1989
Being an FNG (fucking new guy) got me the worst taxi on the lot: a beat up, late ‘80s Ford station wagon with a governor, which prevented me from going over 55 mph, and an ignition that didn’t require a key. All you had to do was turn it. No key needed. The governor wasn’t a big deal since you were mostly on city streets. It only became an issue when you were racing back to the airport on a “short.” That’s cabbie talk. I worked for City Cab. We called it Shitty Cab. I was definitely in a shitty cab.
Heading north on Larkin, I pulled into a red zone at Geary. The red zone was roomie so the long wagon fit perfectly.
A wad of cash bulged from the right pocket of my brown Levi cords. It was after midnight and I was doing well, so the bulge loomed large. To my right the Century Theater advertised Live Naked Girls and a block away the Mitchell Brothers Theater advertised the same. I regularly drove handfuls of men in suits to both, and shuttled strippers and happy-ending masseuses to different parlors, clubs and drawn out wild-goose searches for drugs. The suits usually asked about the credibility and status of the clubs they were going to and the strippers usually sexualized the ride, offering empty compliments and feigning interest in me in hopes of sway. After 2 a.m., the latter extended invitations to “party.” Tempting as it was, I never got out of the cab. They were always angling for a free ride.
Before walking into the liquor store at Larkin and Geary, I glanced up at 901 Geary, a 6 story SRO hotel on the edge of the Tenderloin. Work took me into this hotel, every now and then. Anytime I passed the hotel, I thought about an index card pinned to a bulletin board in the lobby of the hotel: For Sale, Iron Broad, $5, Knock on Room 401, If Interested. I stared at the 4x6 card and thought, “What the hell is an iron broad?” It took some time, but I figured it out: Ironing Board. At the time, I was prepared to knock on room #401, 5 bucks in hand, and buy an iron broad. To me, and iron broad hails from the Balkans and stomps wherever she goes.
A homeless man asked for change as I walked past. I nodded and continued through the doors of the liquor store. The store was small, poorly lit and crowded, reeking of Freon and wet wood. They all smelled like this. I was tall so I could see over the isles, identifying the refrigerators. I grabbed a 12-ounce Diet Pepsi and made my way to the register, my right hand resting against the rolled-up cash in my pocket. I stopped, turned around and went back to the refrigerators. Passing the small soda section, I stopped at the large beer section. I opened the glass door and grabbed a 40-ounce Mickey’s Big Mouth. The clerk put the Mickey’s in a perfectly sized brown bag. I reached in my right pocket and slapped a few earned dollars on the counter.
Outside, the homeless man was still crumpled against the liquor store wall. Without stopping to proselytize and pander, I handed him the 40 and said, “Take care, Brother.” His eyes lit up. “Thank you, Man.”
It felt good, really good. I continued up Larkin, making a right on Post. Post would take me to Union Square where I would find fares. As I drove, I defended my actions in my head. Yes, it was questionable to buy beer for the homeless, but I didn’t care. Spare change, leftover food and choruses of “get a job” were the norm. My new norm would be alcohol for the homeless.
At Powell I picked up a French couple that flew from France to see Metallica at the Cow Palace the following day. I was impressed, but more impressed about my epiphany. From then on, when I encountered a homeless person and there was a liquor store nearby and there was a bulge of money in my pocket and I was in the right mood, I would buy them beer or ½ pints without shame. I was out!!
If she purchased a bottle of water and two bananas, I wouldn’t have noticed her. She would’ve been like millions of other yoga moms out there, sporting a yoga uniform of lycra-mix cropped pants and power tanks, North Face down vests, high ponytails and the dreaded yoga mats slung from their shoulders. I find the latter smug — a beacon to the world that she eats right, volunteers, gives money to the right causes and generally acts in a peaceful, well postured manner. Privileged, as we say. I only noticed her because she purchased a Super Big Gulp of soda and two bananas. Out of character for the stereotype. Not the bananas.
Cradled between Highway 13 and 580, forming a triangle of mishmash housing, 3 hooker motels, 2 storefront churches and a sketchy used car lot, 7-Eleven stands behind a crumbling, 6-space parking lot, 20 yards from the road. The omnipresent Redbox kiosk perched in front, the screen-shade in tatters from use or vandalism. Across the street a chain-link fence divides the freeway from the frontage road. Attached to a section of fence was a large sign that said, “We Love you, Ken Houston. Our Mayor of East Oakland.” The large canvas was attached to the fence with zip ties. When CalTrans took it down, the zip ties remained, hanging like bats.
On the other side of the 580, Mills College, with their high fences and sprawling meadows, anchors the neighborhood -- their influence trickling back across the freeway with a freshly paved section of road, new sidewalks, a bike path and the replacement of the archetypal upside-down cane-like street lamps with quaint, candle-like lamps. If you were to drive on the road, you would think the city favored the left side of the street and disliked the 7-Eleven side of the road.
The yoga mom was in front me. Staring at her high ponytail, she placed 2 bananas and her Super Big Gulp on the counter. She paid and walked out the door. That was the end of it. I wouldn’t see her again nor would I think of her. Like a dream, my thoughts of her would fade.
I put my recycled 44-ounce plastic cup full of Diet Pepsi on the counter and paid in change. My pockets always carried at least 2 dollars in quarters, dimes and nickels.
Pushing opening the glass double-doors, I made a slight left, following the sidewalk to my car. The homeless man was still slumped against the wall, his hair, face and hands the color of dirt, his clothes stiff and emanating a slight sheen. In front of him on the concrete, 2 bananas, like a blackjack hand. I looked around for yoga mom and saw a grey Audi Q8 pulling out onto MacArthur without two bananas, confirming my cavalier analysis of yoga mom.
Having acknowledged the homeless man on the way in, I felt it was redundant and/or too liberal to acknowledge him on the way out. I nodded, though. Sitting in the driver’s seat of my Prius, I pressed the ignition button. I plugged in my phone and pressed Bluetooth on the display screen. I stared at the 2 bananas. The 2 fucking bananas.
I pressed the ignition button again, opened the door and walked back into the 7-Elelven. The homeless man asked again for change and I slightly nodded. This was the third time in 5 minutes that we exchanged this consumer/homeless dance. I was in uncharted water of how to act.
The beer fridge occupied the full southern wall of the 7-Elelven. I moved with purpose to the fridge and grabbed a 40 of Colt 45. It was the cheapest. I struggled a bit with getting the cheapest beer, my internal privilege being questioned, but all the choices were crap. It’s a 40-ouncer. It’s beer.
“Thirsty, eh?” the man behind the counter sassed. “Yep,” I nodded. Explaining what I was doing would be pointless. There was a level of anonymity I needed to adhere to incase the homeless man drinks the 40, takes off his clothes and writhes against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 7-Eleven. In this case, I could be held responsible for his actions. I imagined the man that sassed me looking at the security tape of me giving the homeless man beer and saying, “That’s him. That’s the guy. The tomato face, Will Ferrell looking guy. He gave him the beer. Get him??” Of course, he would be saying this to a cop. The police would come to my house, take me away and parade me down Piedmont Street as the guy that gives alcohol to the homeless not food or money. Bystanders would throw organic tomatoes at me.
This wasn’t gonna happen.
Without stopping to proselytize and pander, I handed the 40 to the homeless man and said, “Take care, Brother.” His eyes lit up. “Thank you, Man. You want these bananas?”
“Nope.”
Vindication.
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