LESS NOISE, MORE WATER

The ebullient Ms. Wong fails to understand the paradigm. She firmly believes that seven shots in the time allotted for two must, without fail, make three times as good. It does for her! One of her ideas is that if we buy her one, she'll buy us one. Surely that makes total happy, yes?

The math is acceptable -- we will split the cost of her beverage (in another words, pay for half a shot each), and she'll stand a drink for us, one each all around -- but the effect is not.

With nine customers at the bar, she ends up with four shots, then pours herself one more. Meanwhile, her customers are wondering why they've had ten shots of Hennesy, and if they will remember this evening.


"He-ah, you hawanud-dah!"


The deed is done. One more human helped further toward paradise.

She also does not grasp that what would be good for a callow youth no longer works for a man of sense and gravitas, whose digestive system will not take kindly to nine, ten, or eleven shots of whiskey.

But, seeing as she will not listen, the two of us have developed coping mechanisms. Mine is to toss the liquor onto the floor under my oxter when she is not looking. Thus neatly achieving a total of only two shots in the system in the time it takes her to drink five or six.

We worry about her liver.

"Lass' koh, ebbiddy go now, wan more!"

Which means hurry up and leave, (but) have another shot (or two).

It is a good thing the landlord has told her to tone it down. Previously the place would be bedlam at closing, with screaming, shouting, karaoke screeching by twenty stupid white folks, and much cursing in Cantonese, Hokkien, and Mandarin. Now it is far more restrained, and she has to struggle to tax her liver.

Still. Two shots, good. Ten, bad.

I have gotten very good at resisting her blandishments. My friend the bookseller is weaker, and ends up with a third or fourth. But he's younger than me, and not so grumpy, so he probably suffers less ill from the excess than I would. He's also more socially gentle, nebbech.

There was a puddle of Irish Whiskey near my stool when we left.

Still, we were pretty sober during our walk home.

Enjoyed the soft-falling rain.

Talked.



We parted after cheroots and discussion of washing, pursuant a corner laundromat recently closed for earthquake retro-fitting and rent-gauging in San Francisco's booming yuppie commerce conditions.


Pacific Avenue is very beautiful in the rain late at night; dark, bright, and glistening. Peaceful. There should be more of it.




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