The homeless man weaved in front of me at the Sunday morning Civic Center Farmer’s Market. Back and forth, back and forth. He stopped suddenly, reeled back, and shouted towards the heavens, “Eggs, eggs! Buy the eggs, people. Don’t forget about your protein!”

From The Killer Angels, by Michael Shaara:

“A little eccentricity is a help to a general. It helps with the newspapers. The women love it too. Southern women like their men religious and a little mad. That’s why they fall in love with preachers.”

He left our table to use the restroom at the chic French restaurant. A waiter appeared, picked up his white linen napkin, whipped it in the air, and gingerly folded it into quarters. I smiled as he placed the napkin beside the empty plate. A moment later another waiter came by, lifted the quartered napkin, snapped it in the air, folded it neatly in eighths, then placed it in the center of the empty plate, and left. Moments later the maitre d’ smirked at the napkin, raised it, waved it as a bullfighter waves his cape, then magically transformed it into a rose, delicately placing it in the center of the plate.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him returning from the restroom. As surreptitiously as possible, I motioned for him to return to the bathroom. He looked around, confused, and continued toward our table. I waved him back. Go. Go back. Now. Turn around. But he wouldn’t.

As he sat down, he asked what I was doing. “I wanted you to stay in the bathroom a while longer. I think the swan would have appeared next…”

Being in the front row was awesome.

The 80’s were alive and well at The Independent.

She came back, bringing the last of the “shots” (read: crazy 8 ounce mixed drinks that 80 year old ladies would enjoy). Seeing that we had not seen each other for quite a while, one in our group asked the server to take a photo of the group. She immediately lit up. “Great idea!” Then a perplexed look. “Oh, but I forgot my camera.”

She worked for one of the liquor companies, one of the women who wear ridiculously small clothes and give out free merchandise on weekend nights at local bars. She enticed our group to offer her our email addresses in exchange for free drinks. Shots, she said, which were delivered in martini glasses with maraschino cherries. As she sloshed the drinks this way and that, she apologized, “I’m not very good at this – I’ve never really served before.”

As my companion received a full drink, in her lap, she looked at the server and offered this tip, “Really just need to keep the glass upright.”

The baby sits in the equivalent of an SUV stroller. Big wheels, sturdy handles. He faces his father on BART. In between them is a color Gameboy that commands the father’s attention. The baby, hooded sweatshirt over his dark locks, dark pools peering from under insanely long lashes, sits perfectly upright in his stroller. His small hands grip the tray in front of him. He stares at his father, wide-eyed, not blinking. No response. He closes his eyes, still sitting perfectly upright, not a movement. The father doesn’t notice. The baby leans back in his stroller, stretches and yawns, making gurgling noises. The father’s attention remains intent on the Gameboy. The child pats the wall of the train, running his chubby fingers along the words on the wall. Emergency Door Release. Federal Law Requires These Seats Be Made Available to … No response. The baby begins to lick the words. I want to scream, “STOP IT BABY!” but before my angst reveals itself, the baby gives up, tongue recedes back into mouth. His father’s attention has not left the Gameboy in between them. The baby twists and turns in his stroller, first pulling his hood on and off, then trying to pull the awning of the stroller on and off, but he’s not quite strong enough. He kicks his legs, thump, thump, thump. The father continues to navigate his game. The baby finally seems resigned to the fact that his father is otherwise engaged. He lays his head down on his arm and sighs heavily. The train jerks sharply as we exit a tunnel. The stroller suddenly rolls backward, away, away, away. The father, finally, looks up from the Gameboy, stands up, retrieves the stroller, and pulls it closer to him before returning to his video game. The baby smiles, content.

I stared at the street sign, waiting for the little man to illuminate so that I could cross. “Hey! You know where the parole office is?” I faced a woman, slightly shorter than me, slightly hipster, slightly street. I pointed straight ahead.
“One block straight, then take a left at the light. It’ll be on your left.”
“It’s in the same building as the jail?”
“I think so. I think I’ve seen the signs for it.”
“Yeah. That’s where I thought it was. I left my papers at home.”
The little man shone white. We crossed the street together, her slightly in front of me. She turned around abruptly.
“You have much experience with parole?”
I shook my head. “No. None.”
“I was just wondering – do you think they’ll search me?”
“They don’t search you, but to enter the building, you walk through a metal detector and they search your bag.”
She immediately clutched her messenger bag tighter and began looking around nervously.
“Damn!” she muttered as she scurried away, not in the direction of the courthouse.

Note to self: Ditch the contraband before meeting parole officer.

The defense lawyer had emphasized over and over the fact that alcohol absorption is affected by food in one’s stomach. She paid an expert witness a very large sum of money to explain this to us, the jury. I think everyone in the courtroom was surprised when the defendant’s wife took the stand and stated that they had not had dinner that night, only drinks. Or maybe they had ordered something, but surely not eaten, because they were fighting. So the defendant took the stand. And he said he thought they had eaten, but his wife said they hadn’t. The defense attorney asked him to testify to what he remembered about that night. He said they went to an Italian restaurant, ordered, and maybe he ate, but now he couldn’t remember.

During deliberation one of the jurors, an older man with shock white hair, proclaimed, “Now, I’m Italian, and let me tell you something. Not remembering what you had for dinner? That right there’s the crime.”