I think that is what it’s all about, or at least 50% of “it.” No one likes loss of agency. No one likes loss. This very early afternoon, did I not venture down the hill to Canyon Market? And there did I not hurl almost 1 pound of sea trout out of sight and out of mind? 

Out of mind would account for a lot of this anecdote. But not all of it. First, there is the sense that life is slip sliding away. The more you near your destination…. No, let’s not blame Paul Simon. Anyway, I had gone down to Canyon to buy a few odds and ends. One always needs a few of these. That’s what life is about. An odd bit of this, the last bit of that, and so it goes. I always go to Canyon because that’s what there is to do. Yes, I can achieve higher purposes and do finer things. But is there a finer thing than this…confirming that the outside world exists? And having a contact with my fellow Glen Parkians in our San Francisco neighborhood? No. There is nothing finer.

So, equipped with a modest shopping list, I set off. A modest list and a higher purpose. After all, I have decided that I am going to save Cup. Yes, the redoubtable café is in new hands. Sam, the proprietor for as long as I can remember, has withdrawn from the field. Retired. Probably under pressure from his wife and/or children. But he’s gone. And on the way out the door, let me put it out, he had a stroke. But that is neither here nor there. You get the idea. It’s not Sam’s business anymore.

But it’s my business to make sure that Cup is a clean, well-lighted place, welcoming and full. The latter is most important, Gentle Reader. You are aware that San Francisco is a troubled place. We have had a precipitous drop off in business of all kinds. Including the café variety. So, my fear is that the only café that even attempts to serve lunch in this neighborhood is about to go out of business for good. But I digress.

Cup is not exactly on a beaten track. Well, that’s not true. Plenty of people beat tracks past Cup on a good day. But San Francisco hasn’t had a good day in many a day. The pandemic. Honestly, there’s nothing else to say but COVID-19. When the high-tech workforce permanently retreated indoors, it no longer meant anything to have a café situated foursquare on a major route to the local subway station. BART at one point lost 90% of its ridership. And that number has since improved to about 60%. Which isn’t enough. Cup, always around the corner and slightly out of sight of the commuting crowd anyway, was dealt a mortal blow.

Enter Jaime and Veronica. They are the new owners. And along with their daughter, Cup is in their hands. And having taken on the task of helping them, it feels like it’s partly on me. Which is OK. I need some responsibility.

As for the fish, well that was a modest responsibility. So modest that it didn’t feel like much of anything. But, I don’t know…hate to say this, to blame anomalies of my own psyche on the weather…but the summer foggy greyness does get me down. Anyway, I had made a preemptive strike on Cup, notifying Jaime that I was going to write an article on his opening in the Glen Park News, hurtled on to Canyon, hitting the bagels, dairy and fish departments…. And while checking back with the bagel toasting department…realized that the sea trout, formerly on my lap amid price tag and butcher paper…had disappeared. 

I made a quick stop at the bagel toasting department, determined that I had not left the fish on the counter, returned to dairy…and was interrupted en route by the appearance of a small brown package directly under the chocolate coconut shelf. Yes, I had spotted it. And how did I lose it? The way I lose everything. All these items, milk, cottage cheese, sea trout, depend on a certain friction between wrapper and blue jeans to remain on my lap. The back up being the central nervous system which, in my case, makes my right arm an inefficient barrier against gravitational slippage, a situation compounded by the lack of skin sensation.

So off it went, sliding from lap to floor, without my knowledge. But let us rejoice in the human capacity for resilience and recovery. Damned if I didn’t spot the thing. And the moral: next time give in and use a fucking plastic shopping basket. Just like everyone else.

One has to laugh. Unless one doesn’t, and in this case my generally reliable sense of humor tends to vanish. Slip sliding away. That’s what it feels like. Losing track of fish. Not good. But not that bad. At least, today.