In the fourth grade, Dominick Montalero threw an uneaten chili dog at me. To be fair, “I” might not have been his target, but he lobbed it, hard, over the fence where we played kickball. My best friend Meghan and I had been taunting the boys. We had big, fourth grader crushes on a pair of best friends, Josh and Harry. In math period, I was caught by Ms. McLaren for passing notes to Meghan, perhaps an observation of Josh’s Wednesday attire, or a ploy to get his attention at recess. Like a proper disciplinarian, Ms. McLaren read the seized note out loud in front of the class. 

Josh and I are both wearing Etnies, it might have said, or maybe, what four-square court are they playing on at lunch? 

Did she really read it to the whole class? I’m not sure, that would have been a bit mortifying, maybe she read it outloud just to Meghan and me after the period had ended. The words of my secret note being vocalized by our teacher, embarrassment enough.

Despite the impression that our coy note passing might give, we were not part of the popular crowd. My feet were a size 8.5 by the time I was in the fourth grade, and my shoes were a size 9.5. I was still growing, and my mom didn’t want to buy multiple shoe sizes within a single calendar year. Meghan was Canadian. Her mom was stylish, so Meghan wore Vineyard Vines and Juicy, but she lacked the effortless ‘California Cool’ that was invisible, yet distinct, among our classmates.

The chili dog hit with impact. It was Dominick’s lunch, foil wrapped, and it must have been packed by his mom, because “Chili Dog” was not on our weekly hot lunch menu. Probably, after sitting in an insulated lunch box all morning, the chili dog was lukewarm, at best. The foil wrapped dog exploded when it hit my right shoulder, if you believe I can recall the incident with such a level of specificity. I was probably wearing an Old Navy t-shirt, or a sweater my grandmother knit (very chic, for a fourth grader, but not very cool). It doesn’t matter, an explosion of chili will stain anything. I stood there, shell-shocked, Meghan yelling at the boys across the fence, Look what you did to her! I like to think Josh gave me a look of sympathy. We’re telling Ms. McClaren! Meghan threatened.

Unfortunately, Ms. McClaren was not inclined to take our side in these matters; our note passing had put us on rocky terms. Plus, her own son, Evan, was in our fourth grade class. (Should this be allowed?) He wasn’t cool, either, but the crew of boys had to act like he was, so that Ms. McClaren had their back. There was clear evidence of the attack, my clothing, splattered with chili, Dominick, hungry for lunch. Her best offer at resolution was for Dominick to loan me his San Jose Sharks sweatshirt for the rest of the day. She gave him a pre-boxed lunch– cold ham sandwich, a carton of Producer’s chocolate milk, and a plastic wrapped apple. 

Needless to say, I have never felt much like part of the “in” crowd. And, when I have found myself in it, I have not felt much like myself.

—

In the Mission, there is a venue called Brick & Mortar. Their tagline is “Independent Venue, Major Sound.” One Friday night, I show up to catch the Major Sound of the night, a neo-psych funk band from the Sunset. The band’s last show was at the Outer Sunset Block party, on the last few blocks of Noriega Street near Gus’s Grocer, where I sometimes buy overpriced citrus and Point Reyes Original Blue cheese. The gig in the Mission is a first for the band. I deliberated on what to wear; I’m meeting my date and an unspecified number of his friends. There’s a damp chill, which the winter sun has not managed to break yet today, so I settle on a black turtleneck and dark grey denim. 

I’m overdressed, having forgotten that the venue, filled with dancing bodies, will be degrees warmer than the night outside. This concert hall on Mission Street, the 101 overpass roaring above us, is presumably a cool place to be. Once, even edgy. We are not from the Mission; we all know someone in the band, or someone, who knows someone, in the band. The dancing bodies have pre-planned to form a mosh pit, because that is what they do in the foggy block parties, on the other side of the city. I take my turtleneck off, when the mosh pit heats up, but I don’t know how to mosh.

Someone calls an Uber XL after the funk set, so that we can get home before the night becomes uncharacteristically late. Saturday mornings cannot be forsaken, activities must be commenced and broadcasted, the hours between now and Monday, when we will all log back into our jobs from the corners of apartment living rooms, will not go unused. 

—

On Clement Street, there is a venue called Neck of the Woods. Another Friday night, my friend pitches that we go to the hardcore lineup that’s playing – her housemate is lead singer for the headliner. Hardcore is a subgenre of punk (I fact checked that, just now), and it is not in my typical mix of genres. Spotify typically classifies me as “folk” or “pop”. We realize collectively that our wardrobes are also more folk than punk. I figure a collection of black leather – jacket, belt, boots – is the best chance I have at blending in. 

The hardcore show is an amendment to the evening. The original plan for the night was an Arguello Street Dinner Party, to which I would have worn baggy jeans and Blundstones. If this spring wind had picked up, I would have worn my mustard puffy jacket, too. The Blundstones would have been indistinguishable, amidst the pile at the door. The menu would include a main from our Millennial favorite, Alison Roman. I’ve been inspired by a Substack newsletter featuring a recipe for Cannoli Tiramisu. I have had a cannoli once in recent memory, and tiramisu, maybe twice. But I like the way it sounds, “Cannoli, Tiramisu”. 

I’m on familiar terms with the dinner party; hardcore, is out of my element. Upon arrival at dinner, I announce that despite my punk leather look, I might call it after the caramelized lemon chicken legs (Alison’s). By the time we spoon out the tiramisu, though, I’ve agreed to showing up at the punk show – the leather look, not for nothing.

We buy beers and a round of ear plugs for $1 at the bar. Does this make us look uncool? I ask. There’s a biker next to us, a real biker, not a cyclist. Tattooed calves, a fitted black hoodie, and a commuter bag slung cross body. His miles go unrecorded. There’s a group of teenagers in the middle of the room, they wear piercings and graphic tees from shows I’ll never recognize. In front of the stage, someone occasionally flings themselves into the mosh pit; it’s alive, we stand up on the couch from our corner of the room to get a better view. 

Wide eyed in our layman’s clothes, we cannot pretend to fit in here, but it doesn’t matter. The sets are short, to sustain the volume required, the pace, fast, to sustain the choreography of the crowd. It’s compelling. By the time the headliner comes on, we’ve seen three other bands. The lead singer calls out to my friend in the audience. Shoutout to my housemate, who is here at her first hardcore show! We are witness to the scene, if not a part of it. But that guy, who rides the wave of the mosh pit, where does he go, on a Monday morning? He wears a fox tail through the belt loop of his ripped black jeans. Who are these teenagers, when they enter the halls of George Washington High School? Or did they take CalTrain, from Palo Alto, Redwood City, Burlingame, to experience the real punk scene? I imagine the biker, on the BART from Oakland, fixie leaned up against the seat next to him. Where does he spend his hours?

—

I had to pause on social media recently. I heard a podcaster comment on the way social media feeds our persistent need to be in the attention of somebody. A constant source of reassurance, that we are part of the crowd. I felt overwhelmed amidst the circulation of details of so many people’s lives, details which are minute, and unsubstantial for knowing anybody. 

I ran up Cold Springs trail after an April morning rainstorm; blooms bordered the singletrack, yellow and purple. The air smelled faintly like the soap shop that used to be in the Capitola Mall. It might still be there, actually, but I haven’t been in over a decade. I write it here, not so that you might smell it; I write it here, so that I can remember it.

There are pools which I can slip into, unnoticed. I want to keep these hours to myself.