ReadingLipps

My friends and I have all gone to San Francisco a hundred times before for the nightlife.  Dressed with shiny black shoes, nice collared shirts and wallets full of cash and credit cards.  Our girls are shiny and they sparkle as they dance in the hot sweaty clubs like Big Heart City and 1015 Folsom.  Money is spent and tipped, tabs are opened and at the end of the night we go home and crash in our beds.

            On this trip to the city, nothing like that was going to happen.

            I was invited by an artist friend of mine to spend a night in the city, with no money, no credit cards and dressed in my worst.  I had no choice but to accept.  And we were off.

            We arrived in San Francisco at 10 o’clock on Friday night.  We parked near Folsom on 7^th.  With all our financial help and support locked in the car we set off north, headed for the Tenderloin.  The Tenderloin has a reputation as the typical crack and whore neighborhood with lots of hotels by the hour. 

            The air was cold with a clear sky and a big bright moon. we had chosen a good night.  To start the night we decided to walk by a place we were familiar with, the line outside the dance club 1015 Folsom.  As we neared the line with all the people dressed in black, I noticed the looks they gave us as we passed.  They were looks of inquisitiveness, not accusatory or disgusted.  As we walked north we entered a neighborhood with intense drug traffic.  Immediately we were in a situation that tested us to the bare essential elements of a man’s soul.   

            Every single person was sizing us up and down.  Even in our grubbiest clothes it was apparent to these people that we did not belong in this part of town.  For one thing we were white.  This was a dead give away.  Most of the people were men and they were all making some sort of deal.  One man had a stack of bills in one hand, and in his other hand, held out flat, were several tightly wrapped little balls of cellophane full of crack.  With his index finger he was picking the best bundle for his few dollars that he had begged off someone. 

            One man sat huddled against a wall on 7^th street and smoked his crack.  Do you look?  Do you look them in the eye?  Do you ignore or look past them?  I didn’t know, and that is a test of any man, not knowing.  This kind of not knowing was worse than getting lost, and if it came down to it, there was nowhere to pull over and ask for directions.  At our worst we were high-class citizens and the spotlight was on us.  All their empty eyes followed us. 

            All around us were the desperate crack addicts, and they all knew we were the foreigners.  Some asked us for money while others asked us what we needed and several asked the unnerving question of whether we were cops or not.  In a dark alley I did see a police car hiding in the shadows, surely they could see the dealing?  So what?  They saw a quiet street scene, no stabbings or homicidal crack heads.

            As we emerged from the desperation of 7^th, we entered the feeding grounds of Market.  By day Market is the hustle bustle and crowded street full of shoppers and businessmen.  By night, the element of hustle soon dominates and desperation replaces bustle.  The barren streets are picked clean of goods and the buildings offer no hiding place, only flat fronts, cold sidewalks and locked doors.  We felt safer on Market, but not much. 

The inlets for doors were full of camping bums, using shopping carts and cardboard as walls and frame.  I saw a man in his box smoking a small glass crack pipe.

Another man ran by us at full speed, brushing me as he ran. Next came a police car with lights flashing and a woman in the back seat pointing at the right turn the man had made up a one way street, effectively evading them.

            Peace was hard to find, with the fear of a mugging or some other dangerous confrontation looming, looks over the shoulder were frequent and a fast pace and determined direction were vital elements, even if we didn’t know where that direction was.  I had learned this in high school in Oakland.  The kids that got picked on were the ones that looked scared and moved lightly.  To avoid their fate you kept your eyes ahead and walked strong.  Everyone on Market was walking strong. 

We got off Market and found ourselves looking at City Hall and the amazing Roman-style government buildings.  A few skateboarders were grinding wood on some nearby steps but that was it, so we stopped.  We had been at full pace for about 45 minutes and it was time to regroup and sort over the desperation we had seen in the red speedy eyes of the crack heads, with nappy hair all covered with sores and dirt.  The only care for these people was getting crack--begging, buying and smoking all day long, over and over.  If it’s a good day.

            The common thread:  every one of these guys is a hustler to the bone.  Always looking where the next dollar is hiding, in what pocket or from what scheme the next will come.  When we arrived in San Francisco, a bum tried to sell us a parking spot, I laughed because it had a meter.  Then I saw him, it occurred to me that if I wanted something to eat or drink we were going to be competing with him and I wasn’t willing to sell metered spots.

            The hustler is a most desperate man, cunning and fast on his feet.  He will have a plan when you meet him, he may be polite or he may be intimidating or both, but the goal is to hustle some money.  They sell everything from drugs and liquor to watches, they service, they help, they point out directions, they open your door, they tell you your lady looks good, they do anything and everything for a buck and they’ll do it all day, everyday.  

            Barney and I sat in the shadow of the government and talked about what we had seen.  We have seen crack heads before, but not block after block of open drug dealing and abuse.  I don’t place blame on the police or the government, because these people [which ones, crackheads or government types] are driven by one thing and you can see it in their faces, in their mannerisms and in the air.  It is the crack that keeps this all night action going.  Crack is the gas that drives this dark economy.

            I was beginning to want a drink, a beer specifically.  The buzz might bring down the tension and even serve as a buffer for this life.  So we had roughly two hours to beg some money and buy a beer and this place was dead.  I began to see like a desperate person.  Not feel like a desperate person but just see like one.  People were broken down into two groups, those with money and those that need money.  None of these people were here.

            We started to move again with the goal of getting two or three bucks for some cheap beer.  A bar emerged on the horizon and it was our first chance to get some cash.  We both walked by unable to stop and ask for money.  I knew we needed a scheme.  While we walked a tall black man walked by and, as if caught off guard, he managed to say, “Spare some change?”  Always a hustler.

            As we passed by another club, there was a “no money” man out front, hailing taxis for the departing clubbers.  He had a legitimate thing going and he was also getting whole bills, two or three at a time. 

            Barney and I stopped and watched as he made several dollars by performing a service that was not needed.  There was also a guy selling homeless magazines, he didn’t ask us to buy one.  We had stopped too long and the bouncers were beginning to think we were shady.  As we moved on we had learned a lot from the experience.  I also heard a guy say that if the bums would only say it was for booze, he would gladly give him a buck.  This was good to hear.  We could see that wherever the money is, the “no money’s” are there too.  We also learned that standing and staring at party-goers is no way to make a buck.

            It was time to move on.  We saw a lot of stuff, young hip kids drinking and the “no moneys” always on the fringe offering something or begging or thinking.  For some reason a plug-in electric radiator discarded in the street caught my attention.  In an environment like this, only the useless and broken lay in the street. 

We wandered into an area that was showing more signs of the crack energy, but now a new character was out, the whore.  They hid in doorways or on the arm of a paying date.  They had tight clothing, and tits and ass spilling out of everywhere.

            “Do you need a date baby?” they would ask.

            We felt a little safer amongst the hookers, even if some of them were men.  On one side of the street was a small liquor store.  We priced the beer, a 40 ounce bottle of Schlitz malt liquor cost $1.99.  We needed money, and I had a plan.

Soon our first group of marks wandered up.  Two really drunk guys about my age trying to pick up whores but they struck up a conversation with me.  I went with it. Shrugging off pride, I thought about that cold Schlitz.  I asked for some change and low and behold I had four quarters and some pennies. 

“Thanks” I said to them.

“No problem, I got a buck on your 40” he responded.

I reported to Barney about the dollar, he was as pleased as I was, but now our next victim was just turning the corner--three guys and two girls about our age, 24 or so.  They were drunk.  The girls did not trust us but the guys were glad to donate to our 40 fund and suddenly we were in business.  Barney went to buy the booze and while I was outside I was offered a swig of their bottle.  As I reached for it, one of the guys snatched it first and said, “We don’t know where this guy has been!”. 

I think we conveyed a contradicting image at times, being somewhat well cared for, for homeless people.  The girls clearly did not take a liking to us as they cringed and looked more at our clothes than our eyes.

Screw them and their conceptions, I got my 40 ounce.  Barney cracked it and took a big swig for satisfaction then he said we should save it for later, I took a big gulp and sealed it in agreement. 

Wandering was now the main goal, to see the sights and breathe in the foul city scene.  We observed young men, easily our peers, pricing women on the curb.  I’m not sure why it surprised me so much, but the fact that they were my age and they were trying to get a hooker.

 “No, hmm mm, that ain’t enough to take me on a date baby”, the whores would yell at deviant suitors.  The crack scene had mostly receded in this neighborhood and the carnival scene was motivated by sex now.  A few girls were very young and attractive, but most were not.  Some places they seemed to be working from hotels.  The streets were packed around 1:30 a.m. and the hot commodity was the hookers.  

I began to drink the beer and settle a bit.

The cars that were cruising the scene were surprising.  Most of the cars were very nice and were driven by seemingly “normal” people, whatever that may be nowadays.

Possibly the most intriguing thing about the scene is how small it really was.  We had seen the same people over and over.  The two drunk guys that had given me my first change, we saw them two more times at different places talking to the same hookers we had seen on several other corners throughout the night.  These are not faceless people that will melt into the scene, these are the same few people that do this every night.  Circling the blocks trying to wring a dollar here and a dollar there.

The scene raged on until 2:30 when Barney and I decided to move on.  Fatigue began to make itself apparent and I knew the real challenge started now.  I was getting tired.  But there was another surprise and a harsh reality of the city still waiting to reveal itself.

As we walked down Eddy St. a car peeled around the corner and hit a pedestrian as he crossed with the walk sign.  He was driven into the hood of the car until the acceleration of the car stopped and the man was tossed five feet in front of the Blazer truck.  He rolled once and sat up slowly. 

I was stunned with disbelief.  The driver got out and offered help, but the victim brushed the man off and sat for a moment, then rose to his feet under his own power.  At that point the driver returned to his vehicle and sped off.  Barney and I were the only witnesses.

I asked if he was OK and he nodded yes just as a police car and fire truck coincidentally passed and stopped.  I was holding the 40 ounce Schlitz and I was being pointed to by a cop, verifying me as a witness.  My stomach turned, as the thought of a demoralizing open container misdemeanor occurred to me.

I quickly rounded the corner and threw the bottle in a trashcan.  Just then the cop yelled at me, ”We need to talk to you”. 

With the beer and the fatigue hitting me, I was not pleased to be in direct contact with a police officer.  He asked a few questions but the man that had been hit had walked away without filing charges.  Barney and I stayed and talked to the cop for a few minutes.  He seemed a decent fellow and was seemingly having a good night.  I guess the constant and apparent street business had become like the lines in the road to him and to Barney and I as well.  He said goodbye and soon the city wiped away the incident and everyone was gone.

Sleep became a pressing issue and soon we would need a place to call home and finish our prized 40 ounces.  I didn’t so much need to go to sleep, as I just wanted to know there was someplace to sleep.  No soft bed told me when to go home and how hard to party.  A vast empire of entry-less concrete facades differing only in the type of concrete they were poured from or the paint they wore, laid before us. 

A few doors were open.  At first there was two places you could get into for a price.  There were liquor stores and hotels, sleazy hotels.  By the hour hotels with steel cages across the counter and always a nefarious crowd looming in front for the next person to pay for some crack and an hour of privacy to smoke it or do whatever else was agreed upon.

At two a.m. the liquor stores close and this leaves the hotels, whores and the crack dealers. 

            Barney and I were not rich enough to get a hotel room right now, even for an hour.  We wandered more and soon came across a school yard that was fenced in.  Along the back of the school yard was a strip of garden that had reeds blocking the front, perfect for some urban camping.  Barney pointed it out but we kept on for a bit hoping for some better accommodation.  After a brief rest and discussion of the plan we decided to return to the fenced yard we had seen. 

            The fence was a masterpiece of anti-climbing paraphernalia.  Made of vertical bars, it was designed to keep kids in, and us out.  As a master tree and fence climber in my younger years, I was impressed with the challenge.  We would get over with a little help from a decorative collage that broke up the vertical symmetry.

As I threw my legs and arms upward at the fence, the forty which I had stuffed in my pocket came loose and fell to its shattering on the concrete.  I fell with it and soon Barney’s hand slapped against his forehead with disbelief.  He said a few bad words and so did I.  It was truly tragic.  Our lone possession and source of heat and comfort fell onto the ground and ran down into the cracks that break your mother’s back.

We finally made it over the fence and for the first time in our night, there was peace.  A second fence was easily scaled and soon the peace was piercing.  We were sitting in the bushes behind two fences and peace was ours, but more than anything rest. 

            I needed rest from the constant calculations your brain makes while one is in a hostile environment.  Watching your back and scanning for dropped goods, while

thinking of a scam and watching for someone to run it on, all this is very harsh.  Now there was silence and it truly was golden.  Barney and I stared at each other and laughed, like two rich bandits on a train to Mexico.  We had struck gold with this spot.  We laughed and laughed about everything. 

            As we laughed, the desperation of the city would dawn on us, and laughter would fade to disbelief.  But always the laughter of the absurdity of it all would return.  So much absurdity.  It was almost a Dali painting out there, with the police looking as absurd as a melting clock in a vast abyss devoid of morality.  We laughed and smoked our cigarettes, we commiserated about the lost 40 oz. but in the end, that was pretty funny too.  Our talk carried on and now with a place to sleep we decided to venture out again.             

  As I put my hands on the fence to begin our assault on the city I was greeted by an old friend.  A fairly large woman walked by pushing one electric plug-in radiator.  Barney covered his mouth to restrain his laughter as he pointed at the tattered heater, but the city was cannibalizing itself.  We laughed at the absurdity again, but it was only a delirium, because the truth was truly sad. 

With a “home” I was more confident and I moved with assured moves. I was seemingly fearless.  The crack heads were more of an obstacle than a threat.  And then I noticed that I smelled like beer and cigarettes, dirt, sweat and grass.  I smelled like I belonged, and for the first time I felt like I belonged.  We explored more but soon headed for the retreat of our bush. 

For bed sheets we had ripped fresh garbage bags from some cans and spread them out to keep the moisture out, then laid on our backs and faded away. 

I thought of my girlfriend warm in her bed, and my mother in her bed thinking I’m home safe in mine, while in fact I’m staring at the skies, at peace with my soul in the streets of San Francisco.

Neither of us really slept well and we were back to the car early.  As we traced our meandering steps the crack heads were either still at it or back at it.  The crowd was jollier now however, the desperation was relieved by smiles.  The desperate had been satisfied or sent home.  A man asked me for change.  I declined.  As we walked the same man ran past me having scored from someone behind me.  He was headed for the crack dealer.

As he ran into the mob that congregated on the corner, he was greeted with slaps to the head and sarcastic comments that marked him as the lowliest crack-head amongst them.  With no more than a dollar or two he bought the bare minimum amount of crack purchasable. 

Another man stopped me for a light, insisting that “they” wouldn’t allow him to have fire any more.  As he laughed sarcastically about his guardians he looked over his shoulder to feign paranoia. Another woman insisted that he “better put down that lighter before 'they' see you”.  Whatever they were talking about I have no idea but they were jolly.  Sitting around an old porn theater they looked like drunk campers around a campfire.  Then I saw a young man smoking his crack pipe and I remembered.

The walk back to the car was about three miles and allowed me to revisit my journey.   As we approached the safety of our car, I saw a homeless man in the street and I reached into my pocket for the last two cigarettes that I had clung to as one of my few possessions.  I pulled them out and asked if the man wanted them.  He accepted enthusiastically as I tossed them in his lap.