OB for me means BK Printing. I need fliers made for a preview of my up-and-coming Schindler Story. I do look forward to this Jewish Mexican. His name is Salomon. And since Ocean Beach's locals are rough around the edges, what better place to be than today. I have always been rough around the edges, but now know how to smooth them out.
I said good-by to the Monsoons of August and hello to a northwesterly wind. Not a cloud in the sky, but wait, since the August sun would cream my bald spot. I needed an umbrella so I bought one on Newton Street after a breakfast at the popular eatery, the Old Town Restaurant.
I had taken the #35 Ocean City bus out of old town. Most of the riders were domestics going to their jobs at Arby's, Big Mac's or one of the hotels along the way. The bus was full. Three forty five year-old's were playing can you top this. They acted like kids inside grownup attire. The #35 ended up on Cable Street where I got off.
The previous day, I had danced with a lovely green-eyed Mexican with blond hair. I met her at the Balboa Park Ballroom and we hit it off. We liked the same movies and enjoyed dancing. So with a beautiful day it was perfect to go to my favorite print shop.
All of the tables had been taken over by heavy local eaters. Each crammed the hash browns or hot cakes into their eager mouths while I took a stool by the counter. My appetite was hefty after the two hours of dancing the day before. In fact, I never felt so good.
"Is that the special on the wall? Good. I will take it but make sure no milk is put on my scrambled eggs. And I want a lemon slice over my water."
"You sure you don't wish coffee?"
A young couple was pawing at each other. They also savored the food as well as each other. The Y was just up the street. Never have so many people enjoyed eating so much. Your could hear them mash the food. A young man next to me began a conversation. Not to bore you to death, I will sum up what he told me about Ocean Beach.
'My Dad, who is eighty five, used to fish for tuna. He and many other Italians had fishing boats out of Point Loma Landing. It is just up the street from us. The Navy enlisted their refrigerated crafts for the war effort in the Pacific...Many did not make it back...I grew up here and still dig for clams. Two blocks from here is the end of the San Diego River where it meets Mission Bay. Every week, I shovel up the clams from the sand bars."
"How do you cook the clams?"
'Just steam them and throw butter on top. The fishing license is $59 dollars each year. I don't surf but love to fish."
"Well what is your name? Bet you are about twenty five years old."
"No I am forty five with three kids. I live in Mission Bay. How old are you?"
"Well my birthday is in two days. I will be seventy five years of age."
'No way. You don't look a day past sixty."
'That is what my new green eyed friend told me. She wanted to know why I looked so young. I told her I was named after the son of Moses. Moses lived to be 120 years old. I told her my body resembled one in its thirties but my head does not lie. My eyes close at eight o'clock sharp."
Frank told me that all he fish are brought in from Mexico. He recommended a half day boat and a trip to Cabo San Lucus. He told me it was the most beautiful island in the world. The Aerospace engineer soon left after we exchanged cards.
From there I waked to BK's at the end of Newton Street and spoke with Solamon. I asked him to think about fliers for my book promotion. It was real hot and somehow, I knew meeting my green-eyed Mexican had something to do with spicing up Friday.
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