Dave Chappelle likes my baby

The other night, Juniper and I picked Dutch up from work for the last time. As we were walking to the car along Clay street under One Maritime Plaza, Dutch nudged me in the ribs and pointed ahead to what seemed to be a convention of "special friends" congregating together on their rascal scooters. Isn't that cute, I thought. Maybe they just saw a movie and are on their way back to the home for developmentally disabled adults.

"What's this?" I asked Dutch when we got closer. The scooter riders were three slim black guys in their mid-thirties.

"Holy crap, that's Dave Chappelle!" Dutch gasped.

And it was.

Why is Dave Chappelle riding around on a rascal scooter in the financial district? I wondered. Are rascal scooters replacing vespas as the hip, energy efficient way to get around town? Talk about elegant leisure. Can they go more than 3 miles an hour? Maybe his foot is broken? No, there he goes, standing up to get cash from an ATM. Should I approach him and ask for his autograph? Probably not a good idea while he's standing at the ATM. Should I stop staring?

Just as I convinced myself to peel my eyes off of his back and finally close my gaping mouth, Dave turned around, looked up, saw Juniper in my arms, and gave her a big, wide smile, saying, "Hey there, cutie," before turning back to the ATM.