Berkeley Nights

Even the loyal set that inhabited the picnic tables Jupiter's proprietors placed on the back patio of the establishment had begin to thin out, as group by group, people began to head home and the staff circled around brandishing rags, wiping down tables and picking up empty beer bottles.

This did not deter David from continuing to hold court with the few friends who hung back to order last rounds, one guy picking at the strings of his old guitar with a pick, almost inviting  an impromptu jam session. For David and his friends, the night had just started.

I stood a little off to the side, sweating Guinness bottle in hand, staring in rapt attention at him, also making up part of his adoring court, where he always reigned as king. It was crazy and I couldn't understand why, but I would do almost anything for this man. I was bone-tired and just got off work, but when I emerged from the shop that evening, David was sitting in the half-dark on the plaza's steel bench, flicking the ash off his cigarette and waiting for me. Did I want to join him and some buddies for beers? Of course, what kind of girlfriend would I be if i didn't make an appearance?

Except that, I wasn't his girlfriend. At least that is not what he introduced me to his friends as. When he did get around to introducing me. No, I wasn't his girlfriend, not yet, but I would be. I knew it. I knew he had angst that came of him like a scent, that he wore proudly as if it made him more Bay Area, more starving musician, more legit. That should have been enough to ward me off, but I didn't care. I was Tindy, collector of Broken Things and Broken People. I was going to be the one to fix him. As far as I knew, none of the other girls--the blank-eyed, pierced and midriff baring ones that also circled his orbit---were romantically involved with him either. I was never too sure on that count. I think the guessing game all kept us on our toes, suspicious of each other, and continuing to desire him even more. I think David actually thrived on our animosity toward one another.

What was I even doing with this guy, with this crowd? I was horn rimmed tortoiseshell glasses and itchy sweaters. David and his hangs-on were vintage rock tees and unwashed hair. I'm that girl that you would automatically think worked at a place like a rare book shop or a library. Or something boring, like a tax office. Or even a morgue. Opposites must attract though, and you can never judge a book by its cover or some really overused idiom sh*t, because the day we met (when he was hired at my bookshop as temp holiday staff), was the day he also asked me to have lunch with him. Oh, and also the day we drove up to the Berkeley Hills to have furious, anxious s*x in the backseat of my car, parked up the end of  someone's private driveway.

David was brilliant in my mind--he liked to pick apart and discuss Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as if it held the key to all the mysteries of the universe, and believed that he and Kurt Cobain shared that very same musical genius. He smoked like his lungs needed it more than it needed oxygen and f*cked me like all his demons could be exorcised by the vigorous pounding.

My attention shifted back from inside my own head to the goings-on on the dim patio. Most everyone else had left as well by now, even the more tenacious of his groupies. David was still in animated conversation with another guy--Gingerbeard-something-or-the-other, I could never get his buddy's names straight. Right then he turned toward me, something akin to surprise registering on his face, as if he had forgotten that I was still present.

"Hey, baby--me and Caleb were gonna grab a bite to eat before I go crash at his place for the night."

I blinked twice at him. "You're always welcome to stay with me. And I'm getting hungry, too--I haven't eaten since this morning. I'll go along with you."

David opened and closed his mouth, wanting to say something, and then thought better of it. A resigned look took over his features. "Wait here. Let me go say goodbye to the guys." He walked over to Caleb and the rest of the stragglers, and they all looked at me as they spoke in low tones. Caleb shrugged.

"C'mon, we're walking down to Mel's Diner." Without another word, David took off to rejoin his friends. After a moment's pause, I trailed along behind them.

By the time I had walked into the restaurant, David, Caleb, and another guy who I think was named Brandon were seated at the smallest booth to the left of the soda shop-style counter. I dragged a heavy wooden back chair to the table to join them. A boy about my age in olive cargo pants, a clean white t-shirt, and a fresh blue striped apron came to take our order. He extracted a chit and a pencil from his apron pocket and stood next to me, grinning.

"Are you folks ready to order? Perhaps the lady would like to go first?" I felt a smile creep upon the corners of my mouth even in my exhaustion. This kid had such an apple-pie, friendly way about him. So not Berkeley. Probably a transplant from the midwest. Or a student at UC. I looked up at him and opened my mouth to request a patty melt and iced tea, but David was already talking.

"I'll take two cheeseburgers, a large fries, and a vanilla milkshake. My friends will all have the same thing. Tindy," this directed at me, "...you want something? Oh and...I'm kinda strapped for cash until I get paid next week. Think you can spot us, babe? You're a stand up girl. " I looked up once more at the boy to give him my order. He was looking at me again with an indefinable look on his face. Was that pity I detected? I flushed and looked away.

David and his entourage started talking among themselves---I think it was about MarioKart. Or was it about Jimmi Hendrix at the Fillmore? I didn't know anymore, I was so sleepy and the conversation was getting away from me. I attempted to focus on something to keep awake and my attention was captured by whirring noise to my right. Our waiter was behind the counter preparing milkshakes-- I marvelled at his efficiency and purpose; the flick of his wrist and how his forearm muscle tensed up as he placed a stainless steel cup under a mixer, how his eyes darted after his nimble, capable fingers as he deftly arranged burgers and fries at breakneck speed on a lined, red tray. He really did look like an old-timey poster for a soda and sundries shop with his cornflower bright eyes and white-blonde crew cut.

I was observing him so intently, beginning to have fun making up his Mayberry-Andy-Griffith-Show-backstory that I didn't at first notice he was sizing me up just as religiously. I was startled and was began to look away again, but blame it on imsomnia, fuck it, I was feeling saucy. I continued stare, daring him with my eyes to play this ocular version of chicken. He simply smiled and mouthed something that only I could catch but could not hear. Did he say "can I get your number?" Did corn-fed actually have game? Well, well. It could have been the insomnia talking, but he was rather cute in that Richie Cunningham sort of way. Opie and the Librarian--it could happen. You know, books and their covers and all that sh*t.