I wandered into Bing’s at The Inn because I’d convinced myself I was conducting research.
Retirement has its advantages.
If you call something “research,” people tend to leave you alone.
After everything I’ve uncovered about the Covenant’s HOA, the Kombucha Cartel, and the Lizard Resistance (who are almost certainly reporting to somebody)… it seemed irresponsible not to investigate Happy Hour.
I found a seat on a couch opposite the bar.
A server stopped by.
“I’ll have a Swedish Assassin.”
“What’s in that?”
“Sprite. Orange juice. Ice.”
“Why do you call it that?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
She went about her business.
The room felt unmistakably Rancho.
Not flashy.
Just… effortlessly polished.
Light linen.
Beautiful fits.
People who somehow looked relaxed without ever appearing rumpled.
A gifted musician sat behind the piano. Someone mentioned he’d once been on The Voice. Then, almost reverently, they informed me he charges three thousand dollars for private parties.
I looked around the room.
That suddenly seemed like a bargain.
I sat there with my Swedish Assassin and watched people enjoying one another’s company.
That’s always been a curious thing for me.
I genuinely like people. Always have.
I just rarely know how to cross the invisible line between being a stranger… and being invited into someone else’s afternoon.
So… I remain an observer.
I’ve spent much of my life sitting just outside other people’s conversations.
Not unhappily.
Just… outside.
Watching.
Listening.
Collecting stories.
It’s a perfectly pleasant place to live.
Every now and then…
I wonder what kind of person simply walks over and says,
“Mind if I join you?”
Then the dude behind the piano started playing a Marvin Gaye tune.
I LOVE Marvin Gaye.
Without giving it much thought, I stood up.
And danced.
Not well.
Not dramatically.
I simply allowed my body to acknowledge that music was occurring.
Several conversations paused.
One gentleman regarded me with the quiet concern generally reserved for someone washing a Bentley with a garden hose.
One woman watched me for several songs.
She wasn’t amused.
She wasn’t embarrassed for me.
She looked like someone remembering she’d once done exactly the same thing.
Maybe I imagined that.
Maybe I didn’t.
It occurred to me that there are probably a great many people who’d like to dance.
Or introduce themselves.
Or sit down beside someone they don’t know.
But every one of those things requires risking the possibility that your enthusiasm won’t be returned.
Perfect hair doesn’t move much.
Neither do reputations.
Eventually “What’s Going On” ended.
Not enough people applauded.
Conversations continued.
Outside, I noticed a young couple quietly walking the front lawn with what looked like a wedding planner. They’d stop every few feet, point toward a tree, smile, nod, and continue. Somewhere in their future, they were already making memories in a place they hadn’t yet celebrated.
I finished my Swedish Assassin and headed home.
The HOA was pondering how to exercise some power, somewhere in the Village.
The Kombucha Cartel is almost certainly still operating.
The Lizard Resistance remains at large.
As for me…
I think I’ve finally figured out what I was researching.
It wasn’t Happy Hour.
It was belonging.
I’m still working on the field study.
Thomas D’Allesandro is a sometime Rancho Santa Fe resident who occasionally files field reports for the RSF Post. His beat is Ranch folklore, which just happens to involve HOA lizards, the Kombucha Cartel, and the occasional dance at Bing’s.