The corner of Ellis and Polk

While waiting at the light, I look to my left. A woman is staring at me. She could pass as someone who had a job, until she opened her mouth.

“Do you know where fucking Glide is at?”

It was one of those days, so I was on her level and didn’t miss a beat:

“I don’t know where fuckin Glide is at, but Glide is at Ellis and Taylor,” pointing downtown.

Looking me in the eye, like this whole Tenderloin mess was my fault, she blurted, “I hate this fuckin’ place.”

Preaching to the choir, I concurred, “Me too. Me fuckin’ too.”