I walked home at dusk today, limbs taut, back strong, head clear, post yoga class mobility, up 16th street for a block then left onto Valencia street, past peddlers, and Frenchies, long lost friends, workers heading home, Marina blonds and jocks, hipsters on fixies, and me, ambling towards home, the long seven blocks up to 22nd street and Capp. The sky was epic: soft little clouds pressed softly up against the rim of the world, a majestic vision somewhere between deep blue and cozy pink. The air was clear, the breeze crisp, but friendly, not too cold; Sutro Tower standing guard on the horizon to the west, rooftops awash in brilliant shades of twilight: grey, blue, green, silver, brown, mauve, orange-I can touch them, feel the colors light up my bones. Staring up into the vastness, with each step I get the sensation more and more that I had no business being among such beauty, like I was trespassing uninvited into a fresh, wet painting, traipsing clumsily through with my too-big-boots, smudging everything.
I passed the Thursday night throng centered around the madness that is the intersection of Valencia and 16th streets, and before long came upon a hulking, limping figure making his way south. He wore only one shoe; his back was to me but I could see that he carried with him the Street Sheet newsletter. I wondered where his priorities were considering he only had one shoe but was apparently ok with this, attempting still to sell his ware, a weekly paper designed to help homeless raise money for themselves. As I drew nearer I realized not only was he missing the shoe on his left foot, but that the top of his foot was bleeding profusely from a horribly deep chunk that had been ripped out. His big toe was at a strange angle, the toenail growing in sideways. Such situations are commonplace in this city. Naturally, I was concerned.
"What happened to your foot?" I asked, distress filling my voice.
"I dropped a two ton trailer on it this morning," he garbled casually, through a mangled mouth devoid of most of his teeth, the remaining few crooked and mossy, his eyes ablaze and unblinking. I asked him why he didn't get a bandage. He claimed that he had, but that it had fallen off, that he was trying to make a few bucks to buy some shoes but that nobody had a size 14. I thought it was possible, as I watched his blood seep into the sidewalk, maybe he couldn't find shoes because nobody in their right mind would let him into their place of business. I gave him a dollar. "You better take care of that," I commented, my mind's eye fervent with visions of amputated limbs sick with gangrene. I moved on, his voice trailing after me, "Oh I will I'm 50 years old and still in great shape it's just this thing I dropped on my foot nobody has a size 14 anywhere...."
I noticed the sky was brighter still, rose giving way to magenta.It was the kind of evening that reminds you why you love San Francisco, takes you back to what made you fall for her in the first place. I smile at passersby, which comes as a surprise to most, and it's all I can do to keep from screaming, kindly, at them, "LOOK UP!"
...but I bite my tongue, silently wishing sweet dreams and nice thoughts to all I pass, yes, all of them: the old salts sitting outside Muddy Waters rolling cigarettes with dirty fingers and commiserating while their beards grow longer and their wrinkles cave deeper; the Frenchies speaking French with their cutoff shorts and cutoff shirts, neck scarfs, and cowboy boots; bloody gangrene future amputee man, half out of this world already; the oblivious new couple lost in conversation, blocking an entire sidewalk; the tall awkward blond boy with the long stride I catch up with at every red light; Terry, a homeless friend I've seen deteriorate every day slightly more since I moved into this neighborhood three years ago, him huddled up outside of Valencia Pizza and Pasta, small and alone; I peer inside, smiling faces, clinking glasses, huge entrees. Terry sleeps in Dolores Park and is hanging out with someone's dog. I give him a buck too. You, the kind man at Lost Weekend video, I send you love, thank you for voiding my day-late fee; thanks to the friend behind me, it was sweet of you to give me your place in line, even if I caught you staring at my ass. I leave the video store. I look up. I see the moon for the first time in six days, waxing into her fullness, a bright slice of summer peach.
I am alone, and as much as I want to forget this sensation, push it aside, revel in the wonder that even a quick fifteen-minute walk home on a Monday night can bring, as I unlock the bolt of my apartment door and walk into a dark hallway, this knowledge settles deeply into my bones. I can't say that it is my favorite feeling; although there are many worse ways to feel, there a definitely a few others I'd prefer in its stead. Am I lonely? I ask myself. I put the artichoke to boil on the stove. In this moment, I'm not sure. Pushing out into my strength, rooting down into the earth, growing leaves out of my head, I look out the window. It truly is a lovely night.
I passed the Thursday night throng centered around the madness that is the intersection of Valencia and 16th streets, and before long came upon a hulking, limping figure making his way south. He wore only one shoe; his back was to me but I could see that he carried with him the Street Sheet newsletter. I wondered where his priorities were considering he only had one shoe but was apparently ok with this, attempting still to sell his ware, a weekly paper designed to help homeless raise money for themselves. As I drew nearer I realized not only was he missing the shoe on his left foot, but that the top of his foot was bleeding profusely from a horribly deep chunk that had been ripped out. His big toe was at a strange angle, the toenail growing in sideways. Such situations are commonplace in this city. Naturally, I was concerned.
"What happened to your foot?" I asked, distress filling my voice.
"I dropped a two ton trailer on it this morning," he garbled casually, through a mangled mouth devoid of most of his teeth, the remaining few crooked and mossy, his eyes ablaze and unblinking. I asked him why he didn't get a bandage. He claimed that he had, but that it had fallen off, that he was trying to make a few bucks to buy some shoes but that nobody had a size 14. I thought it was possible, as I watched his blood seep into the sidewalk, maybe he couldn't find shoes because nobody in their right mind would let him into their place of business. I gave him a dollar. "You better take care of that," I commented, my mind's eye fervent with visions of amputated limbs sick with gangrene. I moved on, his voice trailing after me, "Oh I will I'm 50 years old and still in great shape it's just this thing I dropped on my foot nobody has a size 14 anywhere...."
I noticed the sky was brighter still, rose giving way to magenta.It was the kind of evening that reminds you why you love San Francisco, takes you back to what made you fall for her in the first place. I smile at passersby, which comes as a surprise to most, and it's all I can do to keep from screaming, kindly, at them, "LOOK UP!"
...but I bite my tongue, silently wishing sweet dreams and nice thoughts to all I pass, yes, all of them: the old salts sitting outside Muddy Waters rolling cigarettes with dirty fingers and commiserating while their beards grow longer and their wrinkles cave deeper; the Frenchies speaking French with their cutoff shorts and cutoff shirts, neck scarfs, and cowboy boots; bloody gangrene future amputee man, half out of this world already; the oblivious new couple lost in conversation, blocking an entire sidewalk; the tall awkward blond boy with the long stride I catch up with at every red light; Terry, a homeless friend I've seen deteriorate every day slightly more since I moved into this neighborhood three years ago, him huddled up outside of Valencia Pizza and Pasta, small and alone; I peer inside, smiling faces, clinking glasses, huge entrees. Terry sleeps in Dolores Park and is hanging out with someone's dog. I give him a buck too. You, the kind man at Lost Weekend video, I send you love, thank you for voiding my day-late fee; thanks to the friend behind me, it was sweet of you to give me your place in line, even if I caught you staring at my ass. I leave the video store. I look up. I see the moon for the first time in six days, waxing into her fullness, a bright slice of summer peach.
I am alone, and as much as I want to forget this sensation, push it aside, revel in the wonder that even a quick fifteen-minute walk home on a Monday night can bring, as I unlock the bolt of my apartment door and walk into a dark hallway, this knowledge settles deeply into my bones. I can't say that it is my favorite feeling; although there are many worse ways to feel, there a definitely a few others I'd prefer in its stead. Am I lonely? I ask myself. I put the artichoke to boil on the stove. In this moment, I'm not sure. Pushing out into my strength, rooting down into the earth, growing leaves out of my head, I look out the window. It truly is a lovely night.
