The morning sky is bright but gray. The sun tries to peak through the drifting clouds. It’s going to rain (maybe). It’s been raining (maybe). Because of the hills and the ocean and the bay and the mountains, the Bay Area’s weather is predictably unpredictable. Yesterday, as I sat by Crissy Field Beach (the beach near my apartment that looks out onto the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz), I watched a passing cloud dump rain on the hillsides that I believe are Angel Island State Park – I’m still learning my geography. On two different occasions (Jan. 22 and Feb. 2) from about the same spot by the beach I saw a rainbow light up the same section of hillside across the water.
I’m pretty sure I know where the pot of gold is located. I was tempted to write to the guidebook editors, to run and tell every hotel concierge – there’s a spot in San Francisco where if you wait long enough, you’re guaranteed to see a rainbow. I suppose if one waits long enough in any given spot, a rainbow (if only metaphorically) might one one day appear.
I had gone to the beach to read and write. I read one poem, “Scotch Tape” by Tony Hoagland. It seemed so perfectly constructed that I didn’t want to read any more. [I’ve included two versions of the poem here because (to me) it’s also an interesting illustration of how Hoagland revised the one line “or is it an act of masochism?” from a question to a statement which, in my opinion, makes for a much tighter line.]
While sitting on a bench by the beach, a cold wind blew in from the north and the sun ducked behind the clouds. I walked the sandy path from the bench to the parking lot and then along the grassy field towards Fort Mason and a new-to-me bar, The Interval. With its carefully curated cocktails, and intellectual vibe, some might consider The Interval to be a little on the swanky side. I went precisely because I suspected I’d be around a different group of people compared to the folks at my usual dive-bar spots. I knew of the bar because a few years ago I had applied to job at the nonprofit foundation that’s associated with the bar “Long Now Foundation” where, as their mission states, they foster long-term thinking. 10,000 year thinking.
For much of my first cocktail, I sat and listened to the tweed-coated professor next to me talk to his friend, an attractive woman with blond hair and a British accent. They talked, by which I mean he talked and she listened, about college admissions, architecture, and the history of Frank Gehry’s furniture. During the talk about college admissions in which she seemed to have a child or relative who was in the application process, Penn State came up several times. I was tempted to join in, but something about his bluster, the certainty (almost mansplaining) tone in his language, the name-dropping he seemed to revel in, and the fact that he dominated their conversation by a ratio of 85 to 15 (or so), made me feel pretty certain that my commentary would neither be needed nor welcomed.
Early into my second cocktail, or late into my first, the couple seated on my left finished their drinks and left and a new couple arrived. The new couple was looking up restaurants on their phone and they were considering one of the vegan places not far from my apartment. I’ve eaten there once, the food was great. I told them as much. As we started talking, I learned that they used to live here and now they winter here. They spend most of the year in Vermont. We talked about some of the iconic places in the city. They told me where their first date was, a bar not far from City Lights. They said it was nice to see that new people still get excited about discovering all of these old things about SF. They were picking up on my enthusiasm for the city and wanted to know my story, why I moved here, what I do. By the end of our conversation, he had said he was impressed by my courage in making such a big change and was inspired to be more authentically present in the world. He gave me his card and his cell number and offered to show me around Sausalito whenever I get around to making my way over there.
From there, I walked home for a quick bite to eat and then back out to one of my regular spots. If it seems as though I spend an inordinate amount of time at bars, it’s because it makes me feel social (even when I’m not interacting with people) and because bars (and public spaces in general) are great places to learn about our fellow travelers on this planet. Spend enough time in bars and pay close enough attention, and you’re likely to see all kinds of human emotions, behaviors, and interactions. Sit long enough in one spot and you’re bound to see a rainbow (as well as sunshine, storms, blue skies and gray).
The neighborhood bar was mostly full when I got there, then emptied out then filled up again. Spend enough time in bars and you can learn their rhythms and pulses, their shift changes and heartbeats. On Fridays back in State College, Otto’s had the four to seven o’clock firkin crowd and then at around 7pm, a new crowd filtered in as the firkin crowd left. I haven’t been to my neighborhood bar consistently enough (same times or nights of the week) to know its cycles much beyond who works which shifts.
When I first sat down, I sat next to a burly guy with an Irish accent. He asked if I was a local and when I said yes, he asked if the short, bald guy still worked there. I amended my statement to say I just moved here. He told me he used to come to this bar ten years ago. When I asked if he lived in the city he said he lives in northern Nevada. Between the Irish accent and the white noise of bar chatter, it was hard to make out what he was saying. It sounded like he moved out there with a woman – perhaps his wife. It sounded like she forced the move because she wanted a change of scenery. But then it sounded like she was always trying to change things up – renovate the house. But then the changing things up sounded more serious like she’s kicked him out or they’re getting divorced or now he’s stuck and miserable in northern Nevada. I nodded or shook my head accordingly at what felt like appropriate moments, never quite sure how to respond or what I was responding to. We sat for a few minutes in silence as he finished his beer and left.
After the initial crowd thinned out and the burly Irishman left, a woman and her… partner, date, boyfriend, whatever sat near me leaving one stool open between us. He had what looked like a paper department store shopping bag which he set down on the empty stool. He sat slightly turned towards her, mostly with his back to me. She had glasses and black hair. She wore a black coat and maybe even a black sweater under it. Neither of them wore wedding rings, so I guess husband was probably off the list of relationship stages.
They ordered Tito’s and soda with a twist of lemon. They talked for a bit and then they began to quarrel. It was noticeable but not in that loud and embarrassing sort of way. Though if you’ve been in that situation, the awkward fight in a public space, you know that it always feels loud and embarrassing. She was far more animated than he was. At times, I couldn’t tell if they were even arguing or just talking about something that pissed her off. She didn’t seem like a particularly pleasant woman – almost exacting in her demeanor and tone. With his back to me, I couldn’t tell you much about his demeanor or tone other than to say I could hear her more than I could hear him. Spend enough time in bars and you can also misread a lot of situations. When I overheard her say, “I am so mad at you right now,” I knew three things: she (and perhaps they) were somewhat practiced in articulating their feelings as opposed to reacting through showing their feelings (this is the difference between saying I’m so mad at you and saying fuck off)… I also knew this wasn’t a first date, and it probably wasn’t going to be resolved there in the bar.
I don’t think they had more than two rounds of drinks. For a little while, his glass sat three-quarters finished as she sat there alone fidgeting with her phone. I thought he had gone to the bathroom, and when the reasonableness of that time-span seemed to have passed, I thought he might have run to one of the shops next door or out to the car. She seemed to be waiting for him to come back. After a while, it became clear that he had left.
The woman with the glasses and black hair seldom looked up from her phone. When she did, she looked around the bar in that way we look around to see if anyone has noticed what’s played out. At some point, an industry guy (lingo for people who work in the restaurant and bar industry) came in and sat next to her. Being an industry guy, he’s good at picking up on social cues. Sensing her discomfort, he tried to strike up a conversation – not in a hitting on her type of way, but in the way a bartender might try to strike up a conversation (a wellness check disguised as interest). He asked her what her name was. He put his hand out to shake hers. She told him her name and shook his hand, but her body language said she didn’t want to be bothered. She was distressed, maybe angry, maybe embarrassed: looking at her phone, putting her phone down, looking at her phone, reading some messages, buttoning and re-buttoning her coat as though she was about to leave or because she needed to find something to do with her now awkward and clumsy hands.
If I know these things, it’s because I’ve been there. I’ve had the public arguments. I’ve had the failed dates. I was once on a date where after a bite to eat and some normal, innocuous conversation, I asked my date if we should get another glass of wine. She said sure, we could do that and then when I ordered another glass, she did not. A few minutes later she said, “I’m gonna go” and offered to give me money for the bill. I was left there feeling awkward, alone, and very visibly walked out on. I still had a half glass of wine to drink and couldn’t play it off like it was a mutual decision. The formerly overly attentive bartenders seemed to cautiously shift their attention away. I felt like a lot of eyes were on me as I squirmed and tried to think of how to play it off, how to play it cool – an “I meant to do that type of exit.”
The woman with the black hair wearing the black coat got up and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she switched seats to create space between the industry guy and her. She sat where her boyfriend, partner, whatever was sitting – one empty stool between her and me. She never ordered another drink. She made several phone calls, but never spoke on the phone – probably sent straight to voicemail. I couldn’t make out the name on her phone, but each call was to the same person. She took a sip from the glass in front of her and the industry guy tapped the bar to get her attention. He told her that wasn’t her original drink. It probably didn’t matter that she was drinking from her partner’s glass, but this was too much to explain – industry guy didn’t know that she had come in with someone. Under different circumstances, she might have said, “it’s fine, we’re together.” There was no we, just one woman and two nearly empty highball glasses. Because industry guy had pushed her glass towards her, she said thank you and swapped glasses. She made another phone call to the same number.
I’ve been there too. Those moments of panic after a hard departure. Those minutes that stretch into eternity. You want to find a way, any way possible, to reconnect. The not knowing makes you feel desperate and with each call that goes unanswered, your breathing goes shallow, your mouth gets a little drier, your heart beats a little faster.
Still fidgeting with her phone and looking down like the sixth-grade kid who didn’t want to get called on to read out loud in front of the class, this woman, who only an hour or two earlier had seemed so assertive and in control, was slowly unraveling – call after call, text after text. This was another instance where I wanted to say something and didn’t. I saw her response to the industry guy. I could see how uncomfortable and trapped she felt – maybe staying at the bar long enough to make it seem like his leaving was part of the plan all along – or perhaps staying because she wasn’t sure where else she could go. Maybe home wasn’t going to be a safe place tonight.
When one of the bartenders noticed that her head was down on the bar, black hair covering dark wood, he tapped his colleague who was talking to me and gave a nod in her direction. The bartender paused our conversation and said her name. She didn’t respond. He said it again and when she didn’t respond, he went back to talking with me. After a minute, his colleague gave him another nudge. He’s been working in this bar for over a decade. Despite being practiced at this, I could see in his face and in his hesitation that the awkwardness of these moments never wears off. He drummed on the bar next to her, but she didn’t move a whole lot. He again returned to our conversation. I think he was telling me about a time when he played soccer in high school.
Wanting a more definitive resolution, the other bartender came over and nudged her awake. He asked her if she needed him to call an Uber. She mumbled a few things and took a sip of whatever watered down ice melt mixture was left in the glass. She made another phone call, checked her texts, and tried to get an Uber. They had paid their tab earlier and with nothing to settle up, she stumbled out of the bar into the cool night where a rain-soaked Chestnut Street glistened under the neon lights of the restaurants, bars, and shops. A little uncoordinated as if being blown by the wind or pulled off stage by a hook, she went to the left toward Fillmore Street – even though it looked like her white sedan Uber was waiting directly across the street from the bar. Half out of my seat and ready to go out and direct her to her ride, I watched as she teetered by the picture window heading crookedly in the other direction. The white sedan had left and another (or maybe the same) white sedan pulled up to the same spot across the street. Through the bar’s open front door I could see her walk behind the car and get in the rear passenger side door – holding the roof to steady herself. They drove off.
Within an hour, another wave of customers filled the bar. Servers, kitchen staff, and bartenders from the neighborhood restaurants that had just closed trickled in in twos and threes. I nodded to the few people I recognized. I hung around for fifteen or twenty minutes finishing my beer and debating if I wanted to stick around to see what else played out. I settled my tab, said goodby and walked out into the misty night. The streets were empty for a Saturday. With my hands shoved deep in my pockets and walking briskly into the evening chill, I went to a pizza shop around the corner where they heated up a slice of meat-lover’s and put it in a to-go box for me. The pointy part of my slice sagged as I folded it and ate it on the walk home.
It’s later in the day now. The gray and cloudy skies have thickened. Evening approaches. When I started this blog post, I didn’t intend to chronicle another evening among strangers at bars. I was processing my experiences from yesterday. The rainbow, the poem, the conversations. I was thinking about how I spend my time here and what I see. I was trying to determine if I’m becoming attached to this way of life – reading by the shore, people watching, and trying to get the details right. I was thinking about how this will necessarily change when I have to focus my attention elsewhere – when I choose to focus my attention elsewhere. I had playing in my head the song “Stiches”: “I wanna come home / cause I miss your bones / and I’m sick and tired / of always sleepin’ alone. / And I need to come back / cause this road’s too hard / too many sinners / in too many bars.” It’s not that I feel that the road is too hard or that I see too many sinners in too many bars. If anything, I’m surprised by how vivid and rich life feels when seen through this lens to which I’ve grown accustomed – even if it is at the bottom of someone else’s shot glass. This (all of it) is my current definition of home. Rainbows and nature, strangers at bars – these are the serrated and sticky edges of my worn-out roll of scotch tape. “The name of the program is called ‘The Misery of the World.'” “To listen is a moral kind of masochism.” Sit anywhere long enough and the view will always change, pay attention long enough and you’ll find plenty things worth mending.