Sunday afternoon in San Francisco with St. Anthony
A short story, in two parts by: Drew Brandmeier
The following is based on what happened to me Sunday afternoon Sept. 9th 2008, between 11am and 4:30pm
"St. Anthony of Padua is the Patron Saint of Lost Things, and I was praying my ass off to him"-Mike Medeiros
Lost or stolen, this is the guy you would want to pray to when $5,000 of music equipment is missing.
PART I:
Having just finished our first show in San Francisco, (might I add to an amazing sold out crowd at the Red Devil Lounge) I was a bit sentimental the morning after. It was over before I could even tell you what was happening. A feeling like being in some kind of beautiful car wreck, or losing your virginity. At breakfast Mike, my self, Dave (percussion), and his girlfriend Erin, were enjoying a grease soaked pile of eggs and potatoes while browsing some of the many photos Erin had taken the night before. It's weird, one moment you're some guy on a stage singing and playing your heart out, sweating buckets and burning through all your mental energy, cut to the next morning sitting quietly at a packed restaurant talking about the perils of dating older women. From one to the next, these tiny explosions in your life, or moments, slip through your fingers before you can even get to hold them. However, what was about to happen to me, I am sure I will never forget.
Having eaten all the potatoes and eggs my stomach could handle we paid our check and slowly exited the New World Café on Polk between Pine and California. I only give the address as a warning to those who frequent the area. Although normal in appearance I guess my perception was totally off. Turns out that normal looking streets, in front of simple looking cafés, in the middle of the fucking day, in broad daylight, are constantly being patrolled by thieves. Who knew? As you have probably guessed by now we got back to our car, which by the way was two cars down from the front door of the very café we were eating in, and noticed that it was no longer containing our overnight bags and musical equipment that had only an hour ago occupied the back seats of Mike's rental car. This included Zach's 92' Telecaster Deluxe that I am borrowing, Timbales, all my effect pedals, cymbal bags, ipod, 14 channel mixer, FTP powered speakers, speaker stands, and our overnight bags. Now I know what you're thinking, "Drew why in your right mind would you leave gear in the back of a car with non-tinted windows?" I will ask you to re-read my erroneous perception of said street, located in the previous sentences. At the time I thought "I'm not lugging this shit into the Café that's the size of a goddamn shoebox, my freakishly large feet already have trouble fitting under the tables." But enough about natures sense of humor, because right then laughing was not on my list of things to do.
"You want to take a run around the block, see if we can spot the motherfuckers?" Mikes voice had a lot of confidence for someone who just got their ass handed to them, I admit it was contagious. "Let's do this" I said. Even though I was hobbled by late night extracurricular drunkard-ness from the night before (I hurt my knee), we took off. I went up Pine, Mike up California. 5 min into the search Mike calls my cell phone. "Drew, Drew get up on California I got a lead, I got a lead!!" Quickly I turned down the street heading the opposite way bounding up California like an asshole on my swollen knee. My mind was racing…did he catch the guy? What if he's beating the shit out of him? What if they're beating the shit of him? What it's something worse. Looking up California I could see him running weaving in and out of the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Like clockwork my cell rang. It was Mike on the other line keeping a steady pace while filling me in on the details. "A bum on the street had my razor and my cymbal bag. He told me a white guy had the rest of the gear and was headed up the street." My adrenaline soaring I doubled my pace. One leg or not I was feeling an ass whooping coming on. I must have looked like Forrest Gump in the scene where he has braces on his legs and he's running from his tormentors. Run Forrest! Run! Sure enough I passed a disheveled man wearing a gunny sack for pants eating chicken bones out of a shoebox while singing songs into a make believe microphone that appeared to be a shiny new Mach 3 razor. "That's the homeless man!" I exclaimed while hobbling by him belting out a rendition of Phil Collins "Pseudio". Mikes story had checked out, maybe luck was turning in our favor! Then I saw him, out of breath and just as lost as I was. The thieves were gone and so was our gear. Or was it? "Dum, Dum DAHHHHHHH!!!!!!" (que cheesy film noir music) Oh shit yo!