Happy Hour in the City of Thieves

Highway 101 from Santa Rosa to San Rafael is an unholy mish-mash of construction zones, bad drivers, and pockmarked, poorly marked pavement. The road is at least as rough as a somewhat maintained gravel road one might find outside of Rapelje or Absarokee in Montana. I was headed to The City for a day of aimless wandering with SP. Sonoma County was too dull and uptight to subsist on, and Baghdad by the Bay was the elixir that kept my spirit alive during my somewhat dull Wine Country encampment.

“Hey,” I said, motioning toward a bag on the passenger seat floor, “give me one of those.”

SP pulled out a can of PBR from a box inside the bag. He cracked it open and handed it over to me. I started swilling; the watery-barleyey taste caressed my parched, cottony lips. As I learned in Montana as a youth, there wasn't a better way to pass a trip along a god-awful stretch of road than by pounding brews along the way. It wasn't like I was impaired or anything.

Eventually, we navigated the harrowing straits of the 101, and ended up in quaint, wealthy Marin County, in the hamlet of Larkspur. We drove in off the freeway, under a bridge that resembled Dirty Harry's showdown spot with the Scorpio, and rolled past the ferry terminal, which showed we had 90 minutes to wait until the next boat.

“Aw shit,” I bemoaned this turn of events, “an hour and a half? This blows.”

SP shrugged and replied, “Why? There's a brewery over there...let's get something to drink.”

We parked in a box store parking lot and walked to the Marin Brewery. Though both of us had managed to kill a 6 pack of PBR on the ride down, what else were we going to do for the next 90 minutes, stare at the flat bay?

The small beer buzz from earlier had me in a state of near-euphoria as we wandered into the brew house. It was sunny out, a perfect day by all standards, and there was a mass of Marinites sitting around outside. It looked crowded. However, once inside, the place was half-empty. We took stools at the bar.

A moderately attractive blonde who looked like an R. Crumb girl came up to us, “Can I get you guys anything?”

“I'll have the Pale Ale.” SP retorted.

I was caught in a moment of indecision. So many choices.

“Um, I'll have the Porter.”

She didn't even card. I guess we looked as if we had just spent the night on O'Farrell Street and it wasn't worth carding types like us. Within a couple of minutes, our freshly poured, finely crafted brews were sitting in front of us.

We tapped our glasses together in a toasting fashion. “This is a little better than the PBR,” SP said right before taking a big swig of beer.

It was, it was like night and day really. PBR is like a flavored water beverage while this, well this porter was so thick one could almost chew it. It was like a meal-to-go. Outstanding. I was a fan of cheap beer, I grew up guzzling Oly after all, but you just couldn't pass up good brew when you have the chance.

The bar itself was pretty dead. The A's were being clubbed by Texas on TV and nobody seemed to care. The patrons were scattered about in an unscientific way. There were a lot of empty tables, but we did have company. On my left was a Bob Weir lookalike, and on the other side of SP was a banker-looking fellow who was mindlessly indulging himself with an iPad. He barely touched his beer.

We paid up and left the stillness of the bar behind. We walked and toked over the walkway and into the ferry building. It wasn't much of a building, though. It consisted of a covered sitting area, some glass, and ramps to the various boats. A solitary green yucca tree sat at the edge of the “building” over the water, watching over the operations of this transport hub. Off a little further rose the spectre of San Quentin, which loomed a stone's throw away to the south.

A disinterested, heavy-set black woman stood at the gate watching us scan our Clipper cards and making sure we didn't jump fare. Not that she would have been hard to outrun, but where would one run to here? Out the gate and into the parking lot? We sat waiting for the boat. Around us were a sea of aging, wealthy hippies, complete with their expensive bicycles, granola bars, and extreme self-righteousness.

It was kind of awkward, really. They were all just hovering about in their smugness.

“He's a communist!” SP blurted out of nowhere.

“Who? The President?” I inquired.

“Yeah, the president.” He said.

The pious hippies gawked, SP continued.

“Like not in a economic way, but in a paranoid, police state way.”

“Yeah,” I piped in, “dude is downright Nixonian!”

Their wealthy, perma-stoned faces turned to a look of aghast anger. Almost in unison, their eyebrows connected, their faces turned red, and right before any of them could unleash a harangue from the bowels of Xanadu, we were saved by the gate to the boat opening. We scampered up the deck into the boat.

“Their looks were priceless!” I said, “That was hilarious!”

“It's always fun to get those middle-aged assholes uncomfortable,” SP replied in a sinister fashion.

We found our way to the lower galley and rode out the dull, yet calm trip across the bay. We were headed into the belly of the beast. This rust bucket connected two totally alien worlds; the lush, calm greenery of Marin County, to the concrete jungle of insanity that was the San Francisco Financial District, all in a rather timely 30 minutes.

We emerged from the fog, and our aged, decrepit watercraft dropped us off at an aged, decrepit dock, which led past throngs of gape-mouthed granola eaters waiting for their turn to embark on the high seas.

“Dude,” a quasi-intoxicated SP said, “I'm starved, like totally starved, let's get some grub.”

“Yeah dude, me too,” I said as my stomach let out a loud growl in what seemed almost reactionary. “Wanna hit up Orgasmica? That place is always good.”

“Man, we always go there,” SP said, “besides, it's like 3, the lunch deal is off already.”

“True, and I'm not high enough for all-you-can-eat slices anyway.” I replied.

SP laughed, “Yeah, but hey, we're down this way already, let's go hit Red's.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Red's sounded downright magical at this point.

Red's was one of those greasy-spoon places every city had, from San Francisco to Sundance. Those places that fill your stomach with filling, wholesome comfort food while at the same time drizzling your head in a syrup of sweet nostalgia.

We began our trek down that way. We wandered past sculptures, seagulls, and a sea of destitution on this sunny, seaside saunter. Past huge industrial piers, dying palm trees, and under the Bay Bridge's artery of traffic that hung over head. Finally, we arrived to our destination.

It was a tarpaper sentinel that sat on the water, a gatekeeper to the abandoned, decaying Pier 30. Inside, this place resembled something like Wade's Drive In in Harlowton. The difference, though, was instead of the other patrons being bloated, ex-athlete boozeheads reminiscing about the good old days, there were three white-speaking Asian banking types neurotically and nervously arguing about the parking job one of them had done outside.

“Am I going to get towed? I can't get towed!” a balding, mouth-agape freaked out soul who resembled a sucker fish babbled over and over.

“It's fine, no problem! Enjoy the food!,” another replied in a terse, annoyed tone. “I've done this....a million times. You should be fine!”

“I have accounts to close! I can't afford to base things on maybes!”

This carried on for a short while. Abruptly, the lunch break by the day-traders broke up. The cordial, collegeial meeting devolved hurridly into a Tong War of insane arguments over the merits and nuances of parking on the waterfront. I guess they should have walked instead.

My food was called; a juicy burger on sourdough with a shitton of fries. It was like an oasis of flavor in my day that had been devoid of food to this point. The burger was like Valhalla itself; I savored each bite.

With lunch done, we began our trek into the Financial District. It was Happy Hour in the FiDi (as the locals call it), and Happy Hour down here was a spectacle that rivaled the high feast days in Imperial Rome. Dionysian excess personified. On our way in, we crossed the Embarcadero. On the fording of this river of cars, I glanced at the people in their respective vessels. Everyone was going somewhere, they all had someplace to be, everywhere but here. I looked in a parked Subaru that was along the white line of the crosswalk. Inside, an ugly yip-yip dog stared out the window, glaring at me with a menacing scowl. It's owner, a rather homely rug-muncher, looked at me in the exact same fashion. It was uncanny how much dog and owner looked alike.

While passing in front of it, I walked close to the passenger side door, where the little mongrel was, and started making barking noises, yelling, and waving my arms wildly. The little shit inside went nuts and began barking loudly and running about. The owner became incensed, enraged, and began yelling out her window, “You little fucker! You dirty little fucker!” at me as I walked away from the site of the gristly carnage. I laughed. I was 24 and still, I was a “Dirty Little fucker”.

After navigating the alleys, streets and hidden passages of the Financial District, we ended up at the Royal Exchange, a faux British pub on Sacramento Street. It had an insane happy hour that usually involved practically giving drinks away. They always had a cheap Belgian beer on tap, and cheap Belgian beer was about as hard to come by in this town as a meeting of Grover Norquist supporters. Strangely, this saloon was heavily stocked with both, however. Besides us, the place was chock full of financial types. Each looking more coked out than the next, the worker bees here having some nectar to assuage the pain and agony of another day slaving away at the Montgomery hive, the heart of Wall Street West. On my left was a coked-out, wild eyed, 40-something fellow who looked just like Pat Sajak. Really, though, the whole bar kind of resembled that description.

Still, it was hard to beat cheap Belgian beer, nectar of the gods if there were such a thing. I began downing the second, or possibly the third Palm of the afternoon, a haggard, bearded fellow clad in a tattered suit, briefcase and 1980s Gordon Gekko cellphone burst in through the front door. He pushed his way through the growing weekday crowd, looking determined.

“MANAGER! MANAGER!” He screamed in a distinctly homeless twang. He kept waving his Miami Vice phone around.

“I HAVE A VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR THE MANAGER!” Now he was shuffling and pacing violently.

A large bald guy who looked like Steve Ballmer's doppelganger stood up. This spectacle captivated the bar in the same way a magically appearing mountain of blow would. Ballmer-san grabbed The Messenger by his tattered coat and, without saying anything, threw him out the side door.

For a brief moment, everything went back to normal. The blow disappeared. And then it happened, The Messenger flew back into the watering hole in a rage.

“YOU COCKSUCKER! YOU DIRTY ASSHOLE!” he pointed at Ballmer-san. “I WANT THE MANAGER!”

Ballmer-san stood up.

“Hey, asshole, I AM the manager!” And as with the first time, Ballmer-san quickly doused the flames of this growing dumpster fire. He tossed the still-ranting Messenger out onto his ass, on the cold, impersonal curb of Sacramento Street.

There was a still silence.

“Another satisfied customer,” SP retorted in between drinks on his Anchor Steam. Laughter erupted.

The Sajak character next to me thought it to be the funniest thing he'd heard. He kept laughing.

“That was damn funny!” he said.

He continued, “You boys look like you've been around a bit.”

“Yeah, we have,” I said.

“You ever do that internet dating thing?”

This was certainly odd.

“Nah, can't say that I have.”

He took a draw on his Vodka-tonic. “It's the greatest; it's fabulous,” he said. “You meet a chick at a place like this, you get a drink in her,”then motioning at his pocket, “get some blow in her, and then you get your penis in her! It never fails!”

“That's great dude.”

“I'll say! Got to be careful, you might end up with a clingy one though, and that's not good for anyone!”

I'll say. “No, man, definitely not. That's almost enough to swear it off right there.”

“But you can't, kid! There's prizes!”

SPH was now interested, “What kind of prizes?”

“Well, I've ended up with a rich broad in Marin who had a car-elevator.”

“What? No shit? A Car elevator?”

“Kid,” Sajak said after another draw, “she shopped at Tiffany's like you or I shop at the Target.”

Damn.

Not too long after, a ditzy blonde came in and bee-lined right to Sajak.

“Are you, um, Roy?” she said in a Midwestern twang to Sajak.

“Yes, yes I am,” he said setting his drink down, “You must be Courtney.” He kissed her hand. “You look even more beautiful in real life!”

So it began.

We finished our brews and spilled out into the streets, looking for more. As we wandered we stumbled through the darkened, still and silent canyons of the FiDi, we managed to stagger into the Elephant. This was some kind of Canadian chain that had an outlet in this obscure part of the District. It always had more than its share of characters and inexplicably, Happy Hour was still going on.

Taking a seat at the end of the bar, I scoured the place. I knew everyone who worked in here. Many a night of drunken shenanigans in this town had wound up passing through here.

“The usual?” Pamela, the pleasant, young, bartenderess inquired. It had been about a month since I'd been in here and she still remembered our order.

“You have a good memory,” I said.

“Like anyone could forget you guys.”

We sat drinking our respective drinks. An Anchor Steam for SP, a White Russian for me. Off to the side, around the corner of the bar from us, sat a disheveled, bloated, sweaty, morose sharp-dressed toa person. He was mumbling to himself.

“What's his deal?” SP wondered out loud.

“I don't know, maybe he can't shit.” I said.

“Hah! Maybe. He looks like Uncle Mike.”

I looked close; he sure did.

“I'll be damned! He looks just like him.”

We sat drinking our drinks and flirting with Pamela. She was telling us how happy she was to be living in the city after spending her younger years in Petaluma.

“People up there are weird,” she said.

“It's like they don't know whether to shit or go blind,” SP said.

“Yes! Exactly!” she exclaimed. “That's a perfect way of putting it!”

Our conversation was rudely interrupted by a new spectacle unfolding. The toad-man had gotten a phone call and all hell had broken loose. His face had turned a shade of deep crimson, his brows knitted, and he started slamming his fist on the bar.

“Listen here you son of a bitch!” he exclaimed loudly to the person on the phone, “You have hell on your hands to deal with! I built that fucking company, from fucking nothing, and I'll be god damned if some mealy mouthed faggot like you, or any of those other fuckheads on the board take it from me!”

He paused for a moment. “You'll what? You'll fucking what? Try me! I'll sue the piss out of you. I'll take your asses down to Chinatown!”

He kept yelling into the phone, and in a huff, staggered out of the bar without paying. Outside, a black Lincoln Town Car was waiting for him, and his Asian manservant in a black monkey suit opened the door for him, shutting it as the Ranter sat inside. It sped off.

“Aren't you going to do something about that?” I said, “He didn't pay.”

“Hey, did you see how he was screaming at that dude he worked with on the phone? If he does that to him, I want no part of that shit,” Maria said. “He's probably have shot me or stabbed me with a pen if I'd have asked him for his money. He might have even gone all Chimpanzee and ripped my arm out!”.

Good point, I suppose. This seemed to be the Way of the West in this town,  a city of vagrants, where being a vagrant didn't pay unless you were a rich one. Where as the poorer dwellers of these streets get beat up and pissed on and thrown out into the streets, the wealthy denizens live like they have American Passports in Third World Countries, and get free drinks wherever they go.

We paid and left. The last ferry of the day was going to leave soon. But why ought we leave? Sure, there was somewhere we probably had to be tomorrow, but North Beach was just up the hill and there was still another 5 hours of drinking left to do. Who knows what other crazy people we might run into.  The night was young. Very young.

The 101 could wait.