Artist's Date #6: Dining alone

in which I am smooth

“This is what I think about domesticity,” I say to myself, after the last newsletter. “So, it seems, my dear lover, that we will need a personal chef.” If you think calling yourself lover is strange, you would be right. But I still suggest that you try it sometime! It might lead to experiences beyond your compare.

Ideally, my artist’s date starts on Friday night, when I pass my kid over to my partner and he does the after dinner / bedtime routine from 7pm-9pm, or until I come home. It happens sometimes, only, like maybe once a month, but this past Friday was that once, and the results were infinite. 

I started at one bar, that looked good, and reminded me of many places I once went to in New York and in Brooklyn; in fact, I thought, as I walked in the door, that maybe I had been to that actual bar before, some years back, when I first came to SF alone, and to visit some friends who lived here. I sat down and looked at the menu and smelled that rot smell that comes with serving alcohol. It’s a kind of musky smell that seems like one might be able to remove it, but it’s combined with a bleach smell that proves that one can’t. I now know it well.

I thought, “I can handle this,” and then I thought, “but why?”

So I got up and left and then went down the street to another dark cavernous place, this time with wine and food only. I sat down, again, at the end of the bar and ordered my dinner and then asked for a drink.

The server behind the bar was my favorite kind of alien creature. Shaved head. Slim arms, top of the arm muscles, skull and rose tattoo alternately. Two silver rings hung a little heavy in both of his ears. Their ears. Whatever. 

“Will you spoil me with a little tasting?” I asked. [I will still always have to look up the rules for this punctuation! Every time, it does not look right. There are two ends of the sentence? A part of me, this bothers. Acceptance, acceptance, dear friend, just be in acceptance. There are many things that need changing and Strunk and White may not be the one. Besides, Charlotte’s Web is your favorite! Except, wow, that first chapter where the brother has a gun and is insane and misbehaves and it’s no wonder, come to think of it, that Charlotte retreats to the farm.]

The response was affirmative.

I swear to you, though, that these words have never come out of my mouth. They have never come into my mind! But this thing came straight through one and then through the other and wow. So good. 

“Ok lover,” I thought as I licked the bowl of perfect lettuce clean. “I’ll give you one for free.”

As if by magic a man appeared by my side. He sat next to me clicking away on his phone like mad and I made a point to say my name and to make some conversation. He asked me about how the tasting menu worked and I tried to translate a bit of the server’s language into human language and gave him a thumbs up for the date he was about to go on with someone who was on their way. In my mind though, I thought, I would not have been late. 

We talked a bit about what brought us where and when, him straight from New York to SF, with a job in finance and me through LA with a dream of Marin. 

“What’s your process,” he asked, and I told him: I go somewhere I’ve been curious about before and I sit there and see how it feels. If it feels good I stay. If it doesn’t, then I use Yelp or Google Maps to find another spot nearby. And so here we are.

“I’m going to Muir Beach tomorrow,” he said, and I said I knew the area and showed him the map of the waterfall to meadow and mountain trail I loved so much and then, when I pointed out the route, his date arrived. 

I sat alone.

The wine was perfect and then I ate homemade pasta with meat chunks and red sauce until the end of days.

When I left the restaurant the night had turned the mission into a madhouse: people gathered tight in circles trading objects of no or low worth and others waiting for a long time for a bus that never comes. I felt like I was in Blade Runner, [I’m not even sure what I mean by this, but just that I felt like I was on the run and it didn’t make sense and there were no drones, but I had flashbacks of LA and this man who lifted his hands and showed me the sky and said, speaking of the airplanes but maybe of God, there is no one up there.] and so I ran until I reached the outside edges of our neighborhood and then walked up the dusk laden streets. That’s what night looks like there, in a place with streetlight and space and windows partially lit. The shadows are gentle and maybe they are sleeping - maybe for some they get to rest. Tuck in the shadows for the night.

“There, there, oh restless souls, we retire now. Tomorrow is another day.”

Thank you Lena for reminding me of the book: Dept. of Speculation and also of bringing up the phrase Art Monster, who now, figures, prominently, in my imagination. Lucky for us there is a NEW MEMOIR [ALERT!] coming out or already out, I can not tell which, that is titled just that, and covers the life of the writer along side the life of many other women who have made their lives from their work, “from riot grrrl to Pussy Riot, from Louise Bourgeois to Audre Lorde.”