The Sourdough Wars

some guys tried to dive under them, and others got up to jump the gunman. In about half a second the scene was like a barroom brawl in a movie.
    Some guys, in their rush to get to the baddy, bashed into other guys, who responded by slugging them. Their buddies responded by slugging back. Forty or fifty different private fights seemed to have broken out at once. Someone went through the front window in an earsplitting smash of glass.
    Chris hit the floor as a chair fell against her. A guy with his fist raised stood over her. I slammed him one on the arm. “You want to hit a woman, hit me, you
momser
!”
    Clayton, ever the Southern gent, pulled me back, looked straight into the guy’s eyes, and said, “You’ll have to excuse my friend. She’s a little upset.”
    I was sure that was an invitation to get killed, but the guy just muttered, “Sheeit!” and turned away, arms flailing, looking for a target worthy of him.
    The bartender, wearing a white apron, came up behind Chris and started to help her up. “Everyone’s a little on edge,” he said.
    I almost laughed. On edge, indeed. Teeth were being lost left and right.
    “Come on.” The bartender herded the three of us like a brooding hen. He was far and away the most buff guy in the place. His idea was to take us out the back way, but it was blocked.
    There were only two guys standing in front of the entrance to the space behind the bar, though. They both had their fists up and they were circling like boxers. The bartender banged their heads together and stepped over their supine forms. “Back here.”
    We stepped behind the bar, stooping down for safety. The bartender went for a telephone, but sirens sounded in the distance and he abandoned the effort. Someone sailed over the bar, lay there a second, then sat up and shook his head, probably trying to clear it. You’d think the sound of the sirens might have sobered people up, but not a chance. They kept mixing it up, maybe even going at it a little harder, as if they knew their fighting time was limited.
    The bartender, apparently trying to do what he could to restore peace, again cleared the pathway between the bar and the rest of the room, and we saw that there was a tiny space to the back entrance. This time Clayton said, “Come on,” and took the lead. He pushed bodies out of his way, and we were out.
    Out of the barroom, anyway. We were in a dark passage, and, believe it or not, it was blocked by two young men necking like teenagers, kissing and feeling each other up.
    “’Scuse us,” Clayton said, but they didn’t budge.
    “Let us through, please,” Chris said. One man put his hand in the back of the other one’s jeans. I know some people are turned on by violence, but this was ridiculous. However, if it was violence they wanted, it was violence they were going to get: I kicked first one in the shin, then the other.
    “What the hell?” said the first one, and turned toward us, fists clenched. But his friend, apparently miffed at the interruption, pulled him out of the way. “Let them through.”
    And then we were really outside.
    We leaned up against the side of the building, catching our breath for a moment. “Let’s get out of here,” said Clayton. “There’s gon’ be a stampede out that back door when those cops get here.”
    We were barely ahead of the stampede. Cops chased the stampeders, but we simply stood aside and let them pass, figuring we’d probably be taken for tourists who’d lost their way. It seemed to work.
    When we were alone, Clayton asked, “Y’all want a drink? Anywhere but this neighborhood. What kind of place is this? There goes a guy with two shades of eye shadow.”
    Chris and I couldn’t help laughing—it was the universal out-of-towner’s response to Castro Street. We may have been a little rude, but a laugh at his expense was a small thing, and it made me feel better. I was upset with Clayton—he might not have meant to, but he’d started a near-riot.
    We found a quiet bar in the adjoining Noe Valley, and when Chris had her bourbon and Clayton and I our white wines, I asked Clayton exactly what was going on.
    He shrugged. “I guess I kind of lost control. Guy tried to mug me—you saw it.”
    “What did he say to you?”
    “Asked for my money, that’s all. Had his hand in his jacket like he had a gun. Scared the hell out of me. I’ve been feeling a little funny in that neighborhood anyway. Can’t think why Rick and Mary live there—with a