Hike SF

According to my map, I walked through the “T” in the Tenderloin this morning. Despite its pervasive poverty and pungent stench, the loin has a feeling of hustle and bustle akin to the financial district. Overladen shopping carts weave to and fro. Gristled old men push stained, empty strollers. Tourists examine the bottoms of their shoes.

Along Jones, I happened upon the “Anti-Saloon League,” established 1920. A windowless corner space whose single door had an eye slot. Above the door: an air vent and a featureless light fixture, like you’d install in a back alley. This must be Bourbon and Branch, I thought.

Pitiful boasts characterize the buildings along Jones. A sign on the Hotel Herald proclaimed, “Steel Frame Bldg.” Across the street, a Chinese Restaurant flew a banner with letters bigger than the name, “No MSG.” An hourly on the next block trumpeted, “Rooms Cleaned Daily!”

Ugly or depressing sights are no rarity in the Tenderloin, but last week I saw something truly disturbing. Walking down Golden Gate near the federal building, a few homeless kids were strewn across the sidewalk. The youngest, looking about ten years old and 90 pounds, sat in a pile with his legs covered in blankets.

His face had a couple of open sores, and his arms were absolutely covered with them. He stared intensely at a quarter-sized wound on the back of his arm, below the elbow. Right as I walked by, he unflinchingly plunged a needle into its center.

I was shocked, speechless. Drug addicts, I’ve seen my fair share, but not enough to prepare me to see a child like that.

In the Tenderloin it’s not unusual for big groups of homeless folks and crack addicts to block the entire sidewalk. Shuffling, howling, hollering, sometimes even singing, they pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Bold passersby push through, timid ones go back the way they came, and Goldilocksen circumvent via the gutter.

After a few near misses with cars, I decided that stepping into the street was not a good way to approach the problem. For a while I tried writing in my book as I walked towards. Sometimes, thinking I was four four, they’d step aside, sometimes they wouldn’t. After that I tried holding my book vertically with hands folded, like a Jehovah’s Witness. That sometimes worked too, but drew angry barks just as often.

On Wednesday morning, Leavenworth taught me a cleverer trick. Crowds tend to congregate on the shady side of the street. So those willing to walk in the sun will never be bothered.

On the sidewalks of Laskie resides a small homeless camp around Bike Kitchen, which was closed, but I assume hosts hot meals daily. “What time is it?” the upright dweller asked.

Looking at my watch, “quarter to ten,” I responded. He looked at me so quizzically that I stopped. We stared at each other for a minute. Speaking slowly this time: “nine forty five.” “Oh! Thankee,” he said, and laid back down. I’d done this dance enough times to suspect a curious gap in vernacular comprehension of local homeless folks.

Shortly after, on Minna and 9th, a homeless man was winding up like a baseball pitcher. His ball was a small scrap of paper, which slowly fell to earth near the edge of the sidewalk. Somehow thinking it was a real ball, and somehow thinking it had fallen in the middle of the street, he started screaming, “timeout, timeout,” and ran into traffic. Brakes squealed and horns blared as drivers begrudgingly avoided hitting him. His imaginary ball had rolled under a car, so he got on hands and knees to reach underneath a light truck.

Near my shuttle stop, a hefty woman was perusing trinkets for sale on a blanket, and talking to herself. “He doesn’t ever take me out, say I don’t need to eat no more. I’ll buy myself something.” She was hovering over an assortment of half full hotel-sized bottles of lotion. “I know I’m a fat bitch, I don’t care, I’ll take his ass to dinner.”

Update: The Bike Kitchen is a bicycle repair coop, not a soup kitchen. I should do my research before posting, not after.

We arrived an hour late to Kate’s on sauntering Saturday, fortunately the short notice meant that no one was waiting. A rowdy bunch–probably from the Marina–dominated the bar when we arrived, but soon departed to continue their pub crawl. Once they’d left, Brandon nicked a discarded map that divulged their route, weaving up from Townsend up through Chinatown and ending on Columbus. Each of the six bars had six pint icons next its name, and the caption instructed you to check off one per drink. This level of alcoholic ambition, I thought, deserves some respect.

After downing our greasy grub (which hit the spot, but was slightly sub par), we hit the streets, ambling down to the end of Natoma. The first block skirts the transbay terminal, and all the rest is composed only of alleys. We finally heard from DQ near 6th, and agreed to meet him at the corner. He was only a few blocks behind us, so it wasn’t long to wait.

6th between Folsom and Market are among the most crowded with homeless folk in the city, and they proved to be particularly active at dusk. They laughed and joked, hemmed and hawed, and played games of chicken with passing cars. Upon DQ’s arrival, one of them came closer to compliment his pants, a black and red number, with a punk rock tone. The stranger handed me his jacket and playfully addressed DQ, “I’ll fight you for those pants!”

Quick to retort, DQ jumped into the exaggerated pose of an 1920s boxer and fired back, “then put up your dukes.” They shuffled their feet and spun fists for a bit, but eventually decided just to shake hands. As we walked off, the stranger made a faint attempt to be compensated for his character, but they group already had too much momentum.

Rather than reversing onto Minna once Natoma was done, we chose to beat a path to Toronado for drinks with Hobe. The only two things I remember learning later that night were thus: 1) Rosemunde is even more delicious with beef chili and 2) Ellie’s afraid of cemeteries.

Update: no sauntering Saturday this week. Ellie and I have other plans.

My morning stroll took my down 15th and back up 13th today, wherein a claw and shovel were grappling huge chunks of scrap in much the same way a baby would with plastic straws. Picking them up, putting then down, picking them up again. I stopped and stared for a few minutes, but was unable to detect a pattern.

Further along, two homeless men were walking down Howard–one with a bike, obviously stolen. They bragged both about petty crimes, thievery and betrayal in the Tenderloin. “Slapping that bitch,” and “smoking rocks.”

After half a block, I tried to make my way around them. “Whoa, mister comin’ through,” the short one said. “Kick him out of the way,” said the tall thief, “he ain’t worth shit.” They both laughed, and stepped aside to make a path. This must be an old joke, I thought. And I’m not a connoisseur, but that’s a pretty nice bike.

Along Market below 7th, a swarm of transients were ambling back and forth across the wide sidewalk, forming an urban gauntlet. Their ranks were thick, but an unexpected gap surrounded the audio shop. As it turns out, no amount of street hardening can prepare you for Celine Dion blasted from twenty thousand dollars worth of amplifiers.