How I Met Justin Bieber

The day I met Justin Bieber was a hot day in the Marina. When you live in Inner Marina¹, the summer fog makes you forget how beautiful it can be, weather-wise. Add in the walkability of European cities (I can say that, I've lived there). There is everything you need within five blocks: a butcher, a French cheese shop, an Italian cheese shop, four coffee shops, a Walgreens, the bay itself and now, a dedicated candy store offering delicacies from around the world. All other hoods can't beat the cute asphalt on Chestnut and Union, and that's part of why it's in the most unaffordable part of SF. Lyft bikes and Lime scooters reign supreme, serving us well on the flat terrain. And the ratio of baby strollers to dogs is still positive. You can actually make friends with a stranger on the sidewalk by smiling, eye contact is easy.

So when I say it was a hot, sunny day when I met Bieber, it was also a beautiful day. Everyone out. Walking. My friend, Alexi, and I included. We found a pop-up flea market at the local middle school. Exclaimed in disarray the price of $20 was too expensive for access, to which the security guards at the back gate agreed, and asked to see our wrists, and stamped us, as though we'd already paid. We giggled shuffling away, wrist-waving our thanks. At the entry gate on the other side, we lifted arms up triumphantly and slid through the previously-paid-side.

Little did we know how special the day would get.

From far away, the only clue (which was not really a clue) were his neck tattoos. But neither Alexi or I studied them prior, they just, existed like a tag of someone who choose to express perma-ink art on, seemingly, all parts of their body.² They did make him look cool, edgy, tough, different from the Marina bros that hang at Horseshoe Tavern or Howell's. No grand posse. Two bros on either side of him—though one turned out to be a girl with an obtuse pixie cut—with a tiny, forward-facing infant strapped against her chest, in a pink beanie. Perhaps she partook in the Lesbians Who Look Like Bieber Pride event, earlier in Dolores Park.

I should preface that I'm not a huge fan of Justin Bieber's music. My favorite track outside his Christian-laced album is a remix with Sean Kingston called Eenie Meenie, which is only because it used to be blasted in a sweaty beachside apartment in Isla Vista, in between Daft Punk and Nikki Minaj, back in college. I think he is incredibly talented. Just not in my top playlists, is all.

Back to the Marina and meeting Justin.³

Alexi spotted him first. A thick metal chain around his neck, with a drop-down heart, the backwards clasp taking center stage as unruly necklaces sometimes do. On his head a detective hat of sorts, a soft shell, houndstooth with a small brim, yet not a newsboy cap. He looked like he was going hunting. Perhaps he had just bought it. Back in the day on the peninsula, you could take a girl out shooting for turkeys—my grandfather took my grandmother after they got married—and there's a black and white photo of them (grandma none too pleased) with such a hat.

Though he was in a group, he stood out as being the best dressed. Tall chicken legs covered in 90's jeans that actually fit, however holey they were. His friend wore yellow Adidas ankle boots with a matching racer jacket, and geometric earrings the size of American latte cups, angled like diamonds showing off Newton's shell theorem. The babe in her arms smiled at our small dogs, which both moved slow and steadily, as 100-year-olds do, towards attention. Under the pink beanie, the baby stared, fixated on following them. We angled our way over. Still not clocking that a generational musical talent was nearby. A soft "coo" of excitement elicited an invitation, and Alexi and I smiled back (at the baby), paying little to no attention to those standing. We began speaking baby talk, the secret language all women know. As the dogs grew more curious, sniffing, we stepped closer, our gaze going upwards to grown up eye level, and nodding hello, we made contact.

My eyes looked at his two friends first. They were kind, and in kind, nodded back. Justin was still petting my dog (before I knew he was Justin), so I bent low to meet him, like monks squatting in sweet reverence, we met the concrete and each other.

There were no clouds. A postman blue sky, with heat beating down, cooking us with love. A tiny layer of sweat started down my back. I didn't recognize his voice.

"How old?"

"Sixteen!"

"Oh, WOW. She looks great."

"She's having a good day, for sure. Every day's different."

"Facts." He said, straightening up.

I remember judging his ugly shirt before his face. His cheeks ripe and red from the sun. Eyes meeting mine for the briefest second before looking down again, exactly the same amount of time my brain clocked him as Bieber, and us as standing on business together.

The baby squeaked like a bird.

"You guys find anything good?" Alexi asked.

"Nothing yet," the Biebs replied. He surveyed the lot which was quickly filling with strollers. Suddenly feeling nervous for no reason— (remember, I have no attraction to men with skinny gaits) —maybe an aura thing, I survey the black pavement too, taking in vendors previously blocked by couples holding hands. A stiff-necked woman at the nearest corner smiles. Her grey pony tied low, she sat on a vintage, red-tufted seat with steel-looking armrests, surveying the world also. Justin walked towards her.

His friends and our dogs follow. Before I realize it, Sully (my dog) finds her way on the other side of the woman's booth, next to a pastel painting of a David Hasselhoff type figure, sitting on the beach, wearing a red speedo.

"I think his nut's out." Justin's voice (now I can tell) carries from behind. Both accusatory and questioning, he's now next to me, head tilted to the side, like Alexi's dog. I pick up Sully and keep staring at the man in the speedo.

"The red is nice."

"I like the pastels," Bieber says.

My dog moves in a way that tells me she wants to be put down. We leave Justin to find the woman.

"How much?" I ask, hearing Alexi by Bieber, "hey that guy kinda looks like my dad."

They laugh.

"$50"

"I'll take it." I say quickly, glancing back at the man in red. I can find a spot, I think, somewhere, or use it as a Christmas white elephant present with my family (we do a $50 or less anything-goes). My Venmo sends her QR the cash, and I say thank you with a sincere smile.

"Hey! How much for this guy?" Justin points to my nut guy.

"Oh, this lady's just paid, you'll have to ask her," the woman's grey eyebrows raise as she nods in my direction.

Justin cries loudly, "NOOOO!"

This for some reason makes me laugh. Justin smiles, first at me, then the ground. He's an attractive man. I see that now. Tanned skin and dark eyes. White teeth and a smile that, I know, makes millions of girls weak in the knees. That hat has a cartoonish effect, but still.

I get it now.

When I tell him I'd be open to selling, he tells me, "Aw, hell no!" and that I should keep being assertive.

"Ok." I say, not telling him about the recent boy who broke my heart, who never saw that side of me. It's settled then. The adult male sunbather with nice hair and his manhood hanging out is mine. I tuck him under my arm, and Alexi asks me if I want a pic.

"Let me get in there."

Lo and behold, the Biebs stepped in for a pic with me and my nut guy.

Alexi happened to grab the number of one of his friends (she's a funny, beautiful blonde), and a few days later we ran into Justin again, this time at Dolores Park.

He told us he was in SF for a couple business meetings. Alexi owns her own skincare company, and I work in real estate at Deutsch Bank, we didn't want to pry further. It makes sense, now that I think about it, that he may have been in the city for a pitch or some other work. I wouldn't say it was a proper hang, but we did invite him and his crew to the Hamilton Society debate later that night.

And they came. We listened to men debate America needing a new Caesar to solve today's governmental problems. Justin and his friends were allowed in despite a strict dress code of suits and ties. It was random and moving—hissing and stomping at different parts of the night next to a Grammy-winning artist. An experience I'll never forget, though almost, thanks to the alcoholic drinks mixed by men whom I'm not sure had ever mixed drinks before.

I'll also never forget the evening because it never happened.

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Did I catch you wondering that already?

At what point did you start to question the truth of my words? Were you suspicious of a second meetup with the Biebs? Familiar enough with the Hamilton Debate to know they'd never allow even a celebrity in, without a tie?

If you're still reading this and believing I met the Biebs, I assure you, I did not. I led you on. I lied. The truth? I just have a good friend (yes, her name really is Alexi) who is quite good at prompting Gemini.

The point is this: you should no longer believe what you see on the internet. Images used to anchor words in truth. And now, well, that's shot to shit.

What I wrote here was a personal account, not nearly close to anything like a news story. I knew it would be absurd to run into Bieber at a flea market in the Marina. I know he's a father, and likely a busy person, a husband, and an artist on top, so any pop literate person may have questioned this whole bit from the start. If you did—congrats! What is true is everything else, besides Bieber, including my nutty painting and most details of the people and places I mention.

While I've enjoyed writing this, it's opened my eyes to the notion that there are people whose job is to deceive you. Not just marketing ploys. Full story-telling arcs. Everything a conspiracy, confusion and self-doubt cultivators. Anyone who doesn't realize we're living in a new level of sensory manipulation (for now, at least, sight and hearing) is at the mercy of being manipulated way more often.

To sell something fake well, I thought about grounding everything (else) in the real, observed details, so that your senses didn't quite pick up on the strangeness—at least not so suddenly. Or, if you picked up on it, that you questioned it (your own senses) thoroughly. The absurdness of the painting itself I thought would lend perfectly to this story. A man sunbathing with his nut out, red speedo and all, and as I hold up the piece for Alexi's picture, there is Bieber too. Odd to begin with, though perhaps two odd things sometimes make a thing not so odd.

Following the foolery of faking family, I posted the above image on my Instagram story.

I got loads of messages. Mogged by exclamations and questions from some of my smartest friends. To protect their identity (and ego), I'll just list a sample of their age, sex, location and occupation:

There were others.

I knew Alexi's skills would fool some, like my dad who sends me animal videos, over half of which I reply saying it's AI—please, Dad, look at the fur, or the background light!—there's no way that golden retriever is doing those tricks on the beach. But I had no idea they'd fool most of my friends enough that they'd reach out and ask if I was, actually, hanging out with him.

I'm cool, but not that cool.

If you're still reading (thank you), and may you take this article as a warning sign. Train your eyes to view any image with doubt, and train your brain to hold a single question, front and center, at all times when viewing: can the publisher of this image be trusted?

I assure you, I can be.

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All image credits: Alexi Calvo

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1. Made up term to describe the 4x10 blocks closest to the bay.
2. I suppose only Hailey knows.
3. If I refer to Justin in different ways, it's only because I still don't know what's right or preferred. I forgot to ask him that. We're not friends, we just met and chatted.