MOST AMAZING TRIP AS ANAHEIM SAM (for lack of a better name) takes me all around town on his bike. You'd never guess, with the dirty looks you get on long waits for cable cars, this city can be so small, sly, serendipitous. I told him I'd walk from Golden Gate Park to the Greyhound. He insisted on dropping me off. I said I'd walk--wanted to get in another service giving out Sunshine on the Haight before getting on the bus. He said sure? I kind of wonder if I should have said yes.
The sedan pulls up like only a sedan can: a SHARK. I'd say I was seeing things if it weren't for the jaws. A man with gangster gloves like in the movies. I think things like this happen all the time on the Haight, because if anyone else sees it it didn't arouse much alarm. I just take it in stride--the next step in a ride that began weirder than even THE MAN can make it. Checkered suit, soft brown hat. That's the freak who, in the back seat, decorously suggests I put on the mask, a Lone Ranger affair with elastic strap, only no eyeholes. Is his accent British? Indian? British-Indian? Blue Meany? The smile all the same right out of Yellow Submarine, teeth gleaming to contain a bird just gnashed or a meatball so sour it would explode in a blaze of burning red sauce if exposed to even the littlest beam of sunshine.
He compliments me on my lovely hair. Eyebrows and all.