It’s overcast. We have plenty of gray days, but this morning, the clouds look like rain clouds. I feel as though I’m being given permission to stay in, to drink coffee slowly, to read or take a nap or write or just stare out the window. I do those things on nice days too, but there’s always a hint of guilt when I’m not frolicking outside on a sunny day. I have lots of guilty days.
Last night, a woman I only kinda know, a friend of a friend, got kicked out of the bar. Her dog wandered back behind the bar two or three times and she wasn’t paying attention – she was too drunk. Earlier in the night, she fell off her bar stool. Then, a little later, as she stood and turned to talk to someone, she dropped her dog. It was more like spilled her dog out of her arms. She literally dropped it, a tiny black poodle looking dog. Fortunately, the guy she turned to talk to caught the dog mid-air. The guy on the other side of me nudged me and said, “did you just see that? that guy just caught a dog?”
At some point, before she had been kicked out, our mutual friend showed up. I had been waiting for him to meet me there. I filled him in on what he had missed: who was at the bar, the the dog falling out of the sky, the mutual friend who was drunk and about to be kicked out. She eventually came over to join us – I had sort of been watching her stuff (a phone left on the bar, her backpack hanging from a hook underneath the bar). My friend offered to walk her home in a let’s go back to your place, have a glass of wine sort of way. I don’t think he had the best intentions in mind, but they have history and it’s none of my business. They had a shot for the road and left. He said he’d be coming back. He didn’t. The bartenders weren’t happy with her – she left them a one cent tip. Her name might go in the black book of people who have been eighty-sixed.
Standing to my left at the bar, a young couple was on a date – though she seemed to be flirting with at least one other guy. The guy on the date is planning on moving to New York for a year. He told me he can make better money there and he thinks it’ll be more exciting (more people – the population of Brooklyn is three times greater than San Francisco). He seemed to think there would be more opportunities there. This felt like a generational difference between us. I can’t imagine moving to bigger (and in my opinion uglier) city just for money and a “better scene” – writes the guy who moved to Sf for a better scene. The woman he was on the date with (I think it was their first or fourth – it was noisy) liked my shirt. I was wearing a new shirt – gingham. She asked if it was from Vineyards and Vines. I didn’t know what Vineyards and Vines was, but I assumed it was a brand. I said no, it’s from the Gap. She put her hand on my chest and said she liked that I wore it with a plain white tee. She said something about most guys not knowing a classic look. I don’t know anything about fashion. I didn’t really have a reply. We all talked some more. I finished my beer, paid my tab, and left. I made sure to leave more than a one cent tip.
One of the two notes I wrote on my phone last night was about the flirty young woman who complimented my style and seemed mildly obsessed with brands. The other note was about fitting in (or not): being a local at a local bar where I see other people who either live or work in the neighborhood – the chefs and waiters and bartenders from the restaurants on the block who all stop in for a drink after their shift. Neither of the notes felt ripe for deeper exploration. Like the gray, overcast sky, this is all just a report. It’s raining now and I’ve poured my second cup of coffee for the morning. I don’t think I’ve seen real rain in weeks. It’s nice.
What seems more ripe for exploration, perhaps a poem, is my mixed feelings about my friend who took the woman home. Despite not wanting to be judgmental, I think a little less of him knowing what his angle was. I might feel differently if they were both a little drunk and one thing led to another, but this seemed more calculated. He’ll text me sometime today. He’ll tell me something did or didn’t happen. He’ll feign regret over it. He’ll tell me I was right. I usually advise him not to do such things – to hold out for something with a little more depth. The poem percolating is about hollowness. Or maybe it’s about intimacy and deceit and desire. Maybe it’s about skin and surface, touch and the superficiality of brand name fabrics, first dates and drunken escapades. Maybe it’s about being a reserved and somewhat quiet observer – of the sound the rain makes as it hits the broad leaves of the magnolia tree outside my window, of the gray clouds passing overhead, of the lap dogs falling from the sky.