The Chase

Well, after a loud and busy though otherwise uneventful night (drunken belgians, crack deals, swearing frenchmen, the usual), I managed to spot something worth reporting on. I was outside at 4:30, enjoying a cigarette with a hostel guest from Santa Cruz, remembering my old haunts and talking about how disgusting woodsies are, when the sound of crazed shouting started around the block. Now, this is a normal turn of events in the Tenderloin, as anyone who as spent any amount of time around these few blocks knows, so I didn't pay a great deal of heed. The distance-muffled sound of running became more distinct and a youth of maybe 18, short, wearing a giant black jacket, came from around the corner of Larkin. From behind him, I could hear a bellowed tirade in an elderly tenor, the sound of labored running, and as the figure came into view 25 yards behind this running kid what turned out to be the rapid tack-tack sound of a cane on the concrete. It was a withered, ancient looking man, back crooked and face weathered, his pursuit assisted by a wooden cane as he limped after the boy, actually gaining!
"You fucking bitch!" he shouted at this kid's back, "You better hope I don't catch your faggot ass!!"
The kid slowed, clearly tired, but kept his feet pounding down Ellis. The elder behind him showed no sign of slacking his pace, as he closed more of the gap. We had been joined shortly before by a dealer from the corner, trying to bum cigarettes and blasting music out of his cell phone. The tinny sounds of Solja Boy acted as soundtrack to the chase. With a solemn look, in a serious voice, the dealer says, "With the cane, ol' man's not gonna make it. That's the streets." And I suppose that is the streets.

Like a weather beaten tripod, down the street the old man chased, a perpetual stream of profane curses wishing the worst on this kid who did him wrong. Turning the corner at the end of the block the sounds faded, the dealer walked off to ply his trade, and I finished my cigarette. I'd like to think that the old man won out in the end there, but honestly there are no real good guys in situations like that. There's bad and worse. Or bad and just as bad, at best. That's the streets, I suppose. Interesting thing to see though.

End of an era, opening of a new

As I sit here, alone in an unfamiliar house in an unfamiliar city, I'm trying to put into words the tumult of the past few weeks, and by extension the last few months. Atascadero has this affect on people, I suppose. I moved back home in an effort to assist my father in a house remodel, and in hopes of settling down somewhere comfortable. I suppose it was too much to expect that outcome, and the outcome I'd eventually reap should have been in line with expectation, but I do tend to hope for the best. All summed, I'd have to say that this go-round through living in my hometown was marked with both heights of unspeakable wonder and lows of soul crushing loss, and generally suffused with long lulls of terrible loneliness. Many firsts and hopefully lasts, a few new vices and a new appreciation for the world outside of my cloister. And at the end of it, I find myself here. I always told myself that I'd never live in a city, but I guess I've always told myself I'd never do a lot of things. I've never been one to look back and second guess, causation being what it is turns that into a futile exercise, and now is no different. But I still curse the fates on a daily basis. Humans are strange creatures.

The few days I've spent thus far as a denizen of this city have been radically different from the eight odd months of stagnation and inertia. Suddenly, things are moving at a pace that I find myself slipping from. I'm employed, I'm standing custodian over a stranger's house, I've got a place to live for the foreseeable future, I'm regularly screamed at by a bizarre cat whose allegiances are questionable at best, all the hallmarks of a successful living. I suppose the only odd thing for me, a person who generally moves with the rapidity of an oak tree in terms of planning, is the amazing speed with which things have come together. A few weeks. I don't know, it's difficult to explain. Just take my word for it, it's weird.

As I've got nowhere else to really put these things, I'll share a couple of the experiences I've had over the scant few days living here. I'll preface by saying that I'm working at a youth hostel located in the tenderlion, a place whose charms must only become apparent under the influence of crack or meth, because those people seem to love it.

I anticipate a lot of strangeness will revolve around cigarette breaks. At the desk, things are pretty much a constant series of guest relations. When the familiar creep of tobacco deprivation rears it's head, any lull in the action is exploited to sate it. Standing on the street, in front of the place, drawing in smoke and feeling the slow, cool buzz of nicotine in your fingertips, the world interacts with you. Or wishes death on you, as happened today. Outside, I was spending time watching the building across the street (the address of which is 666. It is Section 8 housing for the formerly homeless, and referred to as the Hellmouth), when sidles up a skeletal figure bearing all the unmistakable marking of the crackhead. Matted hair and rotting teeth, his body shifting lazily like an errant marionette, his eyes with the constant semi-roll of the influenced.

"Hey maaan, you got one o' them cigarettes?" burbled a voice from this shade.

Rule number one, I was told, is never give out cigarettes here. Feed the stray and it will keep coming back.

"No man, I'm sorry. This is my last one," I lied.

"Yoouu..." he began, attempting to fix me with a stare that wouldn't cooperate, "I wish death on you!!" the voice was like a rusty hinge, creaking the curse while the head lolled at the sky. It took it's shaky steps away, soiled sweatpants and tattered shirt swaying in the cool breeze. I'm lucky that crackheads don't have magic powers, otherwise I'd be in real trouble.

Another peculiar event that stuck out in my mind also occurred during one of these smoke breaks. It was early, maybe 9:30, before I started. It was day 1, and I decided to play it safe and show up early. Awaiting the start of my shift, I loitered outside. The streets were strangely quiet, it being an hour that the drug addled generally passed out and the morning business was just getting into swing. From down the road, a noise broke the relative calm. It was a slow sound, and constant. A scraping of wood on concrete. As the source came into view, I was transfixed. It was a vision of contextless oddity, which like so many others I'm sure would be rendered unto mundanity with a little information about exactly what was going on. But away with context, says I! Here I saw a man crooked and wizened, no more than 5 feet tall, as dessicated as dead wood, and just as brittle by all appearance. He was dragging in his knotty and gnarled arms a giant sheet of plywood, at least 8 feet long and 4 feet wide. It dwarfed the tiny elder. Straining against it's bulk, every labored step looked like a lifetime's endeavor. His bald head was pressed forward in obstinate exertion, veins and tendons standing out on his neck like ropes, his wispy white beard soaked with sweat. Down the street he went, a standing refutation of time's passage, and a stubborn denial of his own body's degradation. Why was he dragging this bulk of shoddy timber, and where was he going? I have no idea. But the sight was an odd one. Maybe not. Really, many things are standing out to me these days in sharp and vivid contrast. It's probably the brain's way of coping with a new and different environment. In any case, I expect things will become much stranger before too long. Expect reports from the night audit.