The Karaoke King of San Francisco

His royal majesty.

Every Monday followed the same cadence:

The alarm sounding. The shuffle of bed sheets. The humm of the bathroom light. The slap of the toilet seat. The gurgle of a flush. The sink turning on. Swish of water. The medicine cabinet opens and closes. Tooth brushing. Spit. Sink on again. Three taps. Medicine cabinet opens and closes again. A rattle of the pill bottle. Then the usual drones of dresser drawers and zippers.

The final auditory punctuation of the morning: the whistle of a kettle.

He goes to work and sees Janet the Secretary typing away. Her hair is big and curled and statuesque. She greets him in a drawn out,

“Gooooood Mornin’ Paul. How was your weekend?”

“It was a lovely respite. How was yours Janet?”

She starts to rattle off the detailed itinerary of her 48 hour sanctioned sabbatical from her desk. Paul ends up backing into his office and closing the door. The clock on his desk reads 9:15 am. Approximately 12 hours to go. Half a day until the office clothes are shed, the crown comes on, and he sings accompanied by a royalty free backing track to a bar packed full of youths drinking Hamms. On Mondays, Paul ascends to his throne. Defending his unofficial title, The Karaoke King of San Francisco. 

***

At least that is how I imagine this man’s Monday going. I have now seen the Karaoke King (pictured above) three times. Twice on two separate Mondays at the Knockout. And once, on a Tuesday, at Kilowatt. He dons a crown, an oversized blazer and takes to the stage. I now just need to learn his name, it certainly is not Paul.