As my shift winds down and Jessica’s still around, talking to the baker, Joe, and I’m just counting down the minutes until I can finish cleaning the espresso machine, I decide that it’s a good night to go look at the flooded Sacramento River. It’s not raining, yet, and clocking out at seven:twenty leaves me plenty of time to make it to the water before it gets too dark, and it’s the night-time photographs that I want the most, anyway. So I ask Jessica if she wants to go along with me. She thinks I’m crazy, but she’s down. Merideth happens to wander into the coffee-shop not long afterward to pick up the tips she’d forgotten after her morning shift. Chris is on his way out but spends a few minutes catching up and talking yoga with Meredith since he doesn't come in during the day as often after moving across town. I’m restlessly fidgeting with things that I want to clean, but I’ve got twenty more minutes to wait and the coffee-shop is already empty. Joe is talking about his unraveled relationship with Jessica, which I just found out about today. Then Chris leaves. Minutes later, Jenny arrives. I extend the river-trip invitation to her and with little hesitation she’s onboard. Next I invite Meredith, expecting denial, knowing she likes her sleep, and she’s surprisingly interested in the idea, which means we’ve just made a posse.
Jenny runs home to get her camera and put on her boots. I finally get to start shutting down the café. Jessica and Meredith leave for a moment to get food or something, but come back a few moments later and try to tell me that it’s freezing cold outside, doomed to rain, and that I’m totally nuts if I want to go to the river tonight. I go outside to feel the weather for myself and it’s not bad at all. Clear overhead with clouds on the horizon. So what? I come back inside and say, “I’m still going,” and they feel guilty for backing out and I stick to my opinion that a walk to the river is the best thing anyone could possibly do on a Wednesday night like tonight. I’m not upset. I’m going to the river with or without them, and that’s that. So I watch them leave and text Jenny to tell her that the others backed out, and if she wants to back out that’s okay, too. She replies: Hell no.
Fast forward to seven:twenty and I’m at home changing the batteries in my Nikon and squeezing into two sweatshirts. I roll a joint that we won't end up smoking while waiting for Jenny. As soon as she strolls up to the gate, we’re off to see the river and she’s got a yellow box of American Spirits—neither of us really knows why, just something to do with our hands, I guess—and the sky is the last-breath blue of dusk that will fade to black before we’ve passed the Capitol. We stop here and there along the way to take photographs, singing fractured lyrics of songs stuck in our heads—and we call it life—while holding hands and feeling vibrant and jay-walking and being tourists in our own town. We stop at Il Fornaio to look at their menu and find out when they close and everything seems decent for such a fancy high-ceilinged place and Jenny and I plan on eating here on our way back from the river.
The river is full from the wild storms of late. You look down at the water and see the tops of trees swaying in the current. You see how close the river flows under the Tower Bridge and you think: I really want to jump. The bridge is beautiful and gold and bright and the streets are desolate and the world is ours. It starts to rain, lightly, snow-like, and you catch glimpses of it in the lamp-light halos, the bulbs shining up against the steel girders, the colors reflected on the river. Everything is perfect. We cross Tower Bridge and head down toward the flooded shore on the other side, where cement steps lead directly into the murky water and the taller trees stand firm while the river flows around their trunks, dark mangled hands reaching up from the depths. Jenny mentions all the bodies in the river and wonders how many will be floating about when the water subsides. Creepy thought. On our way back across the bridge, two guys ask us if we want any vicodin. No thanks. I look over the railing at the debris piling up against the bridge support, trees and junk and probably a dead body or two. Such a mess. I take a picture.
Dinner at Il Fornaio is exquisite. We happen to be there at the same time as an L.A. lobbyist and a politician who Jenny recognizes and it’s adorable to watch her sneak glances and chew on the off-the-record conversation she’s eavesdropping on. Then she and the waiter, Kevin, go on about wine and I’m totally clueless, so I just listen and admire, and we buy a bottle of barbera d’asti to go with our Italian dishes. It’s an expensive dinner, but not unreasonably so, and the taste and experience alone is worth it. I give Kevin a generous tip because he’s probably the best waiter I’ve had in a long time. Jenny and I finish the bottle and we’re full-bellied and warm-faced as we head back outside and head back to my house. The night ends with a review of our photos at Jenny's and a bedtime somewhere around midnight as the storm arrives later than predicted and spatters against the window.
- Left to Fry
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