I think I like San Francisco.
Not just because I won at bingo at the Knockout Bar, the blackout game, the big game, the last game, and stepped up to the bar in my pigtails with my reddened card, before the woman in the elaborate sea-foam prom dress who made me say my name into the microphone and gave me two drink tickets and shined a black, police flashlight on the basket of prizes: fuzzy dice, fake dog poop, and told me to choose.
I chose the Jesus light night.
Not just because of the Jesus night light. Not just because of the whiskey sours. Not just because of Mission Street.
Because when I won, a cheer went up from the table. Because of the cheer. Because of the table. Because of the ones with whom I walked and sat at the table.
Because on the drive home, the DJ said: it is someone's birthday somewhere.
I think, I think, I think. It is going to be okay after all.
