The San Fran Chronicles

Part 1

(click the LINKS within the story for pictures)

Thursday Afternoon

The 4th of July is this coming Saturday, and as I sit in front of my computer reading the online Wall Street Journal (watching porn), my phone rings.  It’s Mere, a close friend from college who, like myself, has parted ways with Florida and is now living in California.

Mere  “Hey, what ya doing?”
Me  “Not watching porn.”
Mere  “You’re disgusting.  What are you doing this weekend?”
Me  “Um probably gonna check out Manhattan beach with a buddy.”
Mere  “Cool, you should come visit me in San Francisco.”
Me  “Sure, why not, my life’s going nowhere.”
Mere  “Really?!”
Me  “I’m not afraid of a good time.”
Mere  “Cool, when can you get here?”
Me  “Not sure, let me see if I can get off work Friday.”

It is Thursday, nothing like a last minute effort to ditch out of work; and when I use the term “work,” I’m referring to the 1 of 3 hours a week that I teach a Spinning class.  I have to teach Friday at 10:30am, but I would rather head out early Friday morning.

Me  “If not, I’ll just roll up right after I teach.”
Mere  “Ok, well try to get here early.”
Me  “Ok, why?”
Mere  “A girl from my work is having her birthday party in the park.”
Me  “Right-O.  Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”
Mere  “Yay!” (she really does talk like that)

After trying vigorously to get my shift covered (sent out 2 text messages), no dice.  I call Mere back and tell her that I’ll take off right after my shift.  I pack my bag the night before with all the essentials:  1 camera, 2 beanies, a couple sweaters, swim cap and goggles, two pairs of jeans, and a couple t-shirts are just a few of the items.  Since I’m leaving from Venice, I ask my roommate (Rob) and his buddy (Eric) for directional advice.  My roommate has been living in Venice for longer than I have been alive.

Me  “I think I’m heading to San Fran this weekend.”
Rob  “Nice, how you getting there?”
Me  “You tell me.”

I have 3 options.  The PCH which takes about 11 hours but has the scenery to make up for it, the 101 which takes about 8 hours but has lots of speed traps, or the 5 which is like a virgin’s sex drive, fast and ugly; I opt to lose my virginity again.

Day 1 – 11:30am

Friday is here and I have just finished teaching a Spin class.  I made 60 bucks for 1 hour of “work,” if I was teaching 40 spin classes a week, I’d be living on easy street.  I rush home, shower up, and throw on my traveling clothes (jeans, t-shirt, hat, and “just in case” hoody) which I had previously laid out in the shape of a human the night before.  All I need now are my traveling refreshments, which await me in the kitchen.  2 rockstars, 1 powerade, and 3 large bags of jerky (on sale for $1.99, if you’re a jerky fan, you will understand how cheap that is) should be plenty to get me through the 5-6 hour drive up the 5.  I dive in my car and take off exactly at noon.

I get about 20 minutes of driving in before it’s time to break out the camera.  In California, there are large fines for talking/texting on your cell while driving, however I’m not aware of any laws forbidding photography, which is clearly way more dangerous.  The scientist driving next to me might want to pull over and readjust the straps that are holding the mattress to his SUV.  While driving, I text (suck it LAPD) Mere and alert her that I’m on the way.  Now, clearly I’m no fan of sobriety, but I do put in a simple request that she at least remain coherent until I arrive.  After getting caught in LA traffic for about 45 minutes, I break free and head towards my destination going 20 over.

As my roommate and buddy had advised, this drive is boring as fuck.  Not too much to tell here, although I do notice a couple interesting things.  The road signs are a bit confusing, generally they go in order from closest to farthest.  The radio stations on this road suck, nothing but Christian Rock and Country.  Right as I’m about to throw in a new CD, I hear something interesting on 106.7.  As I turn up the volume, I realize that I did just in fact hear the chorus line “rockin’ the beer gut.”  Just when you think you can’t possibly make fun of Country music anymore, the song Rockin’ the Beer Gut by Trailor Choir (go figure) comes blaring through your radio (I will admit, I did enjoy singing along).  I’m not sure exactly how hot it is on this desert highway (I accidentally pressed a button a year ago and my dashboard thermometer has since been in Celsius), but 41 degrees C seems scorching.  My suspicions of intolerable heat are confirmed when I drive passed a car that had burst into flames.  Because I’m so impressed with my ability to take such an amazing picture while doing just under 100, I completely neglect the frantic man waving his arms in the air and screaming for help.  As I cross the Bay bridge, I get slapped with a ridiculously expensive (4 dollar) toll.  I consider running it to avoid the wait and financial burden, but I tough it out.  6 hours after leaving home, I’ve made it to San Francisco.

Day 1 – 6:00pm

I get on my phone and call Mere, she gives me her precise location (“a park”).  I hear a background voice tell her the cross streets (Marina and Laguna), so I punch those into the old GPS (lifesaver) and carry on my way.  San Francisco driving is not much better than that of Los Angeles.  People (Asians) drive slow as shit with the delusional misunderstanding that they are in fact the only car on the road.  After several one-way street mishaps and multiple illegal U-turns (the GPS is helpful, but it can’t cure dumbass), I arrive at my destination.  Once I park the car, I get back on the phone with Mere as I walk towards the only visible park.

Me  “Hey, I’m here!”
Mere  “You’re here!?”
Me  “Yeah, where do I go, I’m walking towards the park.”
Mere  “Ok, um, I don’t know?”
Me  “Wow, you’re useful.”
Mere  “What do you see?”
Me  “Water on one side, park on the other.”

As I continue to walk uphill towards the park, I take in all the sights.  The Hippie in me loves this city; the weather is perfect and the environment is beyond picturesque.  I’m still on my phone as I reach the top of the hill, which also happens to be the center of the park, then suddenly a distant screaming voice startles me.

Mere  “AHHhhhHHHhhhhH!!!!!

That noise traveled through the entire park, not to mention through my phone and directly into my ear.  Seconds later I make eye contact with the quagmire that is Mere.  As she runs towards me, shoeless, I realize she did not fulfill my early request of remaining coherent.  She dives on me with an overzealous hug that almost knocks me off my feet.

Mere  “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Me  “Yup.”
Mere  “AHHhhhHHHhhhhH!!!!!”
Me  “Ok, we’re gonna have to stop that.”

Mere introduces me to the Birthday Girl (twice); Birthday Girl makes Mere look sober.  Before I’m introduced to anymore forgettable people, I search for a public restroom (I had drank 2 Rockstars, a 32oz Powerade, and made the 6 hour trek sans (without) a pit stop).  When I return, I grab a bottle of Jager and take the final swig as the birthday clan appears to be packing up.  Mere introduces me to more people, most of whom I believe she had just met that day.  I meet Birthday Girl’s mother; she makes Birthday Girl look sober.  Moments later, when Birthday Girl and said mother are done grinding on each other while listening to Pony by Ginuwine, Birthday Girl introduces herself to me (I met her thrice in a 15 minute period, I think I’m going to like San Fran).  Mere had mentioned something early about meeting up with Steph (another UCF Alumni turned Californian) before she had to go to the airport.  I grab a beer and go to ask her about Steph, but I’m stopped by an unfamiliar voice.

Random Dude  “Oh, so you’re Mere’s boy?!”

I respect the kid’s overzealous attempt to leave a “cool” first impression, but mission unaccomplished.  I also notice he is on crutches, which is quite an unfortunate circumstance in such a hilly city.

Me  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Gimpy  “That’s hella cool, where you from bro!?”

God help me.

Me  “Florida.  I’m living in Venice right now, it’s on the Westside of LA.”
Gimpy  “Sick.  I thought about moving to LA, that place is dope!”

Ok, this is about all I can take of Gimpy.

Me  “Yeah, it’s not bad… Mere?!?”

Mere pops in.

Mere  “Yo?”
Me  “What’s the deal with Steph, aren’t we meeting with her soon?”
Mere  “Oh yeah that’s right, you want to get out of here?”
Me  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

Just when I thought I had seen the last of Gimpy…

Mere  “Alright, we’re taking off.”
Gimpy  “Hey Mere, you think you could give me a lift?”

Apparently Gimpy lives about a block away from Mere, how fortunate for us.  Whatever, I’m on vacation, so I’m in a jovial mood.

Me  “Yeah man, you can hop in my car.”
Gimpy  “Thanks bro, that’s sick!”
Me  “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

Translation: Please stop speaking.

Mere, Gimpy, and myself say our goodbyes and head down the hill and towards my car.  We stuff Gimpy in the back, and head towards Nob Hill (the San Fran district in which they both live).  As Mere and I talk about my drive up and begin to reminisce, Gimpy chimes in.

Gimpy  “Hey man, can you do me a huge favor?”
Me  “Um what?”
Gimpy  “Can you swing by the train station and pick up my buddy?”

Is Gimpy for real?  How bout I swing passed the station and tie his crippled ass to the tracks?  I don’t know how well Mere knows this kid, so I’m waiting for her to chime in, but all she can talk about is how bad she has to pee.  Again, I’m sober and in a new area, so I’m being extremely nice.

Me  “Where is it?”
Gimpy  “I’m not sure.”

Ok Gimpy, are you familiar with sodomy?  I have a neon green plastic Fisher-Price baseball bat in the back of my car that could use a new ass-hat.  Again, I keep my cool.

Me  “Ok, well I guess I’ll punch it into my GPS.”

The station comes up, and ironically enough, it does happen to be very close.  Although, after I turn the corner and run into rush hour traffic, Gimpy is cut off.  I tell drunk Mere to fix the glitch; she takes care of it.

Mere  “No train station, I have to pee.”

So we’re back in route towards Mere’s place, and as we arrive shortly, I get real lucky with a 2-hour parking spot (unbelievably, parking is worse here than in LA).  Gimpy opens his mouth again, with another request.  I’m not going to type anymore of his dialogue because it upsets me, but the gist of it was that he was hoping I could help him carry beer back towards his place because he was on crutches and it was all uphill.  It must have been the high elevation or something, because I agreed.  I carried the 12 pack of Corona up 1 block, and then dumped the responsibility on his train depot pal who had ended up having to catch a cab.  Gimpy quizzes me about tonight’s plans, I mumble and trail off while waving goodbye and walking in the opposite direction.

Day 1 – 7:15pm

I head back towards my car where I meet back up with Mere.  I grab my luggage as she escorts me towards her pad; just walking into her place is beyond hysterical.  It’s through this creepy outdoor hallway that leads to just 1 lone room.  Once inside the room, everything from the floor, to the walls, to the ceiling, is painted white.  If she is not cooking up meth in here, she damn well should be.  Before I had hit the road towards San Fran, Mere had told me to shower.  Obviously I had to after teaching a Spinning class, but I was curious as to why she thought I wouldn’t.  She told me that her shower situation was a bit “iffy.”  I quickly learned what she meant.  This dungeon was so old that there was no shower.  Instead, it was a bathtub with a shower head-esque hose which needed to be screwed into a distant sink to get water.  But wait, there’s more.  In order to drain said tub, she has a separate tube which she must plug into a drain in the middle of her room once she is done bathing.  Mere brings nothing but class to the table.  In case of an emergency and I am to get separated/lost, sober Mere was smart enough to draw me a detailed map of her residential coordinates.  Moments later, a sauced up Mere receives a text and alerts me that Steph has arrived.  We head back down the sketchy hallway to welcome her.

Me  “Hey oooooo!”
Steph  “Hi!!!”
Mere  “AHHhhhHHHhhhhH!”
Steph  “Mere’s drunk.”
Me  “Yeah, a little bit.”
Mere  “No I’m not.”

That’s the classic drunk-o go to line.  It’s like when a cop pulls you over and asks how much you’ve had to drink and you robotically reply, “2 drinks.”  Regardless, we head back inside the opium den as Mere gets ready.  I grab a Heineken from her mini fridge/night stand while she finishes up.  We head back to the streets and drive towards Steph’s house; Steph lives in the Marina district, which also happens to where Mere works.  Her restaurant, Mamacita, will be where we (I) begin our (my) adventure.  I find a 2nd miracle parking spot near Stephs’ (this is where my car will remain until I vacate the city).  We check out her place, snap a picture for ol’ times sake, rip a shot of Tequila, bid Steph farewell, and take to the streets.  With the car in hibernation and the entire night ahead of me, I have only two goals:  get sauced up and locate Danny Tanner.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 2