Rockridge, Revisited

Last minute decision, rode the BART to meet up with a friend at A Cote, a French restaurant in Rockridge. I had not been back since last August. BART dropped me off at the station, and it was the first time since that evening over a year ago. Feeling disoriented, I had a sudden panic for no apparent reason. The autumn was upon us and the night had fallen - I was once again, running 30 minutes behind schedule. My companion was already at the restaurant, waiting, with his back towards the door, but I recognized his gray hair and his glasses. He was tall, had a white sweater vest on and a polo shirt underneath. He had piercing blue eyes and looked distinguished. He was an old school Republican from the east coast, dressed very Brooks Brothers today, and he very rarely smiled. So I went up to him and scooped up my chair to sit next to him. He chose to sit by the counter. He did not want to get a table because he did not like sitting across from me and preferred to sit next to me so that we could talk. But I was talked out from work today, and I just want to grab a drink and have a few pieces of dried fruit and nuts.

"Have you been here before?" He asked.

"Yes, once, very long time ago." I answered. Define Very long. From last August to now it sure felt like a very different life all together. I remembered exactly what I was wearing the last time I was here. But that’s because I had been trying to remember everything in my life, actively recalling history so that I won’t lose my memories again.

"They have small plates. What do you want to drink?" Friend handed me wine list.  I ordered glass of Gamay 2011, which I liked from the Armory Club. Friend was having a glass of California Pinot Noir, I told him that I didn’t like California red. But he's from Boston like many of my friends were, moved to SF because of the weather, I’m sure. So he liked California red. But I think he only liked expensive red wine. Whatever. I had decided that I would not be intimidated by him, I would not feel inadequate because he was blue blood and exuded authority and confidence. I should be whoever I was, even if that meant that I liked vintage clothing and hanging out in the Mission eating dollar lengua tacos at midnight, which I suspected that he hated. I had once asked if he liked NPR, and he looked at me as if I was a eight legged monster. He had never tuned into NPR. I would ordinarily be considered sophisticated with fine taste in life, but next to him I just felt utterly bohemian. To justify, I said, “I like my yellow vintage dress. Just so you know.” He said, “Yes, I liked it too.” I had no idea he paid attention. I looked surprised. He gave me a crooked smile.

I always knew that there was a Carrie Bradshaw in every woman; confidence was used to mask awkwardness. Every person she grew fond of, they each, eventually, betray her.

I didn’t put stock in much of anything these days. Friendship had its up and downs, and I very rarely made plans beyond a day unless it's something that I wanted to do. I responded to last minute requests the best, on texts, often, and I chose to either show up or not, depending on what I got going on that evening.

Friend had gotten bored and started to check football score. Tomorrow he would leave town.

I needed to go home to see my family. So we began to say goodbye to each other.

"You should smile more. It makes you less Republican." I told him.

I once hated gray-hair white male Republicans.

He grabbed my hair and pulled it up, examining my face as if he was about to give me a makeover.

 "You have a nice smile, kiddo."

I jerked my hair away from his hand. Pulling a little too hard soI went like “ouch”. He acted a little too presumptuous, a little too familiar. But I suspected very few people ever told him no. I had not listened to what he had to say once. I was spacing out as I often did. So he pulled my head towards him, with his hand on my chin, he commended, “Look at me. Are you listening?” I tried to escape from his hold but he wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up my struggle and sat on the chair and listened to what he had to say. It was a simple question, but he made sure that I was paying full attention before the question was asked.

This friend of mine was a classic control freak. But I always remembered the good parts of the people. He was also the person who told me to hold him when I was crying, years and years ago. Before he was Mr. Big and before I stopped feeling.

We began to part our ways.

"Safe travels." I hugged him to say goodbye, as I was heading to the BART. But then I stopped to ask, "When will you be back?" He gave me a list of cities he'd be visiting, and his travel schedule. He said that he had to check up on the work his people had been doing.  He had people to do work for him. He just needed to show up on occasion in his Neiman Marcus suit and fancy bespoke shirt with nice stitching, presumably to catch up with the clients, talk to his senior staff, play a round of golf, and then take off.  He made work sound so easy.

He did not know I already nicknamed him Mr. Big behind his back. That was what I had told my girlfriends. I poked fun at his uptight dress code, his monotone, and his overall lack of appreciation for anything artsy. He wouldn’t go to museums, he wouldn’t go to indie music venues, and he wouldn’t listen to anything on NPR. He gave money to Republican candidates. He liked Red Sox and San Francisco Giants, Raiders and New York Giants. He worked a lot and apparently, never used to people saying no.   

"Text or call, anytime. I mean it." He said, I could tell that he was trying to make an effort to stay in touch. But I knew myself, I wouldn’t be doing that. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I had grown cynical, trained by experience and disappointments in life; I didn’t like to raise any hopes of a friendship beyond the occasional dinners. I was not, and never would be, emotionally evolved.

We were supposed to see a City Arts and Lectures show when he's back.

I somehow doubt that he'd make it to the event.

But you never knew, even Mr. Big managed to surprise Carrie Bradshaw.