrin of their conservative parents. He acknowledged Wolfie’s presence and threw him high-5’s. Wolfie gladly reciprocated. He was harmless, even charming at times, but it wasn’t going to end well.

In the middle of the 7th evening, the P.A. announcer asked for a moment of silence, to honor American soldiers who died in war. It was Memorial Day. My friend 2 rows in front of us took the opportunity to finish off the last dregs of Hennessey. He tipped the bottle back; beads of alcohol fell on his extended tongue. He dropped the bottle and yelled, “Viva la baseball! Viva la Baseball. Go Gigantes!” I gave him the once over, reevaluating his heritage. Maybe he was Latino and I was too stupid to know? In his alcohol soaked brain, I assumed he had mistaken Memorial Day for Cinco de Mayo.

It started with, “Shut up, idiot.” And then, “Have some respect.” He was oblivious to the forces gathering around him. He continued yelling, “Viva La Baseball,” while dancing in his seat. Finally a woman across the aisle got his attention, “Shut up, you fool, and have some respect.” He countered with, “I served my country, I served my country.” The simple act of responding brought out every Central Valley speedboat owner that did a stint in the Iraq War, the Gulf War and even Nam. Throughout the section, beefy, barrel-chested white men turned toward him and stared him down. It didn’t look pretty.

Just in time, 2 policemen tapped him on the shoulder He stood, knowing his time was up. He looked like he was used to this. As he ascended the stairs, both cops gripping the back of his arms, half the section clapped. I felt this was in poor taste. I kinda liked the guy.

An inning later his quiet friend appeared and sat down. He stayed for one out and then left.

I'm Swearing, Aren't I

She and 3 of her girlfriends entered in the bottom half of the first inning. They sat down like a storm, reached into their bags and pulled out water bottles filled with Orange Juice and Vodka. Placing them in the convenient drink holder, the woman closest to me yelled, “Woo-hoo. Go Giants;” the leader of the group – the pretty one with wraparound black sunglasses – stood up and yelled, “Fuck the A’s!” The latter echoed though section CL203 and announced to everyone that that if the game was boring, they’d provide the entertainment. I both grimaced (because I had my 5-year old son Wolfie with me) and looked forward in anticipation (who doesn’t love 4 swearing drunk women?).

Ironically, 4 guys around the same age sat behind them. It was like an episode of Friends waiting to happen except I got a strong Daly City/South San Francisco vibe from the girls and a potent Walnut Creek scent from the guys. So, it would be more like Valley Girl. Depending on how you looked at it, one of the groups would either being slumming or rounding up. They immediately acknowledged each other’s presence and the drunken mating ritual began.

The woman closest to me - the funny one of the group– said hello and we exchanged pleasantries. Getting caught up in the developing story, I leaned over and said, “You know, they’re 4 of them and 4 of you – this could be like a Cinemax movie?” I changed the scenario from Friends to Cinemax and regretted it immediately. She smiled, laughed – not really getting what I said. Like I said, she was the nice funny one and didn’t want any trouble – at least for now.

The 2 groups barbed, flirted and one-uped each other all night. As the male group drank more beer and the female group finished their water bottle cocktails, the 2 of them got looser and their taunts turned from inane to laced with profanity and sexually suggested.

Acknowledging their swearing, the big girl leaned over and whispered, “I’m swearing, aren’t I?” Her face was squinty and her shoulders were up, as if to say, “Watcha gonna do?” in a very, very nice way.

I leaned back and responded, “Yes, you are. You’re having fun, don’t worry about it.”I was playing the cool guy and pandering to them, even though I should’ve been more adult since I was with my 5-year old. My intellect rationalized their actions: “They’re young, having fun, not hurting anybody and I did much worse at baseball games at their age.” The father in me and getting-old-cranky side thought: “Fuckin’ Daly City trash. Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.” The latter is usually deeply suppressed and rarely comes out.

She whispered again, “You should hear me when I let loose. It’s a lot worse.” Even though this could be taken as a threat, it wasn’t meant as such. She was just letting me know that she was doing her best to act civil.

By now, I was unintentionally mimicking her squinty whispers. I whispered back, “I can only imagine. We’re gonna go to the bathroom and get some food next inning so feel free to get it out of your system while we’re gone.” drawing out every word. I was kinda bummed that I was gonna miss her verbal assault.

“Ok, thank you. I will do that.” She whispered back.

When Wolfie and I returned, we sat one seat away from them. They were loud, distracting and, because the woman next to me was rather large, it was hard to see the batters when she twisted her body to talk to her friends and the guys behind, which she was always doing. I placed my bag in the seat the between us, just in case she decided to move over and chat.

I hoping she wouldn’t acknowledge the insult. I was wrong. She immediately turned her head, looked at me, then the seat and gave me a look as if to say, “Hmphhh!” I leaned over, hoping to ignite our previous whispering session and said, “I don’t mean to be rude, it was just that, um, you were rather loud and it was hard to see and....” It was like I had conjured George Costanza.

In a gracious move, she said, “It’s ok, sweetie.” She topped off the kindness with, “I’m drunk.”

With 2 outs in the 9th inning, we stood and clapped. Lincecum, the Giants’ wunderkind pitcher recorded the 27th out and the near sellout crowd went crazy. We clapped and high-fived our neighbors. Unbeknownst to me, my neighbor – the big girl turned drunk girl – had gone into my bag and pulled out Wolfie’s foam #1 Giants hand.

Dancing in the aisle with the foam hand piercing the San Francisco night, she looked over and playfully jabbed me in the stomach. Slightly touching the foam finger on top of Wolfie’s head, my shy boy recoiled, grabbing my thigh. I laughed and loved that she went into my bag.

As the crowd moved toward the exit, Wolfie and I watched the players shake hands and the media hover for interviews. The 2 groups next to us awkwardly broached the idea of hanging out. I listened intently as they devised a plan to meet up at a bar near the stadium.

I'm on Vacation

We’re not on the sidewalk, Homes

My friend Josh and I were skateboarding down San Pablo Street in Emeryville, coming back from a Soul Asylum show at the Berkley Square. We were about a quarter mile from our warehouse, carefully crossing train tracks, when we heard a voice to our left: “Hey, get off the sidewalk!” We looked and a cop across the street, walking to his parked car, was gesturing toward us and seemed mad. It looked like he had just gone to a store and was on his way back.

I replied, “We’re not on the sidewalk, Homes!” He either didn’t like my righteous tone or use of the word “homes” because he moved quickly to his car, got in and flipped a u-turn. Josh and I didn’t wait around. We skated as fast as we could to the entrance of the warehouse. We knew that if we could make it inside, the cop would not come in. They knew who were and routinely were called to break up our warehouse’s parties and shows and knew that the space was a very dark maze of hallways.

I made it inside but Josh didn’t. I told my roommates what was going on and we ran to the roof to see if Josh got caught. Lying on the roof, we saw a silhouette of what we assumed was Josh, slumped down in the back seat of the cop car.

He was released early the next morning and came straight over, feigning being pissed at me. I felt a little bad because I was the one that threw out the “Homes” comment.