Another Friday night in the city...by Vivien

6pm….
Another Friday night in the city...This time, I'm here to celebrate w/my friend Danielle. I met Danielle while working at the CCA. I liked her immediately. I think she helped me somehow in getting hired at the CCA and introducing me to my new career path. She has this old time sexiness about her. She kind of reminds me of a young Brooke Shields; the Jordace wearing Brooke. I would say she's already about 5'10 w/out the stiletto heels which she insists on wearing all the time. I literally have to step back and look up at her when we're talking. Her hair is long and brown with bouncy curls at the end. She likes to wear short skirts and you can't help but stare at her cleavage, which I think is the point. She walks w/ strong confidence and smokes like a chimney. She can get along w/ just about anyone, which I think is why I feel so comfortable around her. But she has this strange
habit of looking around while talking to you. She won't look you in the eye.

Ah! The Tenderloin! Not the best area, especially at night. It’s the only place in the city that I turn my ipod off so I am more aware of what's going on around me. But the Bambudda Lounge is somewhere totally out of sync with the area. You'd expect to find something like the Bambudda in a more hip, trendier, area of the city. But here it is, amongst the crack addicts and prostitutes. The place itself is beautiful. The restaurant is well known. I remember when I worked in a Boston restaurant, the executive chef and owner told me that was one of his favorite places to go in San Francisco. Whenever he's in town, he tries to make it there. It has a hotel attached to it and I heard that's where the lead singer of Sublime died. Um..yeah. Sooo… it has a reputation of being a party place, I can see why. The patio is gorgeous! The hotel and restaurant surround the patio area. You feel like you're in someone's backyard, with big beautiful exotic, tropical plants and the most inviting pool you’ve ever seen right smack in the middle. The heat lamps make you forget that it’s November in San Francisco. The quaint little pagodas scattered about the patio give you a chance to kick off the heels and stretch out your legs upon their cushions. They’re big enough for everyone in your party to grab at the shrimp chips in the middle but still intimate enough to feel like you’re vacationing on some resort. There’s something different about “city” people. You have to have some thick skin to survive in the city. They’re just different; the way they talk, their mannerism. I know during parties and social events that there are so many people to talk to conversations can get cut off. I try and make it a point that when I’m talking to someone I make them feel like what they have to say is important, and I do this by asking questions and not walking away. Don’t be surprised that when you’re at a social gathering in the city you’ll have started 3 different conversations and not finish one. It’s nothing personal. And I don’t take it as such. But I hate feeling like I’ve left someone hanging. Sometimes I wonder when I meet people, “What is the purpose of meeting this person?” I guess that’s harsh to think that. But when they are no longer part of your everyday life, I can’t help but think that there must be some reason. I wanted to catch up with everyone, but that, I saw, was impossible. So I spent the evening flitting from one group to the other, when they walked away, I walked to the next group, and sometimes, I walked away. I just tried to let go of all my social anxieties that night and have fun. And we were having fun; catching up on all the gossip, someone is getting married, someone got demoted, someone had a birthday, etc, etc. A couple hours in, we all started to get hungry. We couldn’t get a table there at the restaurant because there was some private party going on. We decided to move the party to a smaller low key place that served food.

When it’s time to change bars, most people take this opportunity to leave. I call it “weeding them out”. Those of us who decided to go on entered the night w/ a light spring in our step. We all had a good buzz going and knew we had to keep in under control. The Tenderloin is no place you want to be raging drunk. The locals will take advantage and the next morning you might wake up w/ no money, no phone, and no shoes. We stumbled into the Temple Bar. I remember the Temple from when I was a student at the CCA across the street. It was strangely empty for a Friday night. I remember it being always busy till the wee hours. We always had to share the space w/ the law students from Hastings around the corner. But I guess the Temple had now moved on to a “pre-drink” place, not a destination, if you know what I mean. Since it was practically empty we situated ourselves at the bar, there were about 10 of us. Whenever there is an empty bar or a not so busy bartender, I order an Irish Car Bomb. I know what a pain they can be sometimes making them, and those that drink them, tend to get a messy. I order mine and the bartender delivers right away. As I was paying for my drink, Danielle sees what I’ve ordered and says, “Is that a car bomb?”
“Yes.” I replied.
“I want one! Wait! You can’t do yours till I have mine! Jerry! You want a car bomb? Bjorn! Come do a car bomb with us!” She yells across the bar.
The bartender patiently waits for her order. “Ok. Five car bombs please.”
As the bartender returns with five car bombs, I quietly mouth the words “I’m sorry” to her. She smiles and I fork out some extra cash for a well deserved tip. I then proceed to ask if her kitchen is still serving food, which is the whole reason why we were there in the first place. She shakes her head and in a quiet Irish accent says, “Sorry love, the kitchen is closed.” Dammit! I was really looking forward to some nachos! I guess I wasn’t the only one in the mood for nachos, because someone then suggested Chevy’s around the corner.

I trip my way over to Danielle to see if she would join us. Again at the mention of moving somewhere else, people started to weed themselves out. We were just about down to 4; 5 if Danielle were to join us. I find her at a corner booth sitting next to Charles. I see them engaged in some deep conversation like I had always seen them do. Charles was always kind of a touchy subject for Danielle. She liked him. He liked her. He’s married. End of story. I grab her head and give her a hug. She smiles at me in a way that let’s me know that she has everything under control. I doubt her and I doubt her intentions, but I don’t know if I should do anything about it. They’re both adults. I hesitantly make my way outside. I pause and wait to see if Danielle might change her mind… nothing? Okey-dokey then. Our group has now dwindled down to 4. I consider making a run for it, but for some reason, I decided to stay. I’m not usually this social and especially with people I don’t know very well. It does take quite a bit of effort on my part to make it out to the city; I guess I might as well make it worth my trip. I catch up with Bjorn and his girlfriend, Jemma. A few seconds later, we’re joined my Jerry, another ex-coworker.

Bjorn and Jemma met almost a year ago. I’m not quite sure how. She’s English and works for some Investment Banking firm and he’s from Eureka, CA; a really small and rural city up north. I know Bjorn from working at the CCA. He was one of the better admission representatives. There was something just so charming about him that made you believe everything he told you. I guess that’s what makes a good salesman.
I remember while I was still working at the CCA, Danielle, Bjorn and I had lunch together. Danielle always struck me as the kind of person who always has to be the center of attention. The people that know her, let her have it but she can go overboard sometimes. In the middle of Bjorn talking, Danielle interrupted again and tried to finish his sentence.
“Danielle!” I yelled and even pulled my hair a little in frustration. She jumped startled and stared at me with wide blue eyes.
“Can you just let him finish what he’s saying? You have been talking over him this whole time!” I exclaimed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but Bjorn just talks so slow! I can’t help it, I wanna finish his sentences!”
“It’s true. I do tend to talk so but I think that’s because-“Bjorn started.
“You come from a small town?” said Danielle.
“Danielle! You just did it again!” I pointed out.
“That’s okay,” said Bjorn as he smiled, “I’m---“
“You should be used to it by now!” said Danielle.

Now I was on my way with Bjorn, Jemma and Jerry to get something to eat. I thought we were making our way to Chevy’s but Bjorn had other ideas. Jemma was obviously a little tipsier than the rest of us. She threw her arm around me and we walked the whole way there with her arm over my shoulder like we were old friends. I didn’t mind too much, it was a little uncomfortable walking that way; it must be an English thing. Americans have this fear of being touched. We have a comfort zone that doesn’t exist in the rest of the world. To tell you the truth, it left me feeling a little confused. Now that Jemma and I had shared a shoulder/arm moment for more than 10 minutes, are we friends? Am I obligated to her? Or is she obligated to me? Someone needs to write up the rules for these kinds of situations.

We ended up at Tommy T’s. It’s one of the oldest restaurants in San Francisco. I heard members of Metallica love eating there and that it’s the only place in San Francisco that serves steak tartar. It was crowded but still manageable. I had never been to Tommy T’s. Being a culinary landmark, I don’t know what I was expecting. The place is run like a cafeteria. The food sits under warmer and you take your tray and tell the guy behind the counter what you want. Then you take your food and find a place to sit. I guess that’s how they have a fast turn around but they do also have a full bar and people there tend to linger. Jemma and I decided to share lasagna. The portion size was HUGE!! Between the two of us, we couldn’t even finish it. Honestly, it actually wasn’t that great. It was luke-warm at best, and the sauce reminded me of Chef Boyardee. But it was food, or so I was told, and it was just enough to keep all that alcohol down. After that very quick bite, Jemma already had plans for our little group. She knew of a party going on at the Bubble Lounge in the Financial District, and she had decided for the rest of us that we were all going to go. Jerry and I, the only ones who really weren't obligated to go, shrugged and agreed to attend. I don't know why I decided to go. At this point, I would have convinced myself to leave because 1. It’s getting late 2. You don't know anybody and 3. You’re not going to have any fun. These were all valid reasons, anxiety issues or not; but like some strange power over me...I stayed.

While we rode in a taxi to the Bubble Lounge, I started to get really anxious. What the hell was I doing here? I glanced around in the taxi. I don't know these people! What was I thinking? As the taxi drove on, we passed several BART stations as we approached the Financial District. What was stopping me from telling the taxi driver to just stop and jump out? Several times in my head I yelled for the car to stop and drop me off; maybe I was just waiting for the right moment? But that moment never came. I knew it would be rude of me to just abandon them now anyways. We arrived at the Bubble Lounge without incident. I've heard of the Bubble Lounge but have never been myself. It's one of those "chi-chi" and "bourgeois I guess tonight was a good night of many firsts. It's a little hidden away; I couldn't even begin to tell you where it is. But it's definitely in a nice area than the Tenderloin. We walk in and Jemma finds her friends, seated in a reserved seating area of the Bubble Lounge. It's nice inside. They have these little seating areas with couches and coffee tables. Jemma's friends have already ordered some champagne (hence the name The Bubble Lounge). The food that they order comes on a tray and it's mostly strawberries and fruit; sweet things to go with the sweet drink.

We get introduced very quickly and take our seats. Jerry and I being the outsiders pull up chairs to join in the crowd as best as we can. Normally, I would take the time to learn other people's names, especially if I thought the possibility of running into each other again could happen. Not in this case. If someone came up to me and introduced themselves, I politely shook their hand and introduced myself as well. But the music was so loud, it was hardly worth it.
"Hi. My name is Vivien." I would say.
"Susan?"
"No. Vivien."
"Devon?"
"V-I-V-I-E-N!"
"Zivdean?"
"Yeah...sure."
I'm not much of a champagne drinker. And I was feeling pretty full from the lasagna. I looked around. The place is starting to fill up with people. Jemma's friends were nice and really good looking. Beautiful people; people with money, not my kind of crowd. Jerry and I just sat next to each other sitting and sipping our drinks. We started talking about the budding football season. It was really hard to hear what he was saying so most of time I just nodded and threw in what little I knew about football. Jemma and Bjorn were busy socializing with their friends, after all this was their party. I finished my drink and decided it was time to leave. Jerry decided to walk me to the train station. We said our good-byes and headed into the night.
It was a cool October night. Jerry and I made light chit-chat. He's fun to talk to. I don't really remember what it was we had a conversation about either; I was feeling the booze. He's also a gentleman. He walked me down as far as he could through the train station. We hugged long and hard at the gates just in time for my train to arrive.
The train was pretty packed. It was the last train going back to the East Bay and "Sweeny Todd" (the actual musical) was playing at one of the theatres in San Francisco. And it looked like the play just let out. So on top of the play letting out, regulars, club kids, dinner-in-the-city people were all trying to jam into this train. And it looked as though Gwen Stefani was in town, playing at the Oakland Coliseum, because when we got there some "holla back" girls crammed themselves in. It's when I take public transportation that I lose all faith in humanity. There were people standing, literally butt cheek to butt cheek and this student was taking up one of the seats with his very large overnight bag. I thought about saying something. I don't know why I didn't. I think it was because I could see, he really had no where else to put it. But then he should've given up his seat. The people around him just gave him the "stink eye" the whole ride. He engrossed himself in his Astro-Physics book and never looked up. Then it made me think, that he pulled that out on purpose so no one would say anything; I think it worked. When people are around other people who they might think are smarter then they are, they tend to feel intimidated by them. Case in point, there were these 3 "club girls" sitting, cramped on the seats "saved for the elderly or people with disabilities." An older woman came onto the train and asked the girls to give up the seat. They looked like they didn't understand her; because they probably didn't. Some Good Samaritan gave up her seat instead for the elderly woman and the rest of the ride; people were giving those 3 girls shit for not giving up their seat. I would've joined in had I been closer to them. But I did get some satisfaction watching it. So maybe there is some hope for humans after all...

It seemed like forever till we finally arrived at the Bay Fair Station. I was glad I decided to park there instead of the Union City one. That would mean another 20 minutes on the BART train. And you really don't want to be on the train after 7pm; it's like theatre, obviously. Thankfully, my car was still there. It's always a little warmer in the East Bay than in the city. The cool October night did remind me that winter is just around the corner.
I pull into the driveway of the house. The lights are still on and I can still hear the TV going which could only mean that my parents are still up. I greet them and tell them about my evening while I eat a small bowl of won ton soup to soak up the left over alcohol still left in my system.
"Wow", my mother says, "Sounds like you did a lot."
"Yeah. It was fun." I say nonchalantly” Well, good-night."
Tired, exhausted and little tispy, I"m thankful I got home safely. I lay my head down and sigh and heavy sigh. I can't believe I did all that tonight! I start to fear how late it must be as I think about all the things I have to do tomorrow. As I lean over to turn off the light, I glance at the clock: it's only 11:30.

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