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For the Love of Geddy Lee
A block off Bay Street (which does not, in fact, run along the bay) and at the end of a dead-end street is a coffee shop. If you didn't know it was there, you'd never find it. It's not the kind of place where you can find tourists. It is, however, a favorite hangout for the aging survivors of the underground movement of the 1980s.
A former tenement, the building had been the home of counter-culture wanderers from beatniks to hippies. After a fire gutted the first two levels, the building stayed (mostly) empty and run-down through the 70s.
In 1983, before the real estate bubble, the place was bought cheaply and converted into a dance club called "The Roach Motel." However, by the close of the decade, it'd become a mostly-empty dive bar.
The bar closed in 1994, and stayed closed for the next four years, despite changing ownership six times.
In 1998, it was bought by Fran "Mimsy" Mimble and renamed "Kafka's." She moved the bar downstairs and redid the main floor in a 50's soda-shop motif. That combination, a wholesome upstairs and a sleazy downstairs, has kept the place afloat since.
Downstairs at Kafka's features live music every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. The best-kept secret of the San Francisco music scene is Fran's band, "Mimsy and the Borogoves," which plays live every Friday night while dot-com millionaires sip cappuccinos and dine on over-priced fish.
This particular Friday found Jake Cisneros sitting at the bar, bobbing his head to the Borogoves' rendition of "All the Way From Memphis," and attempting to get a sip of his "Bora-Bora Boff," Kafka's infamous blend of Vodka, Rum, coconut milk, cranberry juice and seltzer. The digeratti flowed around him, spouting acronyms and looking resplendent in their goatees and Birkenstocks. Tech lingo was something Jake felt he would never get used to.
It had been six months since he had transferred from the Chicago P.D. to the S.F.P.D.'s Homicide division. The establishment hadn't taken kindly to the 28 year-old detective, often stating, conveniently in his earshot, that he was too young. And while the force may not have accepted him yet, he was definitely growing to like San Francisco. His first week there, after a trying few days with his new partner LaTasha Jones, he encountered Chris Ford, an oddball character if ever he had met one. Most detectives do the nightshift when they have to, but Ford specifically requested the nightshift, and worked it for the last eight years without complaint.
But, as strange as Ford was, Jake found himself engrossed in Ford's talk of ghosts and demons and a plague of the supernatural that haunted the City. His second month in the city, he accompanied Ford on a "EVP expedition," which consisted of buying a new tape recorder and some blank tapes, and heading out to a graveyard to record the voices of ghosts. Skeptical, but still curious, Jake wandered around, dutifully pointing his recorder at various headstones in the quiet evening air. Later that night, over two cups of Sumatran, they listened to the tapes and Jake almost fell off his chair when he heard, clearly and without doubt, the general noise of an old-west tavern. Since then, Ford has taken him on three "investigations," but none as wild as what he saw this afternoon in Mrs. Swanson's apartment.
After failing, for the fourth time, to get at the tiny straw in his drink, Jake ripped the paper umbrella out and hurled it in a random direction. As he took the long sought-after taste of his Bora-Bora, he caught sight of the umbrella slowly descending through the air, Mary Poppins style, into the cleavage of a blonde at one of the tables. Yet another faux pas for the social savage.
"You gotta stay young man, you can never grow old!" belted Fran. This was the first time Jake had gotten to hear them perform, despite having known them for over a month. Fran was an excellent singer, somewhere between Janis Joplin and K.D. Lang. Their drummer, who everyone seemed to refer to as "Banana," was equally as talented, whether he was driving through the hard, southern rock of Mott the Hoople, tapping his way through a Bauhaus cover, or tinging out slow rhythms on one of their power ballads. Mitch Wright, who played a mean guitar despite looking like "Booger" from "Revenge of the Nerds", was in full motion, hopping from one side of the stage to the other. The Borogoves had a keyboardist, Karen, but she was in Seattle at the moment. Karen had a day job and often traveled from one techie conference to another.
The Borogoves were rounded out by the bass playing of none other than Christopher Ford, and Jake had to admit that he was very good. Ford had often boasted of his incredible bass playing talents, but Jake just brushed it off as bravado.
"No, really," Ford had told him at the station one late night. "I used to date Johnette Napolitano."
"Get out of here," Jake told him. "You're so full of shit."
"I kid you not man, she taught me everything," Ford continued. He had a habit of delivering every line he said completely deadpan, so you never knew if he was being sarcastic or telling you the truth. "We were in bed the night she came up with the lyrics for 'God is a Bullet.' Couldn't find a pencil so she wrote them down on my back with an eyeliner."
"You dated Johnette Napolitano?"
"Yeah."
"You're so full of shit."
The audience clapped as the Borogoves finished "Memphis" with the cliché banging of the drums and guitar and bass thumps. Fran thanked them all for coming and hoped they enjoyed their dinner and reminded them to tip their waitresses, then the band headed off to take a break.
"Well?" Ford asked, pulling Jake over to a table and sitting down. "What'dja think?"
"You're surprisingly good. I still don't believe you about Johnette Napolitano, but you're actually very good. The band sounds great."
At that moment a curvaceous redhead in a tissue-thin, silk oriental dress appeared. As she headed over from the bar, Jake caught a glimpse of the tops of her black thigh-highs through the slits on the sides of the dress. She puckered her lips in Ford's direction as she pulled the thin, black purse off of her shoulder.
"You mind if I sit down?" She purred, already oozing into the chair.
"Not at all," Ford said, leaning back in what Jake assumed was Ford's "I'm cool" affected manner. "Did you enjoy the show?"
"Absolutely. You're very good Mr.?"
"Ford. Christopher Ford. Like Bond, but with an F and an R."
The redhead laughed politely and leaned onto her elbows, running the tips of her black fingernails down her cheek.
"I love a good bass player," she said. "How long have you been playing?"
"Oh years," Jake interrupted, before Ford had a chance to reply. "He is very good. He used to date Geddy Lee you know. Learned everything from him."
The redhead leapt back in her chair as if someone had just slapped road kill on the table. She made a noise that sounded like "uch" but with more H's, and grabbed her purse. As she jumped to her feet she glared from Jake to Ford and back again.
"I'm so frickin' sick of San Francisco," she said as she stormed off. Ford's expression and posture never changed as he stared at Jake. Cisneros swallowed a hard gulp of his drink and looked around for someone else to go talk to.
"Don't worry," Ford said. "There's too many witnesses to kill you here."
"So," Jake said, trying to change the topic. "How about this afternoon? Pretty wild, eh?"
"Yup," Ford replied, taking a sip of his beer. "Pretty wild. Good thing I'm on the force or it would have taken me days to get my van back."
"Oh, of course," Jake agreed, hoping Ford was genuinely changing the subject. "Can't be without the Misery Machine."
"So tomorrow," Ford continued. "I got this guy in San Rafael who does past live regressions."
"Yeah?"
"Says he's got an eleven year-old girl who describes playing a lyre on a Roman rooftop while the city was on fire. You interested in coming?"
"Sure."
Ford nodded, took a sip from his beer and headed back up to the stage.
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