12 – By-Gone Beatniks

November 19, 1992 – North Beach

From my upstairs corner perch at Vesuvios, I spy a mute man on the corner of Kerrouac and Columbus slouching against City Lights with two forms of i.d. According to his ink-scribbled cardboard, he “Will work for food.” According to his French-embroidered book bag, he is also the “Crème de la Crème.” He tries waving off a scraggly dude moving in on his turf. It's pretty good begging real estate.

The waitress at Vesuvio’s expects me to say, “Keep the change.” But I need to be in charge of my fractions. This bombed chickadee behind me who sings Billie Holliday and Patsy Cline with the house, slurs louder than everyone else and sneaks in a comment while her boyfriend’s at the bathroom. “Can I sleep at your place tonight?”

Slightly intrigued by her appearance until she swerves into somebody’s table spilling a drink on a lady. Let’s just say no. No, you’re going to have to find a sofa and a vomit pail somewhere else tonight. You can’t bang beauty. If you could, it might be good for something.

The convo behind me turns to sex. She likes penises. “They fit so nice.” Why she was brought another beer, I don’t know. She adds, “Everybody forgot that women like to dance.”

As I head home a little foggy, a young body fronting one of the strip joints extends her virtual shepherd’s crook, “Why don’t you come inside?” Nice line. I have a knee-jerk reply. “I’m already oversexed.” That makes no sense you idiot. She yells back – “This is the safest sex you’ll find!”