100 Proof

Before the ride, one operator took my picture, though I protested I was not a tourist. You’re so beautiful, he said. And you’re getting on the cable car. I should definitely take it.

It is the best of the lines, we agree, though the operators claim people who live in town never appreciate the cable cars as much as the tourists.

I do, I say. I wish I could ride them more often.

And with that, they begin the work of moving the car up the California Street hill, gliding, like magic, on a perpetual river of metal.

At each departure, we hope for directions, guidance beyond the edge that marks one journey’s end, another’s beginning. We wish for clear signs and easy exits.

But no one has yet discovered how to map thin air—there are no paths to follow when one takes a brave, necessary leap. There is only the net that appears, made of many hands, some familiar, some yet-unknown.

The owners of those interwoven hands whisper, We know you will soar. They whisper, We will catch you if you need us. They whisper, We will see you very, very soon.

* To Jen Maiser, for this next beginning.

In the tire store waiting room, the television blared an interview with a woman who eats mostly roadkill she finds near her home.

What? said the other man waiting with me. What? He began to laugh loudly—he was still in that jolly place that lasted the mechanic came to tell him he needed to replace all four tires.

How does a person develop a taste for roadkill? he said. Her brain just turned into a hog brain.

This group has been having dinner together for 20 years, he said. We used to meet for cocktails at 8, then have dinner at 9.

He looked down at his drink, then up at the clock on the wall of the bar.

These days, we meet for cocktails at 7, he said. We used to be bad. Now, we’re just naughty.

You want to go with something dry? asked the bartender. With mezcal? Weird? Great?

I would like something weird AND great, I said. Just tell me what it is when you’re done.