A Good Sacramento Sunday

Load up the baby bag.  Load up the kid. Load up the stroller.  Load up the coats.

One block north.  Five blocks west.  One block south.

Leave the stroller in the front.  Walk to the back.

One other couple laughing over white wine.  The Vikings just lost on the quiet flatscreen in the corner.

“How’re you all doing tonight?  Can I get you a menu?  It’s Happy Hour.”

“Oh, we know.  We came for the deep-fried garbanzo beans.  And a pitcher of IPA.”

Beans and beer arrive.  Other couple leaves.  Macaroni and cheese makes up for their absence.

Brrrrrringggg.  “Hello, Dad’s Kitchen.  No, we closed at five.  Sorry.  Thanks!”  Click.  “Oh, don’t worry about it, take your time—I’m here until 7:30 doing paperwork.  We’re usually open ‘til 8, but just decided to close early tonight.  Yeah, sure, you can take down the guitar or ukulele or banjo whenever you want.  We keep ‘em in tune, and it can get kinda rowdy in here some evenings.  You need another pitcher?”

3-month-old gurgles.  Manager counts cash.  Gurgles devolve to screeches.

Load up the baby bag.  Load up the kid.  Load up the coats.

Walk to the front.  Load up the stroller.

One block north.  Five blocks east.  One block south.


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