Friday night, we stay out much too late, much too late for me, anyway. I have two whole beers in my system, and the boys want to stay out even later. They want to go to the lesbian bar. They ask me if I’ve ever been to a lesbian bar, and they giggle with excitement.
No, I haven’t. But my hopes are up, for just one thing.
In the dead of the night, Miguel drives us in his clean, $80,000 Ford, as the boys call it, winding through the skinny streets packed with sleeping cars that line Bernal Heights.
“What is this banging sound?” they implore. “Sheesus, get new shocks!”
“It’s not the shocks. It’s the fuel line. Nothing serious.”
I only include this exchange as it happens every time Miguel invites new and frequent passengers in his Ford Contour SVT, which he has maintained in nearly mint condition since purchasing it used ten years ago, aside from the faulty fuel line, which could go at any moment, so just try to ignore the thumps.
We park in front of the bar at the top of the hill. We walk in. Inside, there are a bunch of women with short haircuts playing pool with a bunch of guys with short haircuts. Classic 80s dance songs murmur in the background.
We walk straight to the bar. I scan the menu on the chalk board behind the barista, which lists all their fancy items, in pretty caligraphy, adorned with handdrawn roses and leaves. They serve apple cobbler at the lesbian bar, but do they have the one thing that a woman wants on a Friday night after two beers?
No, they do not.
No chocolate. What’s the point of a lesbian bar with no chocolate.