Business men read their morning paper, folding them like tacos, sardined against each other in the train car. No one is without head phones not even me. No one is without something to stare at, a book, a news paper, a phone. People will do anything to forget their morning commute, an hour pressed against a strangers shoulder requires either an admirable set of social grace or the more popular ability to acknowledge nothing but what is in ones hands; sometimes feet.
I look at the words above the seats by the sliding door of the train, they read, "Federal Law requires that these seats be made available to seniors and people with disabilities." To the right of those words is a woman comfortably in her sixties on her way to work, yielding a brief case and a cane. I wonder to myself, given that it is 7:30am what time she must wake up to put makeup and clothes on. She moves slowly, and I agree with myself after a carefully worded debate that she must wake up at 5:05am, the reason for the :05 is that she allows herself one snooze, the five minutes of which she does not sleep; she just thinks about work. In the seat next to those words sits a man comfortably in his thirties pretending not to notice her struggle to stand as the train stops and takes off, his socks match, his lapel is new and just the kind of man you'd figure to lay out his outfit before bed. I could give the old woman my seat, but I'm tired and my compassion does not stir for yet another hour.
I get off at the 16th Mission B.A.R.T which is notoriously dangerous but given the time of day I had hoped the 8:00am light would shine away the horrors of the Mission, but crime and poverty do not sleep; they are always awake twirling their thumbs on bubble gum benches and making hand puppets in the shadows of street light brick. There is an art gallery I hope to place my art in near this stop, my canvas's protrude from my backpack as a declaration of my artistic undertaking and for a moment I worry that they will be stolen.
I arise to the streets of the Mission from the depths of underground transportation and within seconds witness a cracked out man steal as much produce as he can carry from a small storefront and a homeless man feed pigeons off his lap and hands, the birds pecking at the grains fallen in his beard. I walk briskly with the cold and see a man across the street puke onto the cross walk, and the pigeons who have tired of grain swoop in to clean it up. It was Heroin puke. There is a difference between Heroin puke and alcohol puke. Heroin puke usually does not have food in it, but when it does it is only minutes after being consumed, leaving undigested, half chewed food glazed in stomach acid sprawled out in a pigeon buffet on the concrete. Alcohol puke is mostly liquid and ultimately scoffed at by city birds. They can't teach you these things in College.
I decide to meet my friend Krista for breakfast in the Castro District a mile up hill, I figure I'll wait until there are more witnesses before I make the pilgrimage to the art gallery. I get passed by a man in possession of the most beautiful ass I have ever seen and I struggle for six blocks to not loose the sight, but his walk is my run and I can't keep up. Everyone in this city has legs and ass's of Gods and walk up steep hills as if rolling down them. I however take cigarette breaks half way up a hill, on Van Ness I take several.
I meander by doorways that despite the frigid cold, smell of urine; I pass, despite the cold, boy prostitutes wearing shorts so short their butt cheeks jiggle underneath the cut off seams, exposing fleshy goosebumps and scuffs from side walk slumbers. I encounter sidewalk Santas, one asks me, "Can I have 13 cents?" I tell him I have no money with an apologetic tone and he screams through his white turned brown beard, "Then get a fucking job faggot" and tries to spit on me. Another Santa leans against the brick of the Castro Theater beside his mobile home shopping cart stolen from a local pharmacy. Sitting on his shoulders is a full grown tabby cat which he affectionately calls Allen while scratching its bedraggled head. On the corner of Castro and market, a group of homeless men huddle for warmth between the trolly and sidewalk chairs which during the summer, before the ban on Nudity last month, naked men congregate over coffee.
The morning light beams through buildings and I see twin peeks from where I stand but in spite of the beauty I can't take anymore. Like a kid playing tag, I retreat to base in a coffee shop. The bars are not open yet, and I could go for a Hot Toddy. Krista meets me at the coffee shop unfazed by the trenches she has just walked through to get here, her purse loosely hanging from her shoulder. People that live here or that are from here, show no signs of fear or sadness when they see what I have just seen. It is part of every day, part of the charm inner city San Fransisco has to offer.
After we drop off this art I plan to go back to the water.
Nothing ever bad really happens there.
