Mongo Notes

Some accidental tourist misjudged a polk-green uturn, finding himself facing this author sipping his Americano under pitched café canopy. If this unfortunate autobug didn’t act quickly, he was about to taste the wrath of…HONK cried the first car on the scene, a Porsche, the driver donning tan leather driving gloves and J-loaded sunglasses. This autobug may have had a chance to finish his turn had he not been flustered by the… HONK-HONK swore the Porsche guy. And in that instance, our poor little tourista released the clutch and sank the engine, finding himself wedged in now by both traffic directions two cars deep, completely awry of the traffic flow, and unable to move.

Now I was minding my own, out of doors under great big cotton ball gray san francisco skies punctuated with the occasional visit from the sun. And I was having that Ria moment when the sun speaks out and you’re not sure when it’s going to stop talking so you point your face to the sky and stop to listen unperturbed and you pray undisturbed….HONK-HONK-HOOOOOOOOOOOONK!

My german auto mechanic once told me he never worked on porsches…Porsche owners he said. Now I hate to stereotype. Some of my best friends have porsches and there’s no need for those amends among friends. But this guy was starting to get on my…HOOOOONK!

Without thought, my pitching arm seized the $2 americano half-n-half sugar bomb and, winding up far behind my right ear, was ready for the first pitch. I eyed my potential strike zones – the windshield would punctuate my displeasure nicely. Perhaps a glancing shot off the roof? Then I saw the open window…and the cute redhead riding shotgun. Poor girl. Pimp rides and fat bank accounts are a strong aphrodisiac. HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK! This dude needed a nice lukewarm lattee in the teeth. The red head be damned!

I cocked the hammer on my caffeinated fastball and no sooner had I made the decision to let fly, his eyes me mine, glowering, focused, pure evil. I lowered my pitching arm slightly and fell into a more relaxed posture. The passenger window rolled up. Maybe there’s a gentle man there after all or maybe he doesn’t want to mess the leather. Either way, he’s mouthing something unintelligible to Red and has rested his left hand on the door handle, a subtle threat.

With my eyes still fixed on his, I motioned my invitation to the dance, mouthing something unintelligible of my own. “Your car is ugly and your breath smells of onions,” was about all I could muster. And he bites…game on.

By now the traffic has thinned a little. No new cars enter the Polk street parking lot and those on the ends were finding freedom in reverse. Soon our autobug would be free. But thinking without time, Mr. Porsche continued on through his motions and it occurred to me I was about to be presented with the perfect opportunity to caffeinate his face without inconveniencing the lovely Red.

The moment of transfer was coming, that point where his eyes left mine for those few crucial seconds while the door ajars, his feet hit the pavement, and his head rises over the roof horizon, breaking his stare long enough for me to launch a perfectly placed strike upon his….HONK!

Waking from my daydream, I scanned the street to find no Porsche, no autobug and no Red. Only a Land Rover in their stead with a cute…HONK!