SoMa Literary Review - The Cold Streets of the City

The Cold Streets of the City

By Matt Simione

June 18^th, 2007. 7:35 PM

There was no colder spot in the City than the corner of Guerrero and 16^th Street. I know, I was there. The wind whipped around the corner and grabbed me. I shivered uncontrollably.

I was meeting a friend who, as usual, as always, was late. I checked my watch again. 7:36.

“Damn.” Another gust of wind cut through me. It actually hurt. I looked around for my friend and noticed – between shivers and shudders – how much the neighborhood had changed over the years. Remodels and new construction were evident all around. I cursed the fact that I’d not brought a jacket. It had been so warm that afternoon.

Lighting a cigarette I strolled casually down the street. ‘Double Dutch’, ‘TokyoGoGo’ – these bars/clubs weren’t here the last time I’d been in this part of the City. I kept an eye out for my friend as I strolled to the corner.

The next block down was a market that reminded me of earlier days. A man sat on the sidewalk bagging grapes. Fruits and vegetables were on display, reminiscent of a bygone era. It seemed quaint but strangely out of place. Music floated out from the open doors of a bar named ‘Kilowatt’. I looked in wondering if I should seek refuge inside from the cold. My fingers and ears were growing numb. It was crowded and a bit too noisy. I went back up the street cursing the freezing wind and my always late friend. Another gust of wind stopped me in my tracks. It was more than cold, it was damn cold; God damned cold.

I stepped into the ‘Double Dutch’, shivering uncontrollably. It was dark and almost empty. Hurrying to a table at the rear of the narrow bar I was met by the young bartender.

“What can I get for you, Sir?”

I ordered a shot of Johnnie Walker (Black Label).

“How you doin’ today?” the young man asked as he set the drink in front of me.

Too cold to speak I simply nodded and slid a ten spot across the table. I no longer cared if my friend showed up and was outside looking for me. If she was then it was only fair she endure the cold for awhile, as I had. All is fair in love and cold weather.

Two young men sat at the end of the bar playing a video game which was displayed on a large, flat-screen TV. I recognized the game. It was Mario Brothers, the original one. The called it vintage. Vintage!

I did a quick calculation. My daughter, now in Grad school, was in the third grade when I bought that game. Duck Hunt, the game supplied with the Nintendo, wouldn’t cut it for her, or her sister and brother, or anyone else for that matter. Mario Brothers was the rage, the ‘must have’ game. Sitting there I watched the young men play. The catchy, hypnotic tune made me smile and I wondered if they knew all the tricks and hidden spots. After a moment, I knew they didn’t. Would they play me for money? It was just a thought.

My cell phone rang, obnoxiously loud, and I hurried to dig it out of my pocket.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, I…”

“Where are you?”

Dedication to God, Duty, Country, and… whatever, be damned. There was no excuse that would justify leaving me alone on the cold (damn cold!), mean streets of the City for so long. My ears were still numb, and hurt when I pressed the phone to my head.

“No.” I interrupted her for the second time. “Let’s just forget tonight.”

Pause.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Pause.

“No, I’m not angry.” I lied.

Pause.

“Honest.” I lied again.

Pause.

“Ok then. Bye.”

I hung up quickly so she’d know I was angry. Hell, I was beyond angry, I was mad. Mad and cold. No. Mad and frozen. Damn mad and frozen.

Somewhere someone had to be recording the fact that it was freezing cold in San Francisco. So cold, in fact, that the average man standing on the corner of Guerrero and 16^th for more than twenty minutes would, I’m sure, freeze to death. Ask anyone who was there that evening. They’ll agree. (Anyone?)

I had another shot of Scotch while ‘schooling’ the young men at ‘Mario Brothers’ then hurried down the street towards the BART Station. I stopped and braved the cold long enough to stare through the window of a boutique which specialized in selling ‘vintage clothes’.

Chuckling, I turned and hailed a Cab. Damn the expense, it was freezing. Besides, I just realized I had no less than a fortune in vintage goods boxed neatly away at home. Hell, the contents of my underwear drawer alone must be worth four times what I paid for it.

Vintage my ass. Literally.

Also by Matt Simione on SoMa Literary Review:

Gross, The New Year, The Friend Theory, Perceptions & Think About It

Matt Simione is a Bay Area writer who has completed two novels, three Screenplays, and a number of short stories.