Every Wednesday the cool kids let me join them for drinks at a dive bar for what Brock describes as, “a place to relax, where people come for the breezy atmosphere to listen to you, me, and Eve say wildly clever bon mots.”
Last night, Eve and I arrived and were shocked to find people sitting as what is universally regarded as OUR table. Thus, we were forced to sit along side them, purloining chairs from across the bar and waiting for these strangers to leave. Finally, they got up, left several empty glasses and an empty pack of cigarettes and split.
Instantly, our whole group moved over, into the comfortable corner we’ve come to adopt as our own. No sooner had we scooched but a server brought over a basket full of glorious, greasy French fries.
“Who ordered the fries?” We asked each other, an order for the table not uncommon and thus, instantly ignored. Everyone dove in as Katie quietly cautioned, “You guys, those are not our fries.”
It was then decided that due to the small size and greasy nature of the fries, they were the dregs. “Yeah, that’s it. They’re the dregs." Matty Matt claimed. "They’re cleaning out the fryer. These fries are free.”
That, it would seem, is enough for us to accept without question food miraculously appearing before us. But I grew hesitant. “Brock, did you order these?”
He shook his head no, but winked.
“Brock, I cannot enjoy these fries if I’m terrified they’re not ours.”
Another wink, a head tilt. Okay, sassy gay got the fries.
I waited until my friends’ hands had left the basket and grabbed a few. Just as I shoved a fry into my mouth, the three people previously occupying our table returned.
Our eyes widened in shame.
“Hey!” One of them announced. “You stole our table!”
Oh God, Oh God.
“And our fries!”
I was the one closest and clearly, it was my job to speak and represent our rudeness. But I couldn’t. My mouth was full of stolen food.
We tried to give them money and to the horrified looks of my friends, I offered them the table back. But I was politely refused. Brock must have leaned over at some point and explained us somehow because soon I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“You write for the Chronicle?”
“Oh, uh. Err, well, kinda. I write a blog for SFGate.”
I was then presented with the inevitable litany of all that is wrong with the Hearst Corporation and those it employs. “You’re a reporter…”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“What do you think of so and so’s biased coverage of…”
Nothing. I think absolutely nothing. I tried to send them over to Eve, former Chronicle mucky muck but she was wisely and purposefully refusing to make eye contact. Finally, after reiterating that we all write online, the Chronicle hater said, “Have you ever read Mission Mission? I like that.”
Yes! Indeed we have! Might I direct you to Allan who IS Mission Mission. He’s the one eating your fries…