Totes

After packing Sadia’s clothes into garbage bags she placed her collection of antique cameras in front of me and I sat there mesmerized as I pulled levers, cranked cranks and pressed buttons.

Greg and Susan came home from the symphony, the packing party moved to the front stoop on Haight St. and was promptly joined by Sanji who had just landed in San Francisco with a backpack full of summer clothes.

“Man,” she said as we shivered outside. “I wished I brought socks. And maybe a jacket. Do you guys have any food?”

“There’s leftover hippie mac n’ cheese that Susan made.”

“Ok, great.”

“It’s made with quinoa.”

“That’s not…mac.”

“Yeah, and it’s got broccoli and aged cheddar.”

“Jen made focaccia.”

“I can get with that.”

“It’s good but it ain’t no foie gras.”

“Did you guys go to Jardiniere?!?! I wanted to go!

“You snooze you lose!”

“Aren’t you not eating meat?”

“For the record, I did not go to dinner,” I announced. “I’m not eating meat and I don’t think someone living off of government checks has the right to spend $150 on a meal. Plus, I’m dressed like a hobo.”

“Wait a minute, you didn’t bring socks? All you have is that one backpack?!?”

“You don’t need to change clothes everyday.”

“Except for underwear.”

“Yeah. Except underwear…sometimes.”

“None of this sometimes! Everyday!

“Ok! Christ! Ok! Everyday! Jeez!”

“Weren’t you supposed to run and get us beer?”

“Oh right,” Greg said. “I was. I got distracted by the overwhelming negative response to the 2-in-1 Shampoo/Conditioner discussion.”

Never. Change your underwear everyday and never do the 2-in-1.”

“Heh-heh, 2-in-1 sounds dirty.”

“That’s fucking filthy.”

“How was the symphony?”

“We left at half time.”

“You mean intermission?”

“Exactly.”

“I think that the Rachmaninoff #2 Moderato doesn’t earn the drama of its finish.”

“Yeah, totes.

I’ll miss nights like this at the Haight St. house.

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