There’s a sunny little place in my neighborhood that makes lone dudes feel welcome. Gentle waitresses touch your shoulder and give unconditional support. “You want hot sauce, you get hot sauce!”
There are typically 3 to 5 guys at the counter. We read books and newspapers. We don’t interact.
I don’t like Plow’s food that much (even the storied potatoes). But I feel safe there.
Driving to yoga this evening, I stopped at a crosswalk.
When a loud girl asked if I was a Giants fan, I anticipated some bullshit. Me: shrug, noncommittal snort. Her: “You can have my tickets for tonight’s game, club level!” She dropped two tickets through the open car window and sauntered away. Each one had a face value of $55.
I don’t much care about baseball. Loud, colorful, free things are OK though. And beer in big cups. I plotted out my evening.
6-7: Yoga class.
7-7:30: Drive home.
7:30-8: Bike to AT&T Stadium.
All that intensive planning, and wouldn’t you know it? Yoga sapped my (admittedly lukewarm) enthusiasm for the game. I just wanted a quiet dinner with the girlfriend.
I tried giving my tickets to yoga’s dudeliest student, a thinly bearded Indian guy with a medallion on a chain. The dude said he didn’t like baseball. Then he followed me down five (!) flights of stairs, explaining he had a report to finish but “otherwise would love to go.”
Sure you would, pal.
I went inside Pancho Villa, where I spied a smooth-faced guy and gal in Giants gear. They were mid-burrito.
“Are you Giants fans?” (I asked stupidly.)
“Want two club tickets for tonight’s game?
“Promise me you will not waste them?”
They seemed really sweet, and young. “Catch a fly ball for old man Hirsch, wouldja?”