Homeless people haven’t been talking to me as much as they used to, the way that they used to, and on that particular night, I was willing to listen… wanted to listen, even.

I was in-between Howard & Mission, and as one might expect in January at 7:30pm, the sky had darkened, and that particular stretch of road wasn’t very well-lit.

Despite the lack of light, I saw a man gesturing at me; he had seen my cigarette, and he wanted to pay me for one. He walked over, and as he sorted through the bills he was clutching in his dirty hands, I said, “No, no, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

He looked like he was on the verge of tears with gratitude.

“Listen”, he said, his voice and words urgent, his face close enough to mine that I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath.

“Ok.” I took out the other ear bud I had tactlessly left in my ear, in anticipation of a much shorter encounter. It suddenly occurred to me that this was what he had wanted to pay me for, and a request for a cigarette was simply an excuse to initiate conversation.

“Listen.” he demanded once again.

“I am!”

“I used to hurt people for a living.”

“Really???? Why??” I was intrigued.

“Used to”, he repeated, as if I had just wrongly accused him of what he had already admitted.. as if he was someone who had a long history of accusations and admissions to guilt.

“Yeah, but why?”

“Come over here”, he said, motioning over to a dark side street.

I had been surprised by my bravery up until that point, but it had dissolved at the suggestion of listening to a confession of his deepest darkest secrets in an alley.

“Oh, no… I want to go home and see my husband, I’m sorry…”

Now, his back was against the brick wall of a closed storefront. As he slid down further, he begged, pleaded, the way a child would… “pleeeaaaasssseeeee?”

“No, no, I’m sorry…”

He whimpered, even pouted.

“It’s okay! I’m sure we’ll see each other again! Don’t get upset!”

More sorrowful puppy dog eyes. I said goodbye, and he barked in response: “woof!”

As I continued to walk down 7th St, I uneasily wondered if he’d follow me, make me listen. I wondered what he would have told me had I not run away.. had I let my curiosity take priority over my fear and just listened to him the way he had asked me to, the way I had agreed to.

I wondered if he even had a light for the cigarette I had just given him.

I want a world without war, without fear, without bombs. I want a world in which everyone is treated with respect, love, and is happy. I want a world with equal rights, and equal opportunities. I want to walk down the streets of San Francisco without gingerly stepping around a man in a sleeping bag.

I also don’t think this will ever happen.

I see the fortunate walk past the unfortunate every day, in silence. The more fortunate often stare blankly ahead. The less fortunate scan the faces and mannerisms of those around them, desperately, for someone who cares just enough to spare some time and change, maybe a cigarette, just enough to get by.

The other day I was on my way home from work, and I was walking down 7th St on my way to the BART station. As I approached Mission St, I noticed a slow-moving man in a wheelchair and how my fellow commuters walked around him like an obstacle. It wasn’t a foreign scene; I noticed the same thing the next day with a man and his shopping cart.

I was tired, and mused over the idea of a wheelchair, being able to sit down.

I approached him, and I noticed he wasn’t just slow-moving — he wasn’t moving at all; he was stopped.

I started to walk past him, and then I stopped. I turned around. I remember looking at him, and I think I asked if I could help him, but I’m not even sure if it was verbal.

He asked if I could give him a push. He was tired, hungry, and was struggling to get back on the sidewalk. I was the same, and as I struggled to get him back on the sidewalk, I explained I too, was weak. We worked together, and accomplished our goal. He asked for spare change, justifying it with hunger, and I agreed, even exclaimed “of course!” as if it was an absurd question. I gave him all my change, and he softly said, “God bless you”. I didn’t know what to say and “have a good night” almost seemed too trite.

“I hope things get better”, I softly replied.

He repeated, “God bless you”.

I completed the walk to the BART station, trying to feel good about what I just did, but I couldn’t.

It wasn’t enough. There would be many more curbs, and the money I gave him might feed him that night, but there would be more hunger.

I often to listen to John Lennon’s “Imagine” and tear up when he sings, “you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

It’s true, but dreams don’t always come true, and I’m not even sure just how bad it has to get before it gets better.

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.

I dropped a cigarette on the sidewalk; I looked down at it, but did not pick it up. I thought of the possibility that someone might find it, and even if it was only for a moment, they’d actually feel so much happier from something that simple. Maybe they’d even think that their absent god actually showed up to work that day.

The thought comforted me.

The next morning, I was walking down 8th St, on my way to work. I had just bought a chai latte and as I waited for the “white man walk” sign to announce my freedom to cross the street, my loose change escaped from my pocket. I watched as the dollar bill floated across Howard St, and then over a continuous stream of traffic. It would’ve been pointless, not to mention dangerous, for me to chase after it.

So, once again I imagined that I had just made someone’s day. Perhaps it would be someone who, after hours of searching for the kind of change people could spare, was now nearly depleted of any last remaining hope, and then, for that moment, they actually felt lucky for a change.

I continued down the street until I arrived at my usual smoking spot, and began my routine of writing to Rio until it was time to go into the office. As I was writing to him about the change I had so easily given away in celebration of my own, I knew I was “asking for it”: without fail, writing such stories has always resulted in new ones.

This day was no exception, and a woman approached me shortly after I finished writing him.

She had a sob story that almost mirrored one I had heard about a year ago.

Her kid was really sick, and she needed to go to the hospital. First she asked if I’d take her.

I was confused for a moment; I had given up my car nearly two years ago, so i didn’t even understand what that meant.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I don’t drive.”

She needed a cab, and was begging for help. In a way, her story was a bit more credible than the similar ones I had heard before. She had a piece of paper, numbers, hospitals. She said she needed $3.50.

I started to look for $3.50. I was overflowing with gratitude, luck, empathy, and love.. I wanted to give back what i had been given, but all i could see were 20′s in my wallet. I thought about how tacky it would be to carefully separate money like that in front of her, and, I didn’t really care. Regardless of the validity of her story, or whatever cause the money went to, I wasn’t paying for that. I just wanted to know for sure that someone got the message.

I gave her a $20, which resulted in a look of both shock and gratitude. She hurriedly thanked me, and rushed away in the same frantic fashion as her arrival.