It was a Tuesday night, and I was walking home from work, or rather to my inlaws’ house, where the hubby and I have been house-sitting.
I wasn’t very far down 8th St when I saw him stop in his tracks, and wait for me.
He was homeless, and as I caught up with him, I took off my headphones. He asked me why I was so mad.
“Mad? I’m not mad.”
“Girl, I’ve seen you walk by here twice today, and both times you have looked so angry. What’s wrong?”
“Oh.. nothing.. I mean, I’m just stressed.”
(I wasn’t, not really, but I wasn’t sure how else to respond.)
“You’re too young to feel like that. You shouldn’t feel like that.”
(How young is too young to feel like that, anyway?)
“Do you pray?”
“What? Uh, no.”
“You should pray, I mean, I pray. I may get high and drunk, but I still pray.”
(I kind of want you to tell me more about the relevancy of getting high and drunk in terms of praying).
“You gotta smile. So many people here, they don’t smile. You gotta be happy.”
We arrived at the end of the block, in front of a parking lot filled with buses. I had passed by it many times, even thought of going to Marin or Santa Rosa, but I never saw those buses leave.
“Well, this is my stop. I gotta go. You better start smiling.”
I laughed, and as he walked through the parking lot, he looked back.
“Don’t laugh, I’m serious.”
“No, no, thanks. I appreciate it.”
I’ve been waiting to see him again so I can prove him wrong and smile. I haven’t had the chance yet, but it has only been a week.
–
Last Thursday, Rio had “V.I.P passes” to an event SF Weekly was throwing. So, I met up with J.P., Megan, and him at 8pm in front of Brainwash (despite a request to be there by 7:30pm, but I had been late to work that day.)
So, we headed to the ‘loin, where the event was to take place. Predictably to me, but not so much to Rio, we encountered quite a few beggars.
The first one danced, and sung, but I wasn’t impressed. The bag I hold my spare change in has lately only been opened for those who have earned it.
The “event” was essentially a clubbing environment, and not one we wanted to stay at — we left 10 minutes later.
The next guy actually earned some of that change by asking for a contribution to assassinate Bush. It was clever, and amusing, and we had a bit of a rewarding conversation with him.
After him, there was another guy who asked for a light. He asked us if we were from San Francisco. I don’t like that question; I don’t even know where I’m from. I have felt homeless, albeit in a different way, for the majority of my life: a house is not a home.
He said that he could tell we were from around here, because we were smiling. People that aren’t from here don’t smile. The smiling are wealthy — not in monetary value, but in happiness. He had seen these other people with their suits and electronics, their proof of capitalist success, but without happiness, they didn’t have anything.
I remembered the guy from two days earlier. I’m still looking for him.
