One cannot hear, in the Coexistence Bagel Shop, the song of Falstaff Beer. Here in North Beach they do not sing of Dual Filter Cigarettes. The jukebox plays advanced jazz, far out.
The patron orders garlic sauce and potato salad 55�. Coffee is 15� (with food, 10�). The patron says, "I don't dig baseball. I don't approve of competitive sports."
The baklava—a delicious pastry made of chopped nuts and honey—is 35�, and the tourist eats and asks, "What's the score?"
"For my part," says the patron, "you can stuff baseball in a gray flannel sack of commercialism."
But a second patron mercifully agrees to go out somewhere and ask a square. He disappears into Grant Avenue.
"He's a phony beatnik," the patron asserts. "He's just on an unemployment kick. He's got clothes at home. Me, I'm a real beatnik. I'm unemployed forever. I exist in a state of true indifference."
He rolls a cigarette.
The second patron returns. "Three to one," he says.
"Favor who?" the tourist asks. "Who's got the three?"
"I don't know," the second patron says. "To hell with everything."