On Market Street

Fall 2008: I was standing at the Washington Mutual on the corner of 9th and Market, waiting for the ATM to complete our transaction. Scrawled in black permanent marker, just below where the money is withdrawn, was written, “You is here”. Right below it, in different, emphatic penmanship read “No I’m not”. The money and ATM card came to my possession and I turned to leave.

That existential dialogue told through urban jargon came back to me as a strong gust blew over my face. Crackled leaves and discarded editions of Street Sheet swirled past the homeless man who pawned them by the metro entrance. He asked me again, as I passed him, if I could help him “to buy a warm meal tonight.” I shook my head and averted his gaze as a couple of flaxen-haired, buxom women with imposing cameras hanging from their necks, turned and gawked in various directions as they stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Past them, a dim orange sun began to descend beneath the hills that overlooked the Castro District.

I continued on as these two young men, sharply dressed in dark, pressed suits approached. They bantered and sauntered down the sidewalk, noticing only the space before them.

“I heard condominiums back by Central Park are selling like hot cakes, because everyone’s desperate and selling before they’re a complete loss.”

“Now would be the time to jump on those, while their value is grossly depreciated. No need to invest and fix ‘em up. Just sit, wait a few years, once all this has blown over, then sell ‘em and you’re rich!” the other said before they broke into laughter.

I felt a Langston Hughes poem summon within me, as it has at inopportune moments these past few months, with the election approaching. The poem went:

You don’t know,
You don’t know my mind –
When you see me laughin’
I’m laughin’ to keep from cryin’

I hurriedly took out my iPod in an attempt to play some music to derail this thought, but my hands were not nearly agile enough.


(backstory: for one of my classes, we're reading some contemporary nonfiction novels each week, then doing a brief imitation of that respective author's writing; this is my rendition of Joan Didion's "The White Album")