22-year-old cool-guy rides his bike through a red light. On the next block, a different, uglier 22-year-old cool-guy rides his bike through a red light. The Lord of Saturday takes a sip of water from a half-crushed plastic bottle as he coasts. It’s 10 a.m. This is their element. They are the Lords of Saturday. First guy I’ll call Garrick. Second one was Earl.
Over on the other side of the country, in Brooklyn, three hours earlier, the same thing happened. Their East Coast analogues, the Lords of Saturday East™, rode their bikes quickly and effortlessly through light traffic, cool-guys in excellent grey jackets. San Francisco must have had at least 30 such grey Lords this morning, spread evenly across the city, pedaling their way to—what? Sex with TK, noise pancakes? A shitty weekend job, a mostly empty office? The library, the beach, or Bethany’s? Park, office, mom’s. Hip bakery, weak bakery. Certain death. Record store.