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Thanksgiving - San Francisco Style
By
Rob Rosen
We were all seated for Thanksgiving dinner when our host, Samuel, turned to the three of us and asked who would say the prayer before dinner.
“You’re joking, right?” asked my friend, Carmen, who was seated to my right.
“No. This is a traditional Thanksgiving dinner and, traditionally, someone always says a prayer before we eat,” responded Samuel, with no sign that he indeed was joking.
We all looked at each other and waited for a volunteer.
No one was eager to bless our meal. I supposed that we were all too shy or, more than likely, not one of us had a religious bone in our bodies. This was San Francisco, after all, and most everyone I knew leaned towards paganism more than anything else. So many of my friends were witches, both the male and female varieties, that I often thought I was living in a Grimm’s fairytale most of the time. Not that witches aren’t religious. I guess. Though, honestly, I have no idea if they are or not.
Regardless, no one was offering up their services.
“How about Bernie?” said my friend Justin, who was sitting to my left and was, for God knows what reason, talking about me.
“Why me?” I asked, nervous at the thought.
“Because you’re Jewish,” he answered.
“Yeah,” piped in Carmen.
“Big fucking deal,” I said. “That makes me capable of shopping for the damn turkey and, maybe, getting it for a good deal, but it doesn’t make me the fucking Pope of Thanksgiving.”
“Jews don’t have popes,” countered Carmen.
“And they don’t say Thanksgiving prayers either,” I whined, starting to feel attacked.
“Just go ahead and say it,” Samuel said, now getting irritated at my non-compliance.
“Yeah, the sooner you say it, the sooner we eat,” barked Justin.
“Fine, whatever,” I said, frowning as I tried to think of something appropriate to say. And then…“Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the Vegan turkey, the rolls, the mashed potatoes, the red jiggly stuff, and the stuffing, which took me half a day to make. We thank Thee for the Indians who now man our casinos to the North rather than the vast plains to our East. We thank Thee for these two days off from our tedious jobs. And most of all, oh Lord, we thank Thee for our friends, who we thank God, er…Thee, we are eating with instead of our parents.”
“Amen,” came a rousing echo from my dinner companions.
“That was lovely, Bernie, now let’s eat,” commanded our host. “Dinner’s gettin’ cold.”
“In my family, we all go around the table and say something that we are thankful for before we eat the bountiful harvest,” interjected Justin, just as we all started spooning said harvest onto our plates.
“We ain’t your family,” Carmen said, shooting Justin a nasty look.
“Samuel said that this is a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. In my family, that’s the tradition. For tonight, you all are my family,” Justin countered. We all sighed and put down the serving spoons and forks.
“Fine, I’ll start,” offered Carmen, to get the ball rolling. “Hmm, let’s see. I’m thankful for…for…for MUNI.”
“You’re what?” we all shouted.
Then Samuel added, “MUNI, as in our public transportation provider? The ones who are always late, always dirty, always breaking down? The one with the rude drivers that you can’t hear over the P.A. system no matter how hard you strain? MUNI is what you are thankful for?”
We looked at her in utter disbelief and waited for her reply.
“Yes, exactly,” she calmly responded. “MUNI that brought me to this wonderful meal, that is now getting cold, and MUNI where I met my current boyfriend.”
“You met Roger on MUNI?” I asked. “What a slut you are.”
“Takes one to know one, besides it wasn’t like that. You know how it is when you get to the Powell Street Station at 5:30 and there are hundreds of people waiting to get on the first train that pulls up? (We all nodded that we knew exactly what she was talking about, only too well.) Well, I was being jostled, as usual, onto a too crowded single L car, which lord only knows why they run single cars at rush hour (we all nodded again), anyway, I was pushed to the far back corner and Roger was pushed there as well and our faces were right in front of each other and neither of us had anywhere else to look, so…”
“Ah, you are a slut then,” I said again.
“Well, he is awfully cute and we did have a ways to go. Besides, it was fate. He got off at the same station as I did and was walking in the same direction,” she said.
“Sounds more like stalking than fate,” Samuel said.
“Sounds like it’s your turn, Mister Single Man who is clearly jealous. I’m thankful for MUNI. Justin asked, I answered. Now go,” she harrumphed.
Personally, I liked Roger, so I was glad for Carmen. Maybe I’d have to start going to the Powell Street Station more often during rush hour. Riding the 38 Geary wasn’t doing much for my social life, though on several occasions we did drive past Don Johnson while he was filming Nash Bridges, so I can’t complain too much.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Samuel responded. “I’m thankful for that guy that walks around downtown with the crazy sign,” he responded.
“You mean the guy who carries the sign that says: "Impeach Clinton! 12 Zegnatronic Galaxies Guiltied!!" all over downtown and shows up anywhere there's an opportunity to get in front of a news camera? The Asian guy with the rumpled suit? Him? You’re thankful for him?” I asked, doubtfully.
“Him. Yes,” he responded, nodding his head in the affirmative.
“Why, pray tell,” asked Carmen, clearly interested now.
He paused before enlightening us. “Remember that guy I was dating, Raoul? (We all nodded that we did. I remember hating Raoul. What a creep.) Well, one day I was walking downtown and spotted Raoul walking towards me in the distance. Raoul doesn’t work anywhere near my office, so I was kind of curious as to why he was there at that time. Fortunately, I ducked behind crazy-sign-guy and his sign before I was spotted. When Raoul passed, I offered crazy-sign-guy ten dollars to walk the other way; which he gladly did. We followed Raoul to a nearby restaurant, where I watched as he sat down with another guy. Another guy he held hands with and kissed repeatedly. Another guy who was not me, his boyfriend.”
“How do you know it wasn’t just a close friend?” Carmen asked.
“I asked him that night, very nonchalantly, what he did for lunch and he said he was busy at work and ate at his desk. Fucker. Anyway, water under the bridge. And, again, I thank crazy-sign-guy for showing me the truth, however inadvertently. Here’s to him,” he said, lifting his glass of wine up in a toast.
“Here, here,” we all raised our glasses and clicked them together.
“What a strange city we live in,” Samuel said.
“Wait, it gets stranger,” I said; now ready to give my own thanks. “I’m thankful for the Bay To Breakers.”
“The race across town?” Carmen asked.
“The very one,” I said. “It saved me from a horrible fate.”
“Now this I gotta hear,” said Samuel. “Dinner can wait.”
“Okay, you all know that guy I was interested in. The tall one with the goatee and glasses?”
“The one you ranted and raved about at last year’s Thanksgiving dinner?” asked Samuel.
“The very one. Man, I really had the hots for him. And you all know how teeny, tiny this town is (they all nodded). I’d see him absolutely everywhere. On the train, in the street, at Safeway, at the movies, out dancing. You name it, I saw him there. It was creepy, but I never got a chance to go up and introduce myself. Either I was in a rush or was with a big group of people, or he was too far away or with a big group of people. It just never worked out. And it made me miserable. I didn’t want to date anybody else just in case I’d get to meet him sometime soon, which, sadly, never happened.”
“Tragic,” interrupted Samuel.
“I know. It was awful,” I said.
“No, you, not the story,” he chided.
“Oh, whatever. Fuck you, please. Anyway, as luck would have it, I was out on Fell Street watching the Bay To Breakers, when whom should I see running up the street in the distance but my dream man. Yuck-o.”
“Why yuck-o?” asked Carmen.
“Dream man turned out to be a nightmare in the nude. Besides being absolutely covered with tattoos, he had a good dozen body piercings, and all in unspeakable places. It was ghastly. And, to top it all off, as small as this town is, he was even
smaller, if you get my drift. Man, just think what I would have been in for. So, I give thanks for the Bay To Breakers for saving me from a life of…er…short comings.”
My friends nodded their heads in disbelief and Samuel added, “Only in San Francisco.”
“Indeed,” I said, shivering at the memory of him jogging by. “Now it’s your turn, Justin.”
Justin had remained silent for much of our speeches, but that was his way. The three of us eagerly awaited the final thanks of the night as we sat there with our stomachs grumbling and our meal turning icily cold.
He stood up and looked at each of us in turn before commencing. “I am thankful for each of you: Carmen for being a slut, because at least one of us is getting laid. Samuel for being sneaky, because Raoul asked me out last week and I was seriously considering saying yes. And Bernie for being so shallow, because he makes me feel a lot less guilty about my own faults. (The three of us looked at each other, unsure of whether or not we were being praised or insulted.) But mostly, I am thankful for living in a city where I am able to be the best of friends with such a crazy, oddball lot of people, all of which I love dearly and who I wouldn’t trade for the world.”
“To San Francisco!” he said, raising his glass in the air.
“To San Francisco!” we echoed, and then smiled at each other before we happily dug into our wonderful Thanksgiving dinner.
Copyright ©
2003 Rob Rosen
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