Friday Fiction on Saturday - Retellings

(sorry for the delay, 'tis the season...")

Retellings

I was in San Francisco. This is one of my favorite cities; the people, the geography, the climate, the politics, just about everything feels right to me, so I was really happy about the visit. Shortly after I settled into my hotel I decided to take a walk, I was just too excited to stay still and I wanted to see what was in the neighborhood.



Now, every time I visit San Francisco, there is one thing that strikes me beyond all else. While I certainly notice the bridge, the fog, the architecture, it’s the sheer number of homeless people that gets me. Maybe it’s the weather or the legislation, but San Francisco consistently has a greater density of homeless people than anywhere else I’ve visited in the US.

I believe that everyone should be treated with dignity, so I try to make eye contact, talk with people, treat them like human beings, even while I won’t give money, but by the 25th or 50th person who asked me for a dollar I was getting tired. I was getting tired of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t, not today.” I was tired of seeing the far greater exhaustion in their faces. I was tired of the persistence of poverty and my own feeling of helplessness as I kept saying, “No.”

I began to walk back to my hotel, averting my face, turning into one of those people who just walk by, when I saw her up ahead; she was hard to miss. A big woman, wearing bright pink sweatpants and a red shirt, she saw me coming. When I was half a block away she began calling to me.

“Miss! Miss? Can I ask you a question? Hey miss, can you help me out? Just a little bit would help.”



She kept asking me, pivoting her body as I ducked my head and passed. She didn’t stop calling until I was a block away, her voice trailing behind me. 

“Miss? Hey miss?”


I don’t like this story. I don’t like this story. I do not like this story.



I would prefer to tell you this story:


I was in San Francisco. It’s one of my favorite cities, one of those places that feels like home, so I was happy about the visit. Shortly after I settled into my hotel I decided to take a walk; I was too excited to stay still and I wanted to see what was in the neighborhood.

Now, every time I visit San Francisco, one thing strikes me beyond all else. While I certainly notice the diversity, the microclimates, the quirky stores, it’s the sheer number of homeless people that gets me. Maybe it’s the weather or the legislation, but San Francisco consistently has a greater density of homeless people than anywhere else I’ve visited in the US.

I believe that everyone should be treated with dignity, so I try to make eye contact, talk with people, treat them like human beings, even while I won’t give money, but by the 25th or 50th person who asked me for a dollar I was getting tired. I was getting tired of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t, not today.” I was tired of seeing the far greater exhaustion in their faces. I was tired of the persistence of poverty and my own feeling of helplessness as I kept saying, “No.”



I began to walk back to my hotel, still looking at people, still acknowledging them though with admittedly less enthusiasm, when I saw her up ahead; she was hard to miss. A big woman, wearing bright pink sweatpants and a red shirt, she saw me coming. When I was half a block away she began calling to me.

“Miss! Miss? Can I ask you a question? Hey miss, can you help me out? Just a little bit would help.”


I thought about crossing the street. I thought about just walking by. Then I remembered that I was close to my hotel, that I had a hotel to go back to. I was lucky. When I got to her, I said, as I had to so many people, “I’m sorry, I can’t not today.” She stepped back and turned to ask the next passer by; I was as invisible to her as she was everyone else.


This is a better story. I wish I could tell you this one:


Not too long ago I visited San Francisco. It’s one of my favorite cities, someplace I can slide into as though I never left. Shortly after I settled into my hotel I decided to take a walk; I wanted to stretch and reacquaint myself with the neighborhood.



Now, every time I visit San Francisco, one thing strikes me beyond all else. While I certainly notice the history, the quality of the Pacific light, the interstices of the neighborhoods, it’s the sheer number of homeless people that gets me. Maybe it’s the weather or the legislation, but San Francisco consistently has a greater density of homeless people than anywhere else I’ve visited in the US. 


I believe that everyone should be treated with dignity, so I try to male eye contact, talk with people, treat them like human beings, even if I won’t give them money, but by the 25th or 50th person who asked me for a dollar, I was getting tired. I was getting tired of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t, not today.” I was tired of seeing the far greater exhaustion in their faces. I was tired of the persistence of poverty and my own feeling of helplessness.

I began to walk back to my hotel, still looking at people, still acknowledging them though with admittedly less enthusiasm, when I saw her up ahead; she was hard to miss. A big woman, wearing bright pink sweatpants, a red shirt and a thrift store jacket from the 1980s, she saw me coming. When I was half a block away she began calling to me. 



“Miss! Miss? Can I ask you a question? Hey miss, can you help me out? Just a little bit would help.”


I thought about crossing the street. I thought about just walking by. Then I remembered that I was close to my hotel, that I had a hotel to go back to. I was lucky. When I got to her I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

She looked at me and said, “Why not?”

I was taken aback, usually people don’t engage with me when I say no.

“Well, I don’t have that much money myself. But moreso because I don’t know if you’ll use that money for food or to hurt yourself.” As I said this I realized just how pompous I sounded. She looked at me for a moment, so I added, “I’d be glad to buy you a sandwich.”

“Okay.”

I took her order to the scraggly convenience store across the street, then delivered meal.

“Thanks,” she said, cramming it into one of her bags. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” Without waiting she gathered her belongings and began walking.

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t hesitate, of course I did, but sometimes you go anyway. Sometimes you just do things like that. She led me up one of those steep San Francisco hills and I have to admit, for all that she outweighed me and was carrying shopping bags full of god-knows-what, I was panting to keep up with her. We turned down a few narrow streets and then found ourselves in Chinatown.

Like every tourist, I love San Francisco Chinatown. I especially love the architecture, with the few pre-1906 earthquake buildings still clinging to their neighbors. I wanted to linger and look, but she kept her pace brisk and led me off the main road to a narrower street, then stopped so abruptly that I almost bumped into her.

“There,” she said, “It’s down there.”

She was pointing down a narrow alley, a crevasse of the city. She looked at me expectantly, as if saying Why wouldn’t you? I looked around. There were few people on this residential street, those that were nearby had no interest in a tourist and a bum. I took a deep breath and stepped into the alley, back in time.

The buildings arched high above me, seeming to lean into one another. Small balconies jutted out at random while enticing, unfamiliar smells drifted everywhere. A woman cutting up chicken with a cleaver sat outside her narrow door. I could feel my guide behind me propelling me forward.

The end of the alley was blocked by a tall, wooden fence painted a brilliant blue. “There,” she said, a voice in my ear, “Look there.” I could see a hole cut in the fence.

Standing on tiptoes I peered through and saw paradise. Trellises of brilliant orange and red and blue flowers snaked across the brickwork. Potted green trees so lovingly cared for that they bore fruit even in this urban eden; mangos on their ropey stems and papaya just waiting to give up their sweetness. Small pots of herbs cut a spicy note through the sweetness and every green leaf glistened with drops of water catching sunlight from far above.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the lush living scent. I heard a rustle of wings that grew to a furor then opened my eyes in time to see a rushing shadow pass over the garden and out to the city beyond. The plants barely bobbed their leaves in response to the breeze from the flight.

When I turned around my guide was gone. I walked back down the alley and somehow found my way back to my hotel, where I dreamt of green growing things and brilliant blue skies full of flight.

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer