Welcome to San Francisco, Fool

Everyone has a story from their lives that when they tell it, it comes across as unbelievable or full of hyperbole.  But of course, that’s why they tell it — because it was so completely bonkers.

For my cousin, it was the time he was at a rest stop and he heard a guy in the next stall pee for — minimum, he claims — 120 seconds straight. My friend tells a story about the time his dad was about to (accidentally) hit a deer on an icy road when the animal lept over the entire car like Jackie Chan.

For me, it was the time I went into San Francisco with my older sister and we saw an extremely dedicated Mr. T impersonator threaten to beat the shit out of two businessmen who lied to him about the price of their Arby’s roast beef sandwiches.

This was 1988. Maybe 1989. I was about 13. My sister was 21.  We were new to the Bay Area and had decided to take BART into San Francisco to explore. Ah, yes, we thought. This will be a day full of culture and beauty in one of our nation’s most beloved cities.

Being young and dumb (and from Ohio), we really had no idea where to best experience this, so we took a stab in the dark and decided to get off at the Civic Center BART station. Our logic was as follows: the station has “Center” in its name which must mean it's in the “center” of the action, the perfect place to start our exploration. Genius!

It wasn’t genius. We exited the BART station and were met by a largely desolate plaza. Everything was gray. The sky, the buildings, the benches. There were hardly any people around. Those present appeared to be having a pretty rough Sunday.

“Hmm,” I remember saying to my sister, sensing that something was off. “I don’t hear any cable cars…”

We’d brought a city map but even we knew enough to not unfold it in the middle of the sidewalk. We found the nearest eatery — Arby’s — to regroup and make sense of our predicament.

It was lunch time but, like the neighborhood we’d decided to explore, the Arby’s we’d chosen was barren. We ordered our food, sat at a table near the registers and began to rethink our plans for conquering the city. Should we spring for a taxi and ask the driver to take us to Pier 39? But how much would that cost? What if it costs, like, twenty bucks?

“Shit,” my sister said, something she’d never say in front of our parents. “I mean, I guess we could just keep walking?" She stood to get her bearings. "I think Pier 39 is--"

She never finished her sentence, because that’s when Mr. T entered the Arby’s.

Not the real Mr. T — a guy who clearly idolized him.  Built like a Venice Beach muscle head. He wore camo pants and a tank top. A denim vest. Of course, he had a mohawk and a slew of gold chains. And, most jarringly, he moved and spoke exactly like the genuine article.

My sister and I were dumbstruck. Did this sort of thing just happen in San Francisco? Not-the-real-Mr. T approached the two businessmen sitting near the window. Instinctively, my sister and I held our breath so that we might hear the conversation.

“How much is that sandwich?” not-the-real-Mr. T asked.

I don't know why, but one of the men said, “25 cents." The pair giggled but not-the-real-Mr. T took them at their word. He walked up to the counter, ordered the sandwich, and the cashier told him the actual cost.

“What,” he shouted, perplexed and enraged. “What!”

At first I thought he was unhappy with Arby’s for daring to sell their sandwiches at a sensible price. But no.  I quickly understood that not-the-real-Mr. T was actually pissed at the two businessmen who'd lied to him.

He turned toward the men in the booth. If this were a western, a ball of tumbleweed would have blown across the floor. I was only 13 but I knew: shit was about to go down.

I looked at my sister. “Should we run?” I asked. I pictured us bareling past not-the-real-Mr. T, out the door and back onto the BART train.

“No,” my sister said. Perhaps she knew that this was no time to call attention to ourselves. Or maybe she wanted to see the chaos unfold.

Not-the-real-Mr. T stomped towards the two businessmen, who were no longer giggling.

“I pity the fool,” not-the-real-Mr. T shouted, getting closer and closer to the men. “I pity the fool who lies to me!”  (I have been accused of making up this bit of dialogue. I did not.)

In all the excitement, I sort of forget exactly what happened next. I believe the manager came out from behind the counter and not-the-real-Mr. T was escorted out of the restaurant, leaving the two men momentarily unpitied.

My sister and I left a short time later. Did we give up and go home? Did we persevere and make it to Pier 39? I don't know. The last thing about that day I do remember was seeing not-the-real-Mr. T sitting on a cold concrete bench outside the restaurant, hungry and patiently waiting for the two fools who lied to him.

I hope they're OK.