An outdoor cafe, me and Niki J. We are set upon by a rowdy party two tables over. One even joins us, but he is more irreverent than threatening, and he speaks in a stream of gibberish meant to satirize social niceties like adolescents everywhere rather than confront or contribute.
I encounter the waiter between the tables on his way to the kitchen. He is noncommital while I point out the malefactor, who ducks his head in mock embarrassment, back at his regular table now. The waiter continues his march, promising, "He'll be gone."
I venture backstage to tell the proprietor I am pleased with the dispatch with which the problem was handled. It's Bill Perkins, my old companion from the days at the Vets Building in Watsonville, but he's busy and I don't approach. A tall blonde waitress is very efficiently moving about. On her way out to the dining room, she stands up very close to me, filling my entire viewscreen, and makes suggestive promises. She kisses me and yet I cannot quite feel her body against me. It's like a chaste movie kiss, however deep. I think, it must be all right, because it's happening without my meaning it, like rain.