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I Left My Tart in San Francisco
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Cheese and chalk
Michael Schulte
01/01/2006
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A few years ago, I was dating an actress who had recently arrived in Los Angeles
from London. Her one resume entry was a straight-past-video-to-oblivion action
flick involving leotards and jiu-jitsu. I had a deeply held conviction against
dating actresses, but Jane’s porcelain beauty and English charm had set the hook
in me, despite her disturbing habit of convulsive hair tossing. After several
drinks in a Santa Monica pub on the cusp of Valentine’s Day, I heard myself
suggest a romantic road trip. The next afternoon we were on a plane, heading for
San Francisco.
The Huntington Hotel in Nob Hill offered elegance,
refinement, and I hoped, a permanent Do Not Disturb sign. Foregoing the usual
rental car nonsense, I hit up my friend Carl, who lived off South Van Ness and
owned a red ‘73 Norton 850 Commando. My plan was to surprise my date with a ride
across the Golden Gate Bridge for our dinner that evening in Marin. It was just
the roguish touch required to knock Jane off balance after a day at the spa,
thereby informing her that she was dealing with a man of great scope and
complexity.
Carl, always eager to contribute to any situation that might
result in an embarrassing story at my expense, complied with a smile and a
charmingly sarcastic endorsement of my mission.
After picking up the bike, I
found Jane stretched out on the bed amid a scatter of fashion magazines. A long
day of seaweed wraps had left her “shagged,” “knackered,” and generally
unresponsive. Redeployment seemed unlikely. She managed a lazily stated
preference for dinner in the hotel, and an early morning wake-up call to go
shopping. Sensing my plan to be on the verge of collapse, I suggested that the
February air would lift her out of her torpor. I mentioned something about a
special surprise I had planned. That got her upright. I still have no idea what
she might have imagined, but when she saw the battered Norton with the leaky
crankcase at the hotel curb, it was evident that I had miscalculated.
I gave
her my best rakish spiel about roaring up Highway One on a star-filled night
through a few miles of gorgeous ruralness, followed by a magnificent dinner at a
hidden gem of a restaurant, and a languorous ride back to the city across the
sweep of the Golden Gate Bridge. Even the doorman nodded his approval. Jane,
however, was a grimace buried in a mane of black hair. She glared at the
Commando, wondering what that thing would do to her suede pants.
Eventually
she acquiesced, perhaps realizing that she and the bike were from the same
country and that national pride demanded certain sacrifices. Whatever the
reason, she gingerly got on and awkwardly looped her arms around my waist. We
kicked off and headed north.
I should have taken the doorman.
Dinner was
a disaster. Traveling with a person is a fail-safe test of compatibility. And
after enduring a seamless hour of complaint over an otherwise excellent meal,
the verdict was in. Jane and I were cheese and chalk, as they say—the role of
cheese to be played by yours truly. Just as this revelation sparked through me,
she tossed her hair. Just a little toss, off to the side, but it was enough. I
should also mention that she sent back a perfectly good piece of
sole.
Gunning the bike back across the Golden Gate, the Norton’s snarl
glanced off the guardrail and I pushed it a little harder to hear the
reflection. Jane nervously dug her nails in a little deeper. Of course, this was
exactly what I had been looking forward to, the minute physical detail that had
formed my romantic intentions of this weekend. Now, it was just an irritating
distraction from the pleasure of riding a red bike across an orange bridge. I
felt her disapproval vanishing in the exhaust as the Norton and I leaned toward
Fort Point, and what would later become a spirited Valentine’s romp: me and the
Commando, solo, through San Francisco, through the small hours and twisted
streets, as Jane slept in the Huntington’s big bed, dreaming of shoes.
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