Lexington, Kentucky

Day



Just as I was about to head out the door, my phone rang. It was Matty, who wanted to get a piece of fudge and a diet coke. I picked him up at his apartment, then we sat down at a pizza place to talk for a bit. These days, Matty is like a bite of cake to me, a small, sweet dose.

And now, I can't remember what we talked about. The events of the evening must have erased the events of the afternoon. I know that I returned the videos Matty'd loaned me, then I withdrew some money from the ATM, gave Matty a hug good-bye, and hopped on a bus, only to discover I'd left my ATM card in the machine.


Night


I stepped off the bus in Bernal Heights, where my friend Dahliafully was waiting. She'd contacted me at the exact moment that I needed a friend. Coincidences like these are sort of rare, but they give us a reason to thank god.

We hiked down to The Mission for Guatemalan food, and afterwards we searched Mission Street for a bar. I noticed a man up ahead of us, who was cutting across the sidewalk at a funny angle. He was shouting, and in his hand he held a Corona bottle as though it was a piece of razor-sharp glass. It wasn't, though. It was intact, and half full of beer. Another man, who was dressed all in white, reached into his pants. Then I glimpsed the butt of a gun.




My first instinct was to walk past the two men and pretend that nothing was happening. It's a reaction of blind fear. For some reason, my mind tells me that if I pretend very hard that something doesn't exist, I'll wake up from this dream I'm having. I wish it wasn't a reflex. It makes me feel about as smart as a farmyard chicken.

Dahlia pulled me through a doorway and into a narrow restaurant. It was a very different world in there; everyone looked up from their plates, and they seemed so small, so sweet, blinking up at us, some holding their forks out in front of them. At the far end of the restaurant, behind a glass counter, stood two women. One of them said that everything was all right, which was sort of funny, as I don't think she knew what was transpiring just outside the door. She said it again, and hearing it made me feel safer.

When things on the street seemed quieter we ventured back out, and for the rest of the evening we walked around, peeking into doorways. The whole time I could feel it in my stomach, as if I'd swallowed that gun.

That was yesterday. Today is brand new.

I rose late in the morning and hiked over a couple of streets to see if I could catch part of the Bay to Breakers, an annual footrace through the streets of San Francisco. Instead, I saw hordes of drunk kids and a litter of smashed Dixie cups. I stopped by a corner market and picked up some produce to get me through the week. Most of the fruit I found there was either very hard or very soft. I squeezed peaches and lemons and grapefruits until I'd collected an assortment of things that were reasonably pliable. At the counter I had to wait in line behind three other groups, who were buying six-packs of beer.

I think I'm falling out of love with this city.



p.s.

Are you the favorite person of anybody?