Out of nowhere, the rain suddenly became heavy and unrelenting, as if someone in the clouds accidentally switched a hose from ‘LIGHT MIST’ to ‘WATER CANNON, HIGH SPEED, FULL POWER. SERIOUSLY, FUCK THESE GUYS.’ We began running. Well, not running, but the sort of half-jog most guys do when they realize they were wrong about something important, something that has unmistakably contradicted them in a time of relative urgency. Getting into the bar was reminiscent of a clown car, a horde of silly men of all shapes and sizes shoving each other to get through a narrow doorway. Inside the bar, aptly titled Zeitgeist, we intended to start the night.
Zeitgeist fits within one of my favorite kinds of bar- ones that are exceptionally past their peak of “cool”; institutions that don’t have to play the game anymore. These spots can simply exist on loyal customers, friendly faces, and leave a relatively stable cultural footprint. In other words, it’s escaped the vortex of being an early 2010s Mission District caricature, full of fixed gear bicycles, the worst IPAs you’ll ever drink, and ethical non-monogamists. Inside, we settled down with some cider and fries.
There was a noticeably light crowd that night, but it still had all the usual suspects- hardened former punk rockers, wistful looking twenty somethings in their most beat up Doc Martens, and of course, a small army of guys suited in Giants & Niners gear running the pool table. There was however, directly across from our table, a peculiar set of two, sipping their drinks and semi-nervously asking each other foundational questions. It was, without a doubt, a first date.
The way they dressed signaled a few things to me. Most of all, they probably hadn’t been here before. The grungy, devil may care attitude of Zeitgeist was a great place to knock back a few pints with your boys while watching the Warriors throw it away, but I wouldn’t exactly meet a potential partner here for the first time. She was in a powder blue maxi dress with vintage Reebok sneakers, with a leather jacket draped over her chair, the kind that has become a non-negotiable among city girls across the nation. Her ink-black hair was disheveled, but in a deliberate way that nudged toward ‘put together, but fun.’
He dressed, like many men I have spotted on first dates in San Francisco, decidedly less interesting. He wore jeans. Probably from Levi’s, probably on sale, and probably the pair he wore on every first date he went on. There is no shame in this. In a world where almost nothing is promised, looking good in jeans is one of the few things that is. He layered a Portola Festival t-shirt with a light Arc’Teryx hoodie, two things that without a doubt tell you this guy does not play around when it comes to lo-fi house music. On his feet were Nike Killshots, a sneaker that has looked good, and always will, no matter what the guys at GQ tell you. Curiously, they were unlaced.
They stuck out like a sore thumb, but not in a bad way. It was more curious than anything, like seeing your favorite Vietnamese restaurant have diner food on the last page of their menu. (The homestyle scramble is always a knockout, by the way.) They chatted for nearly an hour, with some laughs here and there, a healthy amount of ‘oh wow’, and what I surmised as a genuine interest in each other. The only deeply awkward moment happened when he mentioned how much money he lost in FTX, which seemed to truly appall her for some reason.
Then, right at the start of halftime for the Warriors, the woman said she needed to go to the bathroom. As if on cue, the man scoots his chair, and announces he’ll go grab them another round as she’s away. With the man walking over to the bar, the woman throws on her leather jacket, grabs her purse, and carefully pushes in her chair. But instead of making her way to the bathroom, she instead casually, nonchalantly struts out the front door.
In my head, that familiar ringing was going off, the one that inspired this column: you just don’t see that anymore.
The man makes his way back to the table with a pitcher. My friends don’t really notice what’s going on. They’re enthralled by the fact that Zeitgeist’s kitchen is open till 11, and the fact that they do sliders here, too. I turned my head, and whatever subtlety I had in eavesdropping their initial date was over. I was now mirroring those who worked at National Geographic: I sat fascinated, simply observing a situation that had me enthralled, unable to look away.
At first, he looked around, just a bit puzzled. The leather jacket on the chair was gone, but maybe she just took it with her, he probably thought. A few more minutes passed. I was snapped out of my trance for only a second- halftime was over, it was the start of the third quarter for the Warriors at Chase Center. The game was beginning to go our way, but my neck kept naturally careening to my left. He checked his phone, then put it away. Almost immediately, he checked it again. He had that blank stare of someone looking at a home screen with zero notifications, a face that was illuminated by the blue light of an iPhone he probably met this girl through. After a few moments, I believe it hit him. He threw his hands up in the air, laughed, and said “well, fuck me I guess.” He paid for his drink, left the pitcher at the table, and hurriedly walked out the door, not acknowledging anyone or anything on his way out.
There is both a tragedy and a beauty to all this. There is an obvious reaction here: how could she do that! How disrespectful! What is the world coming to! And you’d be right, in a way. It is neither kind nor polite, two pillars of the foundation that Western dating standards have been built on. But it is much more important than that- it is honest. A brutal truth, to be sure, but there is without question something in that brutality that is freeing.
I found this same honesty, one that is merciless, but never rude, in the front seat of my family’s Toyota, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with my father behind the wheel. It appeared, steeled and hardened, as my father asked me how I was doing.
Recently, my partner and I decided to go our separate ways. We spent a genuinely magical few years together, ones where I learned to fall in love with the world again, alongside the love I had for her. In the few days after the break-up, I replayed a million different scenarios, a million alternative realities, an endless sea of what-if. On a drive with my dad, I explained to him the in’s and out’s of why we broke up. He slowed down the car, then came to a full stop.
‘Can I tell you something?’ He asked me with his trademark gruffness. He peppered in ‘and I don’t want you to be mad.’ I nodded. After a whole 30 minute extravaganza of explaining to him why we went our separate ways, my father had an extraordinarily simple reply to me: ‘She just didn’t want you anymore.’
A few moments passed. I sat in the car, silent, speechless.
Then, something incredible happened. Those millions of what-if’s suddenly poured out of my brain, rapidly exiting like a firehorse of mental real estate. The sheer force of what my father said, the brutal honesty of his words, freed me.
I was not mad, like he worried about. I was deeply grateful. It’s a long journey getting over a break-up, but his words were a rope that pulled me out of a hole I was fairly sure I myself dug. My father, who put down railroad tracks in Siberia & slung watches in Cyprus to afford a ticket to America, simply does not have time for anything but the truth. So when he sees me spiraling, he speaks up- even if his words are, on initial impact, like a freight train.
I had a stupid, cheesy smile on my face for most of the day after our drive. I laughed with him, more than I remember laughing with my dad for a long time. After being in the car, I felt refreshed.
To my dear friend at the bar, I hope that you are keeping your chin up, and your Nike Killshots unlaced. Life goes on, as it always does. You never know- the next pitcher you buy at Zeitgeist could be for your wife, or at the very least, a girl who isn’t shocked to hear you lost all your money in crypto.
