Being on something of a blog roll concerning urban life and times, well why not keep rolling?

A lot of wonderful things can happen at the oneg that follows Shabbat services. Eating figures prominently. But today I tried to downplay that in favor of just a little bite or two, maximum conversation and, because someone offered, yes a little drink of what I thought was probably actual wine, not grape juice. First, let me be clear. I am not much of a drinker. And that I am so little of a drinker that it didn’t even remotely occur to me that the little plastic cuplet contained slivovitz, a plum brandy that is somehow traditional among Jews. But less traditional at 11:45 in the morning.

Not to worry, and that was exactly what I was doing, worrying less and less as I got ever slightly high and had this wonderful chat with various people from the congregation.

One of them suggested that I get in touch with Chesa Boudin, San Francisco’s former district attorney who was recalled for, let us be plain, doing his job. But I won’t go into that. He has landed, quite fortunately, at UC Berkeley. And yes, I will volunteer to speak to his classes about restorative justice and similar topics. What is restorative justice? Well, it’s what happens to you after 50 years as a crime victim…and you decide that, what the hell, better be effective in the crime prevention arena. Just thought I would share.

On to Manny’s. This is a promising San Francisco institution, newish, and I have blogged about it before. It is a café. A neighborhood forum for community and political discussion. And purveyor of fairly reasonable snacks and lunch treats. Remind me not to order the avocado toast again. I am opposed, deeply opposed to arugula. In this I am also alone. Everyone likes arugula.

Well, I had seen a very enticing coffee drink being served in a small glass, ordered one, and was just getting on to the food, when something happened. Don’t be paranoid, I told myself. Yes, be paranoid, I decided. Because my wheelchair was doing its rug thing.

Wheelchairs are surprisingly powerful. Well, they are surprising to me. But consider what mine has to do. Let’s start with the San Francisco hills. In fact, let’s start with going up hills anywhere. This requires power. Which requires torque. And it is the latter that tends to scoop up anything loose under the front-wheel-drive tires. Such as the very attractive Persian carpet under foot, or under wheel, at Manny’s. 

But there’s more. As a carpet gets innocently scooped up, usually folding accordion style behind the advancing wheels, it encounters something else. The spike, Jane calls it. And this is a good name. In reality, it is not so much a spike as a bolt. This is what slots into the van when we drive somewhere. It holds the wheelchair in place. And thereby, holds me in place.

As for the Persian carpet, reams of it were getting rolled against the bolt. And there it stuck. It took two members of staff, two patrons and about 10 minutes of hard labor to extract carpet from wheelchair. Manny’s staff were, no other word, wonderful. And I was only mildly chagrined. Anyway, I had my toast. Drank my coffee. And noticed someone proclaiming nearby. About how this was Shabbat. About how he went to my synagogue. So, on the way out, I made it a point to wish him Shabbat shalom.

What ensued was rather curious. He told me his name. He spelled his name. He asked for mine. First name. Last name. He said he had never seen me at the synagogue. I forced a smile. Well, I said…strange vibes emanating from the man and from the situation…guess I’d better be….. He told me where he was from. Rockport, Illinois. R-O-C-K-P-O-R-T. He also spelled Illinois. I forced another smile. I checked my watch then remembered I wasn’t wearing one. Well, I said again, this time eyeing the door. He told me his address on Turk Street. T-U-R-K. Have to rush, I told him. He was still talking as I headed for the BART subway station at 16^th St. The route to the latter, as I often describe, takes one through the fourth canto of Dante’s Inferno. At least I knew that on the way there would be many things, but not a spelling bee. At least not yet.