San Francisco
Part 25

Pop was still tying his shoelaces as I answered the phone. It was reception, letting us know that Spencer was in the foyer waiting for us. "He's here, Pop."

"Perfect!"

"Yeah," I grinned as I replaced the phone. "I'm really looking forward to tonight. It's gonna be just so damn rad!"

"I mean the shoelaces. I can actually still tie them."

Spencer was looking totally wicked in jeans, a button up shirt, and a rad pair of Timberland sandals. And seeing him in a public place, with lots of people milling about, reminded me of just how totally fucking handsome he was. He really stood out from the crowd. "You remember Pop?"

"Yeah," my tall bud smiled as he shook Pop's hand. "How ya doin'?" Then he turned his attention to me. "You're looking way cool, Daniel."

"Pop said I had to wear clothes."

As we headed along Geary Boulevarde toward the coast, and Spencer's house, Pop wanted to know what kinda car we were travelling in. "It's a Ford Bronco," Spencer answered as he checked the old dude's reflection in the rear view mirror. "Four wheel drive... goes pretty much anywhere... and it's useful on the farm, or when I go windsurfing in outa the way places." Then Spencer went on to tell Pop about tying vines and pruning suckers at the vineyard. I was gonna make some kinda joke about pruning suckers, but I figured Pop would only yell at me. Besides, he seemed really interested in what Spencer had to tell him about juggling college, working on the farms, and fixing the beach house.

"You sound like a very close family."

"We are. Even our friends are always helping out on the farm or whatever. It's like our friends are a natural extension of the family. I dunno what I'd do without my bud Willie. He's been helping me with renovations at the beach house. Actually, he's there right now with MM fixing the barbecue."

"Hey! I mowed the lawn!"

"Yes you did, Daniel," Spencer laughed. "And you even picked up Bugsy's crap."

"I wonder why," came the voice from the back seat.

"'Cause it flies all over the damn place if you mow it, Pop."

"That's not what I meant, Daniel. I'm wondering what it is about Spencer and his family that attracts people to them, and makes them wanna be a part of the circle."

"'Cause they're cool," I explained.

"Cool, huh? Cool is an interesting word. Clothes are cool, people are cool, and I suppose this Bronco is cool. Cool seems to cover everything. So, tell me, Daniel, if this car is cool why doesn't it attract other Broncos?"

"'Cause it's a different kinda cool, Pop. There's a whole bunch of different cools."

"So how am I supposed to know which cool you're referring to?"

"I dunno. It's just one of those things. You just kinda know. Just 'cause the music Spencer plays on the piano is cool, doesn't mean Pearl Jam isn't cool. They're two different cools. And Wurlitzer organs are another kinda cool."

"Well, I'm glad you understand 'cause I'm totally confused."

"Were you confused when you were a teen?"

"Nope. But that's 'cause I didn't know anything back then. It's not possible to be confused if you don't know anything."

"Now you're confusing me."

After a quick tour of the house, Spencer led the way to the redwood deck, where he introduced Pop to Willie, MM, and Bugsy. I could tell that Pop was feeling a bit uneasy about being amongst young company, though. Well, at least to begin with. Motor Mouth was pretty excited about meeting someone new, and relished the opportunity to start telling Pop everything about his entire life, starting right from day one. But MM had a cute way of winning hearts, so nobody complained about his incessant chatter as he helped Willie prepare dinner.

"So tell us about yourself," Spencer said to Pop as we all sat down to our steaks, potato, salad, fresh bread rolls, and glasses of red wine.

"Me?" Pop paused to shovel a piece of steak into his mouth, then chewed for a few seconds. "Steak's beautiful. Congratulations Willie... and you, too, MM. You've done a great job."

"Pop's a writer, and he's here in San Francisco talking to a publisher friend of his," I offered.

"Wow!" MM's enthusiasm was instant despite his mouth full of food. "You write books? Awesome! I love books. I love reading. What kinda books? Murder mysteries? Adventure stories? What kinda stuff? Can I buy one somewhere? Which bookshop?"

"They're not in bookshops, MM. I... uh... publish them on the internet."

"You've got a web site? Awesome! What's the URL? Spencer's got a comp. We can use that to check it out. You wanna check out Pop's site, Spencer? Right after dinner? Wow! This is soooo awesome! I can't wait to tell mom that I've met a real author."

"It's... well, I don't think you'd be interested in the stuff I write," Pop said after managing to get a word in edgewise. "My stuff is... well, it's for older guys like me. Boring stuff. You wouldn't be interested."

"I've read some of it, MM," I interrupted in an attempt to save Pop's hide. "He's right. It's old guy stuff. Sends you to sleep. Boring as batshit."

"Oh... well it's still cool that you're a writer, Pop. Are you famous? I bet lots of people..."

"Cool it, MM," Spencer intervened, then apologized to Pop over the clatter of busy knives and forks. "Don't mind MM. He gets a little carried away, but we all love him to bits. So what's it like being a writer?"

"It gives me an excuse to sit down a lot. And drink on the job."

"No, really," Spencer continued after the giggling had subsided. "What makes you wanna write?"

"Well, I guess it's pretty much the same kinda motivation MM has. He likes to share what's in his head, but he uses his mouth whereas I use my fingers."

"As well as your brain. Where do you get the ideas?"

"I steal them." More giggling. "Actually, I just observe what goes on around me. I suppose I'm a bit like a painter who needs to paint what he sees, but my canvas is a computer screen, and my paint is the alphabet."

"You make it sound simple."

"You probably make playing the piano look simple. Daniel makes riding around on those death-defying roller blades look simple. Everything's simple once you know how... but there's no way I could play the piano, and there's no way I could ride those damn contraptions Daniel puts on his feet."

"Cute feet."

"Eat your dinner, Daniel."

"You must be interested in people."

"Yeah. I am, Spencer. I'm fascinated by what makes them tick. And no two people are exactly alike, with the possible exception of identical twins. Is this red wine from your vineyard? It's superb."

"Yep. Glad you like it. No two varieties of wine are exactly alike, either."

"So that's what fascinates you and your family about running a vineyard?"

"We also enjoy the work... the challenge of running our own family business. Farming's in our blood, I guess. Is writing in your blood?"

"I've always enjoyed it... even at school. But, as far as I'm aware, there were no writers or journalists in my family history. My grandfather worked for a major newspaper, but he was a printer. Maybe I'm the result of a suppressed gene or something... dormant for generations, then whammo! Anyway, writing comes naturally to me. I have a need to express myself, but not in the same way most people express themselves... with clothes or possessions or climbing corporate ladders."

"You're wearing Dunlop sneakers," MM interrupted. "I noticed them right away. Is Dunlop like your sponsor or something? Guess you've gotta wear them, huh? I mean, like..."

"MM!" Spencer scolded.

"OK, OK... I was just being observant. What's wrong with that?"

"There's nothing wrong with being observant," Pop smiled. "And, no, Dunlop is not my sponsor. I don't even have a sponsor. I wear what I choose to wear, and I do pretty much what I wanna do. I'm a rebel."

"You don't look like a rebel."

Pop winked at the kid. "I'm a rebel in disguise."

"Hmmm. Well, if you're a rebel in disguise, how are people supposed to know you're a rebel?"

"Do they need to know? Do I want them to know? I don't look or act like anybody else. Real rebels don't belong to groups. Real rebels are individuals. But you're right, MM. Most people wouldn't recognize me as a rebel 'cause I don't have a label... unless you count the Dunlops I'm wearing."

"But how do you make friends? I mean, if you're not like anybody else, who are your friends? What do you have in common?"

"Don't annoy our guest, MM."

"It's OK, Spencer," Pop smiled, then turned to MM. "Curiosity is a good thing. To answer your question, MM, I just do my own thing. Some people like it and some people don't. And I don't care about those who don't. For example, I think it's safe to say that Daniel is my friend. Right, Daniel?"

"You're cool, Pop."

"Let's not get into that 'cool' business again... but thank you, anyway," the old dude grinned. "So, MM, what do you think Daniel and I have in common?"

"Uh... hmmm... well..."

"Not a lot, huh? So how would you explain our friendship?"

"You like each other?"

"But we don't have anything in common."

"Well, I like you. Hey, even the Dunlops aren't so bad," the little blonde dude giggled. "So lemme get this straight. All your friends are different to you? You don't have any friends like you? Is that right?"

"I'd find them boring, MM. Who needs another me? I'm not in the least bit interested in looking at my own reflection. I'm stimulated by people who are different; who have different ideas; different experiences; different attitudes. But that's not to say I always agree with them, or that they agree with me. However, I do agree with the wine. May I have another glass, Spencer?"

We all watched the red liquid rise to about an inch below the rim of the glass as we waited for Pop's next comment. Then we had to wait a little longer while he took a sip, then casually rolled the wine around in his mouth before eventually swallowing. The old fucker knew very well that we were all hanging big time on what he had to say next, and he was loving every minute of the attention. The spotlight was suddenly on that wild shock of white hair.

"The fact that Daniel and I are friends," Pop finally continued, "is fascinating in itself. We bridge a couple of generation gaps. There are more reasons why we shouldn't be friends, according to most people's perceptions, than why we should. To me, that's what being a rebel is all about. It's about not following the popular lead... or even the unpopular lead, for that matter. It's about making your own decisions despite what unfavorable criticisms those decisions might invite."

"You're not afraid of criticism?"

"I don't like it," Pop shrugged, "but I don't let it worry me, either. Everybody's entitled to their own opinion... and that includes me. What's good for the goose, as they say. But there's an important distinction that needs to be made between the friendship that Daniel and I enjoy and the friendship he has with his buds; guys his own age."

"And you know what that is?" I ventured before Pop could say another word. "He listens, that's what. He listens and he cares. He's interested. I can tell Pop just about anything..."

"Just about? You mean there's stuff you haven't told me, Daniel?"

"Shuddup, Pop. I'm being serious here. You do listen. I blade around to your house and interrupt whatever you're doing, but you're always willing to get an earful of what's going on in my life. I feel like I can confide in you without you yelling at me. Well, sometimes you crap on me, but not often. And I can tease you and stuff, and you're always cool about it. OK, so you're not always cool," I backtracked, "but you crack me up when you're not cool, so that makes it cool."

"So what's the distinction?"

"Between you and my buds? Hey, all my buds are totally cool. We do rad stuff. But there's other stuff I can't do with them... the kinda stuff I do with you. Know what I'm saying, Pop? Old guy stuff. Sometimes it's cool to rap with an old guy... well, an old guy like you 'cause you're different."

"A rebel?"

"Yeah... a rebel."

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