Monday, Monday

1:45 p.m.

Got out of interview with "strategic planning officer" of tech company, a lizardy sort who couldn't stop talking though his voice failed. Leaving the Hilton, heading toward Market Street. Hot. I take off the $5 wool sports coat I picked up from Goodwill and think about giving it to a homeless guy.

The bare bones of the situation: I have an hour to kill, I'm done with work for the day, I have no kids on me and it is Monday. I need a bar. But this is not the Market Street I knew in my teens. Between Powell and Montgomery, there are no places to drink. Just Puma shops and electronics stores.

Look down side streets, Swill had said. Look, look. Is that one? Closer... Looks a century old. Crusty tile floor, wooden booths painted brown. Empty, but there's a blonde at the end of the bar on her cell. Yes, we're open. Saved.

Cheapest beer per ounce? PBR. You know it.

I have no cash and there's a $10 minimum tab. But my friend is coming, I will make him, using a magical text message. He will drink.

The beer goes down like soda and the girl cranks up some Bowie. I fold my coat, pull out a notebook, and toss my cell on the brown counter top. It sticks. I smile.

I always feel a little bit fake after talking to people like the lizard man. Now, lifted by the souls of generations of drinkers, I'm starting to feel OK, even if I'm bound to fall asleep on BART later and miss my stop.

An hour later my friend is by my side. He's making me laugh something stupid. Or maybe I'm making myself laugh. I can't remember. Probably both.

Ah, Mondays...

(Turns out I stumbled into a San Francisco landmark. The House of Shields originally opened in 1908. Stanton Delaplane mentioned it at least once, in a story about old watering holes in The Chronicle more than 20 years ago. "Writers discover saloons by a kind of ESP. They get on a stool behind a glass of Heineken and they know they're home. The Wash. Sq. is that kind of place. So is the House of Shields...")