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The other week, before Christmas had really come and gone, Lesley and I went out to lunch in Downtown Sacramento at a place called Hamburger Mary’s. Of course, I don’t beef in hamburgers, so I had a bocca burger. One thing about Hamburger Mary’s is they have the most extensive list of burgers in the greater Sacramento area, and one can substitute any recipe for a bocca. Thus, if I wanted a western bacon bocca burger, I could. Sadly, they do not carry fake bacon, and I usually wind up enjoying a mushroom and Swiss bocca. As a side note, do you think they’ll ever come out with a product for vegetarians that is a soy based “lunch meat” called Phony Baloney? But I digress.
The whole point of the story is not burgers or vegetarian food. One other point about Hamburger Mary’s. It serves a mixed crowd. What do I mean by this? I mean that they serve burgers, so just about anyone goes there. But the regulars tend to not be so mainstream. The décor is wild with bright colors for paint. Some walls have wallpaper, some don’t, they don’t always match, and yet it fits together. The bar of course has the huge flat screen TV that is the requirement of all lounges these days, but instead of playing ESPN, Hamburger Mary’s usually plays music videos. The music tends to be stuff I don’t know, but I’d imagine is quite popular in gay night clubs. Techno beats, with samples of various divas (Madonna, Dianna Ross, or whatever). On Saturday night the bar at Hamburger Mary’s has karaoke where Sacramento’s most talented lesbians come out to showcase their vocal flair. A certain treat. Again, I digress a bit but want to demonstrate that Hamburger Mary’s welcomes all types, and doesn’t judge.
So back to a couple of week ago. Lesley and I are out to lunch. Sitting is a table in the middle of one of the dining rooms at Mary’s sat two couples, each with a babe in a stroller. Each couple was young, in their twenties. Tattoos covered everyone’s body. One of the boys had had his lobes stretched to the point that even some African tribes would be thinking, “Wow, that must’ve hurt.” His wife, or his baby’s mama, had hair dyed punk red, with a couple of facial pierces, and wore a tank top that probably only hid more body art. I thought to myself that these folks weren’t eating at Hamburger Mary’s because they wanted burgers. They were eating here because they’d actually be served here. Then her baby girl began fussing.
Mama reached into the stroller and pulled out the most precious little girl. This little babe had no pierces, no ink, and no dye. She didn’t even have any cool underground baby clothes. No subversive message written in sharpie across her back. No black onesie with her favorite band on it. Just a pink baby outfit with a bib, probably with an animal like a teddy bear on it. Then mama began bouncing baby on her knee, and baby began cooing just like you’d expect a cute baby to do. I don’t know what I expected. It’s not like Sid and Nancy put out a parenting book. As I was transfixed by this situation, I also noticed that the rest of the restaurant was doing the same as me. I even remarked to Lesley how strange it was that all the conformists and non-conformists were looking on at this family, not really sure what to make of it, but not judging it either.
As the baby settled down, she finally fell asleep, and mama placed her gently back into the stroller. The foursome, plus babies, paid their tab and left Hamburger Mary’s. I tried to put things into some sort of perspective.
It’s unlikely that that baby will ever be into Hannah Montana, or maybe she will just to piss off her parents. But she is the connection. They say it takes a village, but maybe it takes a baby. The village always seems to know what’s best for the child, right? But what did I say? Most places probably would’ve been rude to these kids, forgetting that we all start as little babies somewhere. I think, maybe, the only difference is the parents at Hamburger Mary’s that day wear their scars where we can all see them, depicted in ink on various body parts. Other parents just pretend that they don’t have them. “Scar tissue that I wish you saw, Sarcastic Mister Know-It-All…” All of our children are too new to the world to have developed their tattoos. And that’s partly what makes them so beautiful. Not that they have no tattoos, but that they have no scars. Just clean slates that the world of man hasn’t yet tarnished.
I’m not sure what it all means, but that was my Christmas moment of the season. We’re all in it together. God Bless you all as we head into the New Year.