Hayward: Holler

I'm walking to my favorite Mexican restaurant on my lunch break when I hear the honking. I'm not surprised -- hollering is the official sport of Hayward, and I'm wearing high heels.

"Hey honey! Hey! Hey!" he yells, but I pretend I can't hear over the traffic and head for the restaurant, a Christian, family-owned establishment that proudly offers a full bar from open til closing, "Special in tequila!".

I sit, facing a the huge windows, and wonder whether it would be inappropriate to have a glass of wine with lunch. A big glass. A bottle. It's been a long day.

He flings open the door and saunters in to a beat only he can hear. He stops at my table, leans over, and lets loose with a rapid fire patois that equal parts Hayward, Mexico, and pure bravado: "Heeeeeeygirlhowyoudoin'myname'sDionandIsawyouonthestreet. I'mapersonaltraineryoucanlookmeuponyoutubeIgotvideosandspecialsthere'sevendiscountcodes. Here'smywebsitelemmegiveyoumynumber."

I break in, "You're . . . a personal trainer?" The busboy, standing behind him with a glass of water and a basket of chips, looks as dazed as I feel.

He scribbles his number on the back of a napkin. "YeahgirlIgotclientseverywhereletmegiveyoumymyspaceandlookmeuponyoutube."

"Do I . . . look like I need a personal trainer?" I ask, trying to make sense of the auditory assault. "Is that why --"

All the blood drains from his face. "OHnogirlnoyoulookgoodyoulookgreatyouFINEIjust"

For the first time, he slows.

"Oooohthiswasn't . . . a good idea . . . well . . . canIhaveyournumber?"