Four Hours In San Francisco
Before heading over the Bridge to Oakland
The morning traffic passes the Ferry Building. The deadly whizzing of cyclists, taxis, Uber, delivery trucks, trams, and buses is the price we pay for living in a city, and once you are accustomed to their presence, soon, it feels like they are not even there.
Only an unpleasant jolt will rudely remind you they have not gone away. Yet, in all the years of living in San Francisco, one feature has failed to immure me: the beggars on the streets.
I’m sure I’m not the only one disturbed because I have heard many persons speak more than once of “this nuisance.” I have the notion that every San Francisco resident is haunted by certain beggars on our many streets who represent the whole tribe of homeless people who sleep on the streets.
There is an increase in homeless beggars around Union Square, Market, and Mission streets.
The desperate and homeless folks have been in San Francisco for many years. We only notice them because the construction has forced them to move along the roadside from where they had been before.
But it is impossible to simply label them beggars. Sure, the barely or warmly clothed women sometimes hold out knobby hands to receive coins or other offerings.
The tentlike structures they inhabit, the skimpiest looking black or dirty white polythene, seem hardly like they can keep out the cold or rain. The stench around the tents is stomach-churning. But still, I would hardly call them beggars.
If there are people that can be called invisible, these people are it. Their
whole demeanour is calculated to call the least attention to themselves. The adult men are engaged in finding a cigarette, a beer, or a drug to make themselves disappear.
I understand a fear of them. Despite their supposed low status, they do appear like beggars in how they hold themselves. They stand, their shoulders drooped, backs bent, and if you look at them, they look back at you, not with a plea, regardless of their situation, but to ask you to move along, not notice my staring.
The homeless guy didn’t speak, so I’ll call him Mack, the epitome of destitution, his eyes slightly yellowy and long-lashed; even though his face may be raised for the kindness of a stranger, his eyes just won’t beg. They seem to be not a mean man’s eyes, but they seem to me. Wiry he is, but that body without physical deformities doubled at the waist is suppressed of energy.
Mack is a homeless beggar with whom I nearly had coffee in Taylor’s Coffee Shop on Taylor Street. There’s no rational reason why I should be afraid of him. He is the homeless beggar, and I’m the self-sustaining citizen.
Mack was sitting alone on a hard cement pavement, his filthy shirt open, his legs folded under him like a Swami. He is a man in nearly all senses of the word and has no physical deformities as far as I can see. His body is what can be called wiry or slender; he has high cheekbones, matted dusty brown hair and the surprising Van Dyke beard on his pointed chin. Is he the face of beggary?
Not entirely.
“Come inside with me, I’ll buy you a coffee and something to eat.”
He didn’t say a word, just got himself up, and followed. Patrons were not impressed, Mack smelled like a public urinal. While waiting for coffee, a woman approached Mack and gave him five bucks. Mack didn’t say anything. He looked at the bill in his hand, turned and left. The woman wasn’t being kind, but she knew how people like Mack's minds work.
Mack wasn’t going back to his place outside the coffee shop. Five bucks would get him a ‘hit’ of something.
Because I have no manners, I said to the woman, “If I gave you five bucks to get a shot that might kill you, I sure you’d be happy to take it, and I got you out of my sight.”
Her husband made one of those moves that jerked the chair back three inches as if he had an intention. He looked far more threatening than Mack.
A skinny, patent shoe-wearing dickhead, her husband wasn’t sure if I was a nutcase. Anyway, his wife was holding onto his arm.
In San Francisco, it is chilling to watch how quickly car windows roll up, and the passengers stare straight ahead, waiting for the traffic lights to release them from a beggar's plea.
To be fair, I have my place among this homeless band of invisible people. My writing calls out, begging for the reader to love me. Would my writing have you wind your window down, put your arms around me, and leave me smiling?
For those who cannot imagine being close to me, loving me, I have it to scatter you along the sidewalk and trample you underfoot.
Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amy, Julia A. Keirns, Pamela Oglesby, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Samuels, Ray Day, Randy Pulley, Michael Rhodes, Lu Skerdoo, Pluto Wolnosci 🟣, Paula Shablo, Bruce Coulter, Ellen Baker, Kelley Murphy, Leigh-Anne Dennison, Patricia Timmermans, Keeley Schroder, James Michael Wilkinson, Whye Waite, John Hansen, Trudy Van Buskirk, | Dixie Dodd | Joanie Adams — Sightseer; Conjurer Of Words | Adda Maria | Dennett | Men.21times@gmail.com | Nancy Santos | Jenny Blue | Jack Herlocker | Love | Barbara J. Martin | Audrey Clifford | Maria Rattray | Jerry Dwyer | Denise Shelton | Trisha Faye | StorySculptress | Katherine Myrestad | Deborah Joyce Goodwin (Red:The-Lady In Blue) | Kelly Corinne Elliott Emma Vincent | Karen Grant |
(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.
