Tuxedos in San Francisco, December 28th, 2020
Patrick has taken his old red bathtub Porsche out of storage to drive up to San Francisco from his home in Los Angeles. He is to meet his writing partner, Timothy, at John Foley’s Irish House on O’Farrell Street in San Francisco. There they will meet the producer of their movie script.
Timothy takes the bus down to San Francisco from his home in Sonoma County north of the city.
As usual both Timothy and Patrick are wearing their powder blue tuxedos, spats, cumber buns, bow ties, carnations in the lapels, and the usual attitudes.
San Francisco is locked down of course due to Covid or whatever. But Timothy knows the owner of the John Foley’s Irish House and the owner has agreed to let the meeting happen. Of course the owner wants a film credit.
“We’ll put your name in as one of the most important local supporters of the film.” Timothy told him. “It will be right in the credits after the movie stars.”
Patrick parks his Porsche in a garage on Bush Street. He walks the five blocks to the pub past Union Square. The homeless and drug addicts look at him in his blue tuxedo as if Patrick were an apparition from proms past.
Timothy gets off the bus at Union Square and gets the same reaction from the local layabouts under the monument and fountains. John Foley’s is only three blocks away.
The side door is open and our two heroes meet at the door and go inside the Irish pub.
The walls are lined with portraits of Irish heroes. There’s Michael Collins, Eamon da Valera, and Bono of U2. The booths are made of dark wood as is the bar. Stained and etched glass are the windows. The toilets are a journey back to the Middle Ages. Typical Irish plumbing.
Patrick and Timothy go to the bar. The owner gives them their drinks.
Owner, “Glad you both showed up. I’ve always admired your Oscar presentations. Laughed my ass off.”
Patrick, “Thanks. Not many of those gigs around nowadays.”
Timothy, “So where is this producer of our screenplay?”
Patrick, “I thought you were bringing him.”
Timothy, “I thought you were bringing him.”
Owner, “Well it isn’t me.”
Just then the side door opens and in come four very big men in suits and you can tell that they are packing (guns).
The foursome check out the bar and then give the all clear.
In steps Jeff Bezos. He’s wearing jeans, turtleneck, and a toupee.
Bezos, “Boys! Boys! It’s my good ol’ tuxedo boys! I read your script and want to put it on Amazon Prime. What a great story! Here’s the contract.”
Jeff puts a contract fifty pages thick on the bar.
Bezos, “Just sign this contract and I’ll make us all rich.”
Patrick, “But you’re already rich.”
Timothy, “Are you wearing a toupee?”
Bezos, “ Sign the contract or you’ll never work in Hollywood, which I own by the way, again!”
Patrick, “Not even awards shows?”
Timothy, “Not even tuxedo commercials?”
Bezos, “NOTHING! You sign or your time is up in Hollywoodland.”
Patrick, “Did you really buy the sign?”
Timothy, “Not gonna sign.”
Patrick and Timothy clink glasses and drink.
Bezos, “You two tuxedoed dinosaurs are about to go extinct!”
Bezos storms away as his four guards form a protective square around him.
Owner, “Bezos has left the building.”
Patrick, “In that case, we’ll have another round.”
Timothy, “On credit of course. We will sell something soon.”
Owner, “Of course.”
And there we leave our blue tuxedoed heroes sitting at the bar in John Foley’s Irish House on O’Farrell Street in San Francisco. They drink and tell stories. The owner laughs along. The rain comes down outside on the old Barbary Coast Town.
The addicts are shooting up heroin in the BART stations underground. The homeless are shitting in the streets. The rich are at home in their mansions. The bridges are lit up over the bay and golden gate.
The workers in the bars, restaurants, salons, spas, gyms, and all; are at home wondering if they’ll get paid again. Or if they’ll every have a job again at all.
The rain comes down on them all.
And there in that little John Foley’s Irish House hall.
We see our two heroes in the near end of life; the Fall.
A pint of bourbon
Feeling very urban,
They laugh and tell stories from the wonder of it all.
The light still glows in the dimness. As the shadows fall.
Our heroes tell stories both short and tall.
It’s all that they can recall.
The rain comes down on them all.