By Walter Moore
23 July 2004

The Metro Yellow Line is chugging north from where I boarded it with the shiny-tennis-shoe tourists at the King Street Station. We are crossing the Potomac, and I am flipping a coin, heads yes, tails no.

L'Enfant Plaza: tails.

Archives/Navy Memorial: heads. I bail out here and take the short escalator up into the light.

I use the random method a lot when travelling on a day off. Flip a coin, spin some keys, pull a card (make each suit represent a different point of the compass). It makes me look in places I wouldn't normally think of going.

Well, this part of 7th St. NW is hardly exotic. I smell good smells coming out of the Footnotes Cafe at Olsson's and stop to read the menu. A lady in a sunhat pops out of the door and sees me there:

"It's really good, you should try it!"

"I'm thinking I will."

"It's a little pricey though... but good."

"I live in Old Town Alexandria. These prices are nothing to me!"

That didn't come out right. I meant, these look like fair prices for a change, not that I was old money without a care in the world.

I go inside, put my newspaper on a table, and stand behind a well-to-do-looking man at the register who is complaining that he gave them a five, not a one. The woman working there doesn't look so sure but gives him change anyway. I get my coffee, turn around, and find out that the guy swiped my paper on his way out.

The sandwich is good though.

—

I just decide to walk north until I get to Howard University. After a few blocks, I pass through Chinatown and then a deserted stretch next to a spooky gray monolith that looks like a full-size replica of something from a model train-set, all that's missing is dust-bunnies and dead insects.

It is a relief when I get closer to Howard and walk through the bustling intersections with brightly painted stores advertising things like "beer slush".

Up ahead the conversation all turns to Spanish as workers load and unload equipment at houses being remodeled.

I circle around some residential neighborhoods, then make my way back towards the center of town on 7th street again.

—

In the Warehouse Cafe drinking more coffee I learn that the Giant Gray Monolith across the street is in fact the Convention Center. I perch at the counter and play solitaire with the deck I carry in my pocket, and one by one people indendently come up with the comment:

"I didn't know anybody still played that with real cards."

Brian the bartender tells me about the acts they have at his cafe and in the space next door. One sounds especially interesting, Tracy and the Plastics. Tracy is a solo performer who has shot videotapes of herself as other members of the band, then projects them behind her as she plays. The projected personas even throw narcissistic stage-tantrums at each other.

I am thinking about trying one of Kitt's brownies, when a crew of kids burst in off the street yelling, "Hey, free potato chips, right?", and banging on the piano in the corner. Brian settles most of them down while I talk music with the piano player.

It all takes me back to working in that convenience store, or being a high school teacher, I can't remember which. Time to shove off and find a movie.

—

The drizzle starts as I walk past the City Museum of DC, a converted Carnegie Library with "Science, Poetry, History" carved above the door. I slide in and discreety wander some of the exhibits while I dry off.

The woman at the desk seems really friendly, she wants to know if I liked the exhibit, how long I have been in here, which door I came in, and how I got past her without stopping.

Turns out there is a $5 admission fee. I mug the face of innocence for the hidden cameras, mumble something about the rain, and while she is laughing at me I dodge back out into the wet world of no science, poetry, of history.

—

I haven't gone a block when the bottom falls out, and the streets turn into shallow creeks. I bolt across the street directly into the District Chophouse and Brewery.

I hunker up at the corner of the bar and fight off the chill of the air-conditioning with a sizzling Pretzel Dog Platter. On one side of me are four regulars commenting on security at the Olympics ("It might be like here, it might be one of the safest places you could be.") and the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona ("Imagine that bull's horn goin' up your—- OW."). On my other side is an empty seat in front of a plaque that says: "This spot is eternally reserved for David Niblack in memory of good stories, good beer, and most importantly a good friend."

One of the regulars is explaining why he's not buying another round:
"Because I don't have a JOB-ba. Because I QUIT-ta!"

It takes me a moment to realize that the friendly woman who has walked up to the bar is talking to me, that she is calling me "sir", and that she thinks I can get her a job here.

"Sir, I'm 63. I've done it all. I can cook, clean, anything you need."

"Maam, you don't look a day over 55. But I'm not the manager."

"Bless you, sir, that was kind of you to say that. But I'll tell you something— people today, they'll stand on a street-corner all day and deal drugs, but they won't wipe off one table at McDonald's."

"I guess you've got a point there..."

"Oh yes sir. Or they're too good too mop a floor, but they'll steal your car just like that." (snap.)

"Well, maam, I haven't stolen a car in months now..."

"Haha— that's funny. But me, I will work. You'll see. You won't be sorry."

About that time the real manager comes up. He seems to know her.

"Maam, I'm sorry, but I just can't let you hang out in here with no shoes on."

"Oh did I forget again?"

I look down. Under the hem of her floral print dress she has socks, but no shoes.

"I didn't wear shoes because I hate to get them wet on rainy days like today."

"I understand, maam, we just have these regulations and things we have to follow."

She shuffles out, still smiling and talking to everyone. I settle up my bill and walk outside. The hot sun feels good on my damp shoulders.