And I Would Deserve It

One burgundy shirt and a wooden bead necklace away from looking Rajneesh, I parked my car on the north side of the 400 block of Golden Gate. It was almost 6 pm and I was counting on meter parking being free. I was right.

In the boot of the car was my burgundy jacket. I was wearing burgundy pants, a black t-shirt, and Red Wing ankle boots. This was my outfit for our gig at City Hall. 

Across the street was Stars -- long shuttered. It was a fancy restaurant before fancy restaurants.  In ’89 I picked up Leslie Nielson and 2 friends South of Market in my cab and took them there. The entrance was in the alley at 150 Redwood.

At the corner of Golden Gate and Van Ness was Chevy’s – long shuttered. They had light airy chips with mild salsa. When I splurged for lunch, I ordered 2 chicken enchiladas and a Diet Pepsi in a large, red plastic cup, filling up on the chips and salsa before the order arrived. I miss Chevy’s.

Across the street was The Opera Café. Still there. On their door, it says, “This is a good place for a diet. This is a bad place for a diet.”  Waiters were adorned in tuxes, prone to break out in song. This was their shtick. Never been there.

Walking down Van Ness toward McAllister, the sidewalk was filled with workers going home or out to dinner. The light at McAllister was on the tail end of a green light. I slowed, knowing I wouldn’t make it. Bringing up the rear of the workers crossing the street, a homeless man walked his bike, two large Hefty bags filled with recyclables tied to the seat post, protruding three feet on both sides. It was a sight I’d seen before.

As the bike up rolled up the slight incline of the handicap ramp, his bags inevitably hit everyone he passed. The last person to get hit was a young man in colored denim, a button up long sleeve dress shirt and tie. No jacket. It was casual, but work appropriate. It said he cared about looking good for work.

The homeless man was Southeast Asian, slightly built with thick, black, unkempt hair and saucer eyes in full dilation, as if he was desperately trying to receive more light from the sun. My drug-dar being off since leaving the Tenderloin 5 years ago, rendering me a drug layman, I deduced he was mixing drugs: alcohol with methamphetamine, I would say. And throw in some mental illness and poverty. 30 years ago, I would’ve said his ass was crazy.

Like everyone else who got hit by the bags, the young worker ignored it and moved on, looking up at the adjacent building’s 2^nd-floor window and talking on his phone. However, the homeless man had had enough. He called out the worker:

“Fuck you, man. You’re a fucking asshole. Fuck you.”

I approached the scene, stopping about 10 feet from the worker and immediately deduced that I could take the guy if need be. My Tenderloin co-worker of 13 years taught me that you “don’t jump over the bar unless you’re going to win the fight.” I was pretty sure I had this. Before a physical altercation, I would employ my own Tenderloin tactic: yell every swear word as loud as you can. Or a calm, “Move on, motherfucker,” while intently staring at the subject. This usually worked. Luckily, no one seemed intent on fighting.

As I stood there, ready, I noticed that for every “fuck you,” the worker nodded politely, not engaging the homeless man. It was fascinating. He had turned toward the man, expressionless, taking everything he said with a slight nod.

As the homeless man tired of swearing, he yelled, “I should kick you in the balls.” This was obviously his swan song. It would either invoke a physical reaction or that would be it. There were others watching and the intrigue was waning. Either way, I was ready,

On cue, the young worker nodded and spoke. We all waited: "And I would deserve it." I did not expect that. I looked around as if I were the only one who heard it, with an expression that said, "Did you hear what he said? It was brilliant. I love this guy."

The worker looked up toward the window. A woman appeared and dropped a key. He vanished into the doorway of the apartment. I stayed put as the homeless man walked past me, processing what I had seen.

The hyper-masculine approach of my youth and my Tenderloin training of swearing loudly was dead -- this was the future. The future was calm, inclusive and empathetic. It was something he learned in school, starting in kindergarten. It wasn’t learned in a workshop, class or retreat. It embodied him, it came naturally. As naturally as anger came to me.