Julius Caesar once said, “I come to praise San Francisco and the American West as it is now, not to bury it in maudlin history.” A lot of people don’t know about that.
Yet, history is a perspective for the present. After 39 years where do I begin? Leaving the Mid-Atlantic seaboard was necessary.And splendidly easy. Had to escape the grime, the litter, the this-is-the-way-it’s-gonna-be-regardless. Taking off in a blizzard, landing into a fog. Being driven through the fog, across the Golden Gate, up Mount Tamilpais, through to spectacular, quintessentially Californian sunshine. A sea of snow-white foam with two islands, the other being Mount Diablo. Smitten by the intangible promise within that reality. Later that day, San Francisco asked me to stay; so I did.
San Francisco
They say that the 500 block of Market Street is the most pedestrian-trafficked block in San Francisco. Thousands of commuters stream in and out of the Montgomery Street BART station, there,daily. Not one of them, not one, knows that area, the Financial District, better than me. I argued the point with Healy, the gorgeously tattooed bar-keep at the Elbo Room, ex-bike messenger, a few years back. Sure, Healy was right, any full-time messenger knew more streets and shortcuts in the County as a whole. But I had been walking that block for 39 years. It might be the financial district to them. It’s a neighborhood to me.
I asked Healy if she recalled Market Street before BART. She didn’t. I recall the pile drivers setting foundations of high-rises at the same time the BART was being tunneled underground. I asked Healy if she recalled Mitch. She didn’t.
Mitch dressed sharp. Always wore green. Forest-green fedora topping a set of black slacks and a green/gray tweed sports coat. Nice tie. Mitch pan-handled at the same spot for 25 years. Hard work, strong man. Rain, wind, sun. Al;ways smiling, always concealing a dislike of human friendship. When his legs gave out, he slept in his wheelchair in the store entrance to the perpetually failing clothing store next to the GNC store. Sheeted in plastic against the night. Lost his legs to diabetes. Gone so long, I thought he’d died. Nope. Seated in that wheelchair, stumps concealed. Finally, the need for a colostomy bag slowed him down. Still slept outside in warm weather. Hated the shelters. Reluctant to take charity. Proud to the last. I didn’t particularly like Mitch. He didn’t particularly like me. We knew each other for about 20 years.
The “bums” of Market Street are business people of a sort. The spots for pan-handling are allocated by seniority. Some have pan-handled for decades at the same location. Folks have been pan-handling on the 500 block of Market Street since the 1850s. A lot of people don’t know about that.
Hold your course steady. - Salty.