Two men outside a coffee shop on Filmore Street. (At the other end of the street from 'The Filmore', from Janis Joplin and the black jazz bands that 40 years ago gave the city its identity and inner beauty). Two men in lower middle age.
"Max has no respect," one said. He was wearing beige socks, soft leather loafers and a Polo emblem on his button down shirt. He spoke with a high voice. "No respect at all. He gets up in the morning and just throws his pajamas on the floor."
"Horrible," said the other man, "but I know what you mean. It drives Holly nuts."
"Kids these days..." said the first man and took a stiff sip of latte.
"They don't have to wash their own clothes, that's the problem," said the other man. "Lazy as hell. All they do as sit around."
"We do a load every day but I found this black detergent and it makes all the difference. I don't know about you but I have lots of black clothes, t-shirts, black underwear, black socks, black pants, and you just put it all with this detergent and comes out looking great."
"Black detergent?"
"Woolite, I think."
The conversation drifted to attorneys.
"You go in her office and she's got this old golden retriever. I like dogs but my god, this dog walks around like a cloud of shedding hair."
"Horrible."
"I walk in and all of a sudden..."
"...You're mohair man."
They were silent for a moment, taking the world in.
"I hate feeling dirty," said the first man. "I just can't stand it."
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