(Image: "Candy Ass" by Robert Deyber from the artist's Web site.)
The rules of my pseudo-date with Sassy are as follows: (1) we're going to dress up; (2) we're both enjoying our blossoming friendship, so we're not going to force unwarranted romance upon it; (3) but if she starts quoting Shakespeare, especially Romeo and Juliet, I can't be held accountable for my subsequent behavior; and (4) if I start reciting T. S. Eliot (her favorite poet), all bets are off.
Dressing up was a prerequisite because we were planning to visit a number of downtown art galleries. So, at the very least, we should resemble a wealthy couple with enough disposable income to buy a few limited Picasso prints on a whim.
I tried to do away with the formal wear. I suggested she should come in whatever she felt comfortable (thereby reserving for myself the same sartorial liberty). But she would have none of it.
"Nails painted, discount shoes and coat purchased--I'm getting all dolled up, Dude," she emailed me back. "Do not disappoint!"
So that was that.
Poor Sassy had to pay dearly for the high society look. In the flurry of text messages that passed between us on our way to the rendezvous point, I found out she had to take a detour (quite possibly limping along) to a nearby drugstore to buy some band-aids because the new shoes were killing her feet.
But our efforts produced the desired impression. In one of the galleries, the director came out to greet us.
"So are you collectors?" he asked.
"Um, not quite," I replied.
"Just looking, but also thinking about maybe starting," Sassy added without missing a beat.
I have a feeling her theatrical background gives her the ability to deliver just about any line with conviction.
Fifteen minutes later, the director was guiding us to the gallery's main attraction, a large canvass titled "Landing Gear," showing a gear tied to a parachute, floating against the bright blue sky. It was an original piece by Robert Deyber, an artist who likes to play with puns in his titles.
"There's an art auction coming up," said the director. "Normally it's just for our clients, but we'd love for you to come. We'll treat you like VIPs."
I imagined us going to the event and inadvertently bidding on a limited edition Chagall print for $7,800 because one of us scratched his nose or rubbed her hair at the wrong time.
Going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman in the vest over there! Congratulations! Now, how would you like to pay for this, Sir? Can't afford? Made a mistake? What do you mean?
By the time we left, we were on the guest list to the gallery's special Spring Preview at the Nob Hill Marriott's glass-domed Stanford Court.
At Scala's Bistro, in the flush of its wine-colored walls (the proprietor calls it "Old World charm"), we stuffed ourselves with crab cakes served on hearts of palm and seared salmon on a bed of mashed potatoes, chive butter, and cherry tomatoes.
Then we took the elevator in the Sir Francis Drake hotel to the 21st floor to Harry Denton's Starlight Room, a cocktail lounge with a window view of the San Francisco Bay. As portrayed in the romantic comedy The Bachelor, the picturesque location has a reputation for inspiring surprise marriage proposals.
When I suggested the place, I said, "Don't worry. I'm not taking you there to propose to you."
In return, Sassy made it clear I'd be promptly rejected if I did.
Afterwards, not ready to call it a night, we decided to cross the street, march into the Westin St. Francis hotel, and ride the bullet-shaped glass elevator to the top floor. As we leaned against the handrail that framed the panoramic view, the elevator made its slow climb to the 32nd floor. The city got smaller as we rose higher. Downtown played peekaboo from below a blanket of fog with a million tiny, winking eyes. The flickering skyline made me think of:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets ...
Since the tabooed T. S. Eliot was responsible for these lines, I quickly swallowed them before they spilled out of my mouth.
When the elevator reached the top, Sassy randomly pressed a number of buttons on the panel to prolong the ride back down. The elevator began its descend, pausing at every third or fourth floor on the way.
Up we went and down we came, again and again.
We weren't getting anywhere. Yet, we were having the time of our lives.
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