by Pete Jordan
As promised, here's Part Two of my Corte Madera tales:
After having watched the premiere of the film "Grease" in Corte Madera when I was eleven years old in 1978 (see below), the next afternoon, my friend Pat's mom made us baloney and mustard sandwiches. I told Pat I didn't eat mustard. He said I had to eat it. I protested that I was "allergic" to mustard. He insisted. I refused.
Pat then dropped on me this pathetic little speech:
"If you don't eat the sandwich, it'll make my mom sad. And if my mom's sad, I'll be sad. And if I'm sad, my sister will be sad."
Well, the whole lot of them could have a great big cry fest. It didn't matter to me. There was no way I was eating any mustard!
Pat refused to talk to me for several hours. So in the late afternoon--24 hours earlier than my weekend in Marin County was scheduled to end--I asked Pat's mom to take me to the bus depot. She did, and I caught the bus back home to San Francisco. Despite having been great childhood chums, Pat and I never talked to each other again.
Now, here's the thing: Upon my triumphal return to Corte Madera tonight--the scene of the non-sandwich-eating crime--will Pat be man enough to show himself? And if so, will he accept that I am indeed "allergic" to mustard--even if that just means I don't like how it tastes?