S.F. Police, The Citizens' Friend
By Mike Snyder
December 2007

A couple of decades ago, my gentle Mensan friend Willy of the North and I found ourselves unsupervised (what, AGAIN?) one evening, so resolved to check out one of them San Francisco fern bars we've heard tell of. I knew of a nice one, thanks to my brother: Lord Jim's, at the corner of Broadway and Van Ness or so.


Free as the birds, with at least as many brains, Willy and I strolled around a 4-block area twice, finishing our beers, making sure the peacekeepers had lost all interest in us.
Thither Willy and I deployed ourselves in his hulking Dodge van. (I always like riding shotgun on outings like this.) Disported ourselves we did, presenting our weird act to a diverse assortment of S.F. womankind, all of whom found us not too hard to resist.

A couple-three hours later, substantially lubricated and resisted, we decided to blow this popsicle stand in favor of some munchies and a chance to regroup. Each packing an unfinished bottle of beer from Lord Jim's, we drove to the Hippo Burgers restaurant, which I recall being on Van Ness. We carried our beer inside and sat down. Replete in our friendship and the induced fog of the evening, Willy and I were in a fine mood as we contemplated our menus (do I have mine right side up?). We ordered Hippo Burgers from a friendly and tolerant waitress. Replete as we were, we didn't even bother with our beers; they sat on the table and took in the scene.

Presently a truly Grown-Up managerial type approached us scornfully, announced that our beers were non grata, grabbed both bottles before either of our besotted minds could react, and whisked ’em off to places unknown.

Willy and I gazed stupidly at each other: "What is all this? Couldn't this jerk ask us to simply put our beer back in the car? Why this confrontation?" Our Hippo Burgers arrived and were duly devoured with our usual gusto.

After paying our bill, we called the Grown-Up over to our table: "We'll have our beer back now, as we are leaving." No way. Fairly sure that this jerk had poured our booze down the drain, we tacitly agreed to push the point: "You have enforced your rule, and now that we're leaving, you will give us back our property." No way. "Call the police, RIGHT NOW, then."

Little Mister Piss-Pot went to a phone, dialed a number, and spoke. We were sure this was a sham, but I immediately went into think-tough mode: "If this yahoo is actually calling the cops, Willy and I is screwed. I HATE the thought of being jailed again, but at least we'll be together, and I am ready."

We bluffed right back, insisting we needed some coffees while waiting for the cops. NO WAY were we gonna retreat from this standoff. As we sipped our Joe, two police walked in, purpose oozing from every pore. The Grown-Up briefed them; repeated glances were thrown by all in our wretched direction.

As the police approached us, I went into Calm and Sensible, sober as Clarence Darrow, wrapped as tight as a violin string, going straight at these guys, figuring it was the only chance we had to survive this debacle: "By golly, we came in peaceful and were rudely treated by this peasant who confiscated our property. And now that we're just as peacefully leaving, we would like to have our property back, or press charges on him for the pettiest kind of theft."

What's next? A nightstick across our eyebrows? NO -- the peacekeepers went back to confer with our antagonist. He left the room. He came back. He placed our beers on the table. He retreated to a neutral corner!

As Willy and I unsteadily gathered our feet for a dignified and triumphant exit, we warmly thanked these good lawmen for their sense of justice. As we filed out past Mister Weenie, I glared at him with as many bloodshot eyes as I could bring into focus, and intoned, "See ya later, PARD."

Free as the birds, with at least as many brains, Willy and I strolled around a 4-block area twice, finishing our beers, making sure the peacekeepers had lost all interest in us. Despite whatever we deserved from this outrageous gambit, Willy and I were to greet the morrow without the fleas of San Francisco's drunk tank on ANY of our regal frames.


Copyright © 2007 Mike Snyder.


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