Daniel Kells

I went to exchange my new glasses for newer glasses (I hated the first pair, and LensCrafters has a 30-day no-questions-asked swap policy so I took full advantage of it…), and was walking back when I witnessed a somewhat typical city site.

A bus pulled away from the bus stop at the curb, but didn’t make the light.  So now, the bus is about 6 feet from the curb and idling, and a guy runs up and knocks on the door and the driver, a large black woman, turns her head towards him and shakes it no.  She’s not opening the door for him, and he gets pretty irate.  He’s a handsome guy, white, late 30’s, and he starts banging his hand on the door, yelling up a storm.

After a few seconds of this, it became obvious that the driver had turned him off, and he knew it, so he ratcheted up his aggression, really wholloping on the door.

Finally, he screams, “I bet if I was black you’d open the fuckin’ door,” and ohhhh, did that get her attention.  She snaps her head towards him, and opens her door a crack, and starts to yell through the crack at him.  I have no clue what she said, but he then starts to try and pry the door open, but it’s her bus and she ain’t having none of it.  Light turns green, and she just drives away, leaving him there to scream and yell at the moving traffic.

After the bus drove away, he stewed on the curb for a minute or two, then stomped away.

Now, I’m unemployed, show’s closed, and I’ve got nothing but time, so I followed him for about five blocks, until he popped into Lefty O’Douls, a Union Square pub.  Guess he’ll catch the next one… (and, no worries about him driving drunk).

So here I am in San Francisco, happily ensconsed in my little studio in the Tenderloin neighborhood.  While the building itself is lovely (Oakwood Corporate Apartments) the neighborhood is pretty nasty.  I’ve lived around homeless people before, but I’ve never seen such a collection of them so angry at each other.  Sure, during daylight hours they’re asking me and everybody else for change, but at night, they’re ripping into each other, fighting and screaming like cats and dogs.  Pretty strange sight, the whole thing.

So, last night, I’m walking down Geary Street, back from dinner at Chipotle (my favorite!), when I see a guy sitting in front of the Walgreens a block from my place, and… I recognize him!  I freeze, look away, look back, look away, then start to walk awkwardly towards him.  My mind is RACING, going over every black guy I’ve ever met.  How do I know this guy?  Where do I know him from?  Why is his face so familiar?

As I approach him, he recognizes me.  “Hey, how ya doing?” he asks.  I stop in front of him, now openly allowed to search his face, and stammer, “fine, good.  Umm…”  And he says, “It’s Jack, from the 7-Eleven on Sunset,” and all the pieces fall into place.

 He’s “my begger,” the guy who normally sits outside “my 7-Eleven” down on Sunset and Curson in Hollywood, near my apartment.  And here he is, in San Francisco.  I exchange a couple of niceties with him, he asks who’s watching my dog (how strange is that?), I give him a few coins, and walk on.

Of course I’ve got to wonder what he’s doing in San Francisco.  Perhaps he’s gone north for the winter.  Maybe he summers in San Francisco.  Who knows…