Dinelle wanted to go to a house party. Thank you, no. I don't need to sit on a stranger's beanbag watching 21-year olds play video games. Instead, we headed to the No Name Bar in Sausalito, sight of a previous adventure Dinelle and I shared.
Years and years ago, we were there with Kelsey and Grey Cloud, listening to cheezy smooth live jazz and mocking the locals. The No Name is a salty old bar across from the ferry terminal. It has seafood restaurant chairs and a little stage off to the side. It's dark and weird and where
older Marin couples go to re-live the hanging-fern 70's.
Anyway, when we were there together lo those years ago, Dinelle leaned over and asked me if I had any weed. No, I said. I didn't carry drugs on my person, thank you for asking. But in my desire to appear older and sophisticated, announced I could get some.
Leaving Grey Cloud and Kelsey in the bar, Dinelle and I walked outside. There we found an ancient hippie smoking a cigarette, engaged him in conversation and the next thing I knew, we were sitting in the back of his taxi from the beginning of time, while he drove us around Sausalito and offered us drugs.
It all happened so fast, as I remember it. I was sitting in the back of the cab, whispering to Dinelle not to smoke the joint because I was convinced it was laced with all kind of horrible rape things. And I saw my reflection in the rear view mirror and thought, "Tonight is the night that I die." I was more worried that my parents would have to explain to people that I was murdered because I tried to get free drugs from an old hippie and then refused to partake in them because he struck me as dirty.
This Friday night, seven years later, Dinelle and I headed back to the No Name.
"I'm not getting in the back of some man's cab, Dinelle."
"Oh my God, remember that!"
Yes. I do remember that. It's on my list of Top 10 Times I Cheated Death.
The seafood restaurant chairs are still there. As is the smooth live jazz and Three's Company vibe. Dinelle and I decided all of the middle-aged couples crowded in there, in their Tommy Bahama shirts and crochet sweaters would go home later and have tantric hot tub sex while listening to one of those global grooves CDs you can buy at giftshops where $5 of the purchase price goes to third world orphanages.
The bartendress featured dramatic bags under her eyes and teeny, tiny little shorts. Up top, she appeared to be wearing a black sports bra and over it, a cropped, crochet, flutter-sleeve sweater, which we later discovered in a boutique window display next door. She was mesmerizing, with her cartoon voice. She kept getting our order wrong and sold a t-shirt to a tourist by telling her that her boobs were too big.
We sat at the bar, and the gentleman on my side had super curly, long grey hair, which was pulled into the inevitable ponytail. He was there alone, no doubt asking women their sign before inviting them over to listen to something recorded Live at Red Rock.
The band, when not introducing their 5th member, Phil the Tip Jar, said they took requests.
Ponytail looks over at Dinelle and me and says, "It's so hard to request jazz. I guess I'd request 'Let's Get It On.'"
I offered Dinelle huge sums of money to go request 'Let's Get It On" but she refused. Mainly because our days of fucking with ponytailed strangers are apparently over...