Haight Street Inhabitant

It is a rare occurrence to be called beautiful whilst walking down the street pyjama clad and sporting socks and Birkenstocks. Haight Street – the bizarre, the beautiful and the reek of piss. The man calling out was sprawled across the concrete slabs, beer in hand, with a grin that could only belong to a man truly content. I gave a friendly wink – or perhaps a spasmic twitch would define the action more precisely – before continuing to the convenience store. Although somewhat distracted by the smell of stale booze upon my breath, I had temporarily become transfixed by this man of whom I had no prior knowledge. He sat there, slumped like a stooge with mudded eyes and, although I had only glanced at him, his rounded shoulders and fleshy gut took hold of my mind. His smile. Those cracked, upturned lips took hold of my soul.

‘Twelve dollars thirty, love’.
Awakened from my fixation, I rustled through my wallet and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. I ferried back to my apartment, with the cool cans of beer in my hand, hoping to see the man again, to thank him properly. But as is intrinsic to a vagrant he had wandered on. Travelled to the next block, city or country. Following his itchy feet.

Walking down Haight exactly as I awake has now become a regular occasion. Grabbing a bagel, dashing to an ATM and doing the groceries are all done in that uninhibited attire. My level of comfort superior to many and I couldn’t even thank that man properly. Haight Street is now my natural habitat as that man’s is the universe.

 

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cordelia williamson
cordelia.williamson@gmail.com
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