Creatures of the night

I walked through downtown Los Gatos after dinner, 'round 8.45pm or so, to burn a little energy after pretty much sitting in front of a computer all day (...which I'm still doing, hmmm...). Yup, LG on a Monday evening in February.

The streets are pretty empty, no need to wait for a crosswalk signal. A bit of a chill wind to make me appreciate that wearing a jacket was a good idea. The Victorian and Craftsman houses on University are dark, their porch lights off, dim light showing in the front windows from families tucked away in the back rooms and bedrooms. The occasional car swishes by, Audis and BMWs and SUVs and one customized rice rocket for variety.

Walking past Carry Nations, there's a fellow out front with a buzz cut talking on a cell phone about coming home and finding the house trashed. It's only when I'm a couple steps past him--downwind--that I smell the alcohol from his breath.

Passing the row of restaurants, a look in the window reveals the repeated scenes of counting out the till, setting chairs on tables, wiping down one last time before going home.

The bike store's window display is disappointing: a Bianchi 928, nothing to write home about.

Last stop before heading home is Safeway. It takes no time at all to get what I need, but I can't help raising an eyebrow at the pair of fellows shopping in their pyjama bottoms--flannel, oversized, plaid. They're in front of me at the only checkout open, putting a few dozen cans on the belt while I stand there with a single, simple bag of frozen veg.

The time it takes the checker to start scanning the canned goods gives the young woman time to pipe up and mention her list of athletic accomplishments that should make it no surprise that she can lift a flat of water bottles onto her shoulder. Within a minute I'm being instructed that she was on the Jessie Owens track team in LA and won several medals. Frankly, I'm relieved when another checkstand opens and I can conveniently gallantly let her go first in the next line over.

It occurs to me that it's been a long time since I'd run into the Hill People, those who inhabit the little-known and less-visited corners of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I could understand the attraction of coming into town late on a weekday evening: little traffic, both in terms of cars and people in the aisles. Leaving the store, my athletic friend and her companion seem to be wrangling a teamster-worthy ratcheting tie-down in the bed of a pickup, presumably to make sure that their 24 bottles of water don't fly out the back.

And there I am, proud new owner of a bag of frozen veg, walking around Los Gatos at 9.45pm on a Monday night in black pants and white running shoes.