I went out tonight. First time in so long, I can’t remember when. It was a strange experience, more nightmarish than daydream. It was another vain attempt to find something to do in this town.

I’ve been pacing around for most of the week. I’m feeling the walls of this house close in around me. It’s been seven months since I left Chico, good ol’ Chico, my beloved town. I’ve tried to think otherwise, but tonight, once again, proved to me just how much of a shit-hole the Bay Area is, particularly Hayward.

I wanted to go out last night. I talked myself into it, and out of it several times before finally settling on staying home again. “You can’t afford to go out, Tom” I told myself. “Wait until tomorrow. If you still HAVE to go out, do it on a Saturday night. Saturday should be the most active night of the week. Right?” I thought. Yeah, right.

I woke up today with that feeling again. The same feeling I had living in that huge, empty two-bedroom apartment by myself, after Cindy left me. Back then I hated to come home from work. I would stay out past midnight, every night, putting off the inevitable. Once inside I would feel… dread. I’d feel shortness of breath, dizzy. “I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here!” I’d tell myself. I couldn’t sleep in my bed. I’d try the floor, the computer room, the couch in the front room, the recliner on the balcony. I’ve been feeling this all day, today. I have to get out of here.

At 6pm I walked upstairs to the kitchen. Dad was eating soup and sandwich, Mom was boiling another stinky artichoke. I opened the refridgerator door and stared at it’s contents for a good long while.

“If you don’t know what you want to eat, you’re not hungry,” my mother said to me. I always hated when she said this. The rumbling in my stomach tells me I’m hungry. I know I’m hungry. I’m 33 years old, I think I know when I’m hungry.

“I’m going out,” I announced.

“Where are you going?” my mother asked.

“Out.” I said, with finality.

I walked downstairs without saying a word. I grabbed my essentials–wallet, keys, cellphone, pocketknife–and left. I didn’t know where I was going, really. I had some vague idea. There’s only one place in Hayward worth trying–downtown.

Downtown Hayward is a place devoid of feeling, atmosphere, energy. It’s been cleaned up in recent years, so anything old has pretty much been replaced. There are a few liquor stores, bars, and a shit-load of antique shops. Oh, and a gay bar—I found that out tonight—but more on that later. The oldest buildings, the ones that actually had, you know, character, have been torn down and replaced by the obligatory Starbucks, Coldstone, and Subway shops. It sucks. It reeks of Suburbia, and yet is not.

Downtown has its share of dead-end bars. You know the type, I’m sure. The ones with 70s nostalgia on the walls, the ones with ancient old folks ready to kick, the ones with the scatterbrained hags with the raspy voices drinking their vodkas and gins. I walked in to one tonight and the placed reeked of cigarette smoke, still, all these years after the state of California outlawed smoking in public buildings, particularly bars and restaurants. I walked in and Hag told me in her raspy voice, “Sit down, kid! Lemme buy you a beer!” which was followed by a long bout of phlemy coughing. She pinched my butt. I turned to walk out of the bar, and I could hear the patrons laughing, presumably at me.

Downtown does, however, have two marginally cool spots to hang out. One is Buffalo Bill’s Brewery, one of the oldest brewpubs in California. It used to be a scummy dive bar with sawdust floors and crappy furniture. The remodeled it ten years ago (I think) and now it’s a yuppie joint. The other place, much more my style, is The Bistro.

The Bistro is a cool little place on the corner of B street and something. They have an excellent selection of micro brews. Tonight they had my beloved Sierra Nevada Bigfoot on tap. This is a brew not to be trifled with. Actually, it’s not a beer or ale, it’s a barleywine. It’s quite potent—nearly 10% alcohol. To put things in perspective, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale is around 5%, and Coors Light is around 3%. It’s definitely a sipping drink. The Bistro also has music every night of the week. Tonight’s guests were a bluegrass band called “The Circle R Boys”. I happen to like bluegrass, so I stayed to check it out.

My first pint of Bigfoot went down rather fast. It was early—only 8pm—so I took a walk while the band set up. I stepped outside and was rewarded with the most unusual scenes of whimsy. I could hear a CRACKing sound, like little firecrackers around the corner. Standing in the middle of the street was a 20ish year old girl dressed in black with a bullwhip. She was crying out to her imaginery friend, all the while swinging her whip around her head and letting it CRACK! out every so often. “Carly!” she cried. “Carly, you get back here!” I looked at the couple standing next to me, watching this scene unfold—they just shrugged. I moved on.

My stomach growled, and I even though I didn’t know what I wanted to eat, I knew I was hungry. I looked for somewhere to go. Down the street, across Mission Boulevard, I saw the familiar neon sign that read, “Hof Brau” in bright pink. This place has been here forever. I remember my mother driving us past this place on the way to our grandparent’s house when I was a kid. I always thought hof brau was a funny name. I still don’t know what it means. I looked through the wall of windows and saw a few people sitting at a table, chatting with the cook and I guess the waitress. No thanks.

Further down the street I walked, still looking for a place to satisfy my hunger. I passed a small corner park, and tried not to make eye contact with the rough-looking street punks yelling at each other and pushing each other around. Still further I walked, and finally came across a hole in the wall that sold pizza by the slice. I ordered some pepperoni and walked outside, sitting down on one of the benches. It was terrible. Ahhh, what I wouldn’t give for a slice of Franky’s pizza…

A homeless man walked by and asked, “Hey, did you play football? I mean, because, you’re a big man. You know what everyone needs? I’ve really been thinking about this. Everyone needs toilet paper, right? Now, stay with me, stay with me. Some say that soap is made out of camels. Camel soap, yes. Right?”

What the fuck is this guy talking about? He took a drag off his cigarette and continued.

“What if we took all the negative energy in this world and harnassed it? Know what I mean, brother? All the camels, all the toilet paper… ahhh! Hahahaha! You see where I’m going with this, don’t you? I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m not from around here. Today I saw this snail on the sidewalk, you know? You see that tree?”

This went on for a few more minutes. I finished my pizza slice and thanked him for his time, and continued on with my journey. As I walked away he assured me that he wasn’t a bad man.

The worst slice of pizza in the world churned in my stomach. I’m sure the band was playing by now, but my exploration of Downtown was not yet complete. I walked past the Green Shutter Hotel, and heard glass breaking upstairs and a couple screaming at each other. A young man sat on his balcony overlooking the boulevard, smoking a joint. Downstairs I saw a door leading to a bar with techno music playing. A sign read, “DANCING” in big white letters. I thought maybe, just maybe, some kids from the college might be hanging out inside, so I walked in.

I took a seat at the bar and settled in. The bartender came by and spoke with that unmistakable lisp. I swivled in my seat to face the rest of the bar. How come there aren’t any women in this bar? A man with ass-less leather chaps walked by. Ah ha. Yes, I’ll be leaving now.

I headed back to The Bistro. It was almost 9pm. I figured that by now, the stretch of real estate between Buffalo Bills and The Bistro had to be more lively—but I was mistaken. I simply could not believe how utterly DEAD this area was for a Saturday night. Nothing. I mean just nothing. I sighed and let the funk come back over me. I walked inside and ordered another Bigfoot.

The band was playing some old Buck Owens tune. Actually, these guys were pretty good. The sound system was terrible so I took at seat and the end of the bar, closer to the stage. From this spot I could watch the bass player and observe his skill and technique. Back in the day I used to play the bass. I picked up a crappy Fender electric bass while I was in Japan, and I would jam with my roommates. I was never very good, but it was fun. To this day I still pick out the basslines in songs I listen to. And when I go to see bands play I always watch the bass player. This bluegrass bass guy was playing a big upright bass, and he was pretty good.

Bass players don’t get enough respect. It’s always the lead guitar player or the lead singer that gets all the attention. Where would the band be without the bass? It’s the backbone of the band–particularly in bluegrass bands. There is no percussion (drums) in bluegrass music, so it falls upon the bass player to keep time and set the pace. Of course there are exceptions—Paul McCartney, Les Claypool, and Geddy Lee—but for the most part bass players just don’t get their due.

This is definitely not Long Beach or Chico. Man, what I wouldn’t give to be living in either one of those places right now. Where are the beautiful SoCal people? Where are the young college kids? The Bistro was filled with creepy old men and 40-something year old couples. An attractive woman walked in and ordered a glass of wine, and sat down at a table by herself. Logic, or perhaps experience, told me that her boyfriend/husband was probably parking the car and would be along soon. A man wearing a shirt that read “I’m Cuban, baby” promptly sat down and tried to make conversation with her. I could not hear what they were saying over the music. He frowned at her, flitted his hand, and walked away. Another man took a shot. He too, crashed and burned. Yet another man tried his luck. And then her boyfriend walked in the door. An argument ensued. The two men “took it outside”.

I’ve had enough. I finished my beer and thanked Graham, the bartender. He asked me to come back next Thursday night because a reggae band was playing. Perhaps he thought I didn’t like bluegrass? I didn’t care.

So now I’m home. I wasn’t even gone for 4 hours. I feel somewhat better that I tried to find something to do here. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if all my friends that still lived in the area weren’t married with kids and I had someone to kick it with? Perhaps. All I know is that Hayward isn’t for me.

I gotta get out of here.