The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
San Francisco Story
by
Theresa Allen
Part 1
I walk to Market Street at midnight to catch the "F Market" train. Nightly. I
meet panhandlers, beggars at the stop on the island in the middle of the Street.
I endure the half-baked spins, pleas. I become numb to the verbal assaults and
spits that follow my rejection. I am at a space, at this very second in time,
where I am bored with the game. It's all a game. It's not a very interesting
game.
I approach the train stop. I am alone briefly. Then a lone man dressed in army
surplus rags strolls up to me. He asks for money. I am tired of this game too. I
think it is so predictable. I am bored. I am bored with my standard reply, "No,
no money to spare." I am bored with work, love, life. It is all a very itinerant
game with no reward for my cooperation. I decide to rebel.
I say, "Signomi, ma then milo Anglika kai then se katalavaino." Greek for "I am
sorry, but I don't speak English and I don't understand you." The expected
uncomprehending look of massive confusion washes over his face. I am pleased.
For the moment, I am not bored. Then, something unexpected happens.
A look of comprehension lights. Gradually, a smile spreads over his hungry, sun
burned lips. I ask myself, "what are the chances that this person speaks Greek?"
I am stymied. I cannot believe my bad luck at using Greek on the only homeless
person in the whole United States who speaks Greek. Tense. Mute.
He says, "Yo hablo Espanol!"
Yes, you do. I am off the hook, on the hook. I look blank and dumb. I hug my
purse tight. I stand there. Mute.
He hand gestures. "Espanol!" Thunder, as though I were suffering from a hearing
problem, not a faux language problem. "Espanol!" Thunder. I am sure that egrets
on the Farallones can hear him.
Mute.
His hands wave around like arms on a windmill. I stand back half a foot to avoid
those loose windmills.
Suddenly, one of the windmills flies forward, grabs the strap of my purse down
off of my shoulder to my elbow. Dulcinea in chains.
"Money-o!" Don Quixote yells.
Where are you, Sancho Panza?
Don pulls on the strap trying to reveal the contents of the US Mint under my
jacket.
"Money-o!" Don points his index finger. Don releases the strap, points the same
index finger into the palm of the hand that held the strap prisoner.
"Money-o!" Don repeats his windmill mantra. "Money-o!"
The train pulls up to the island. I jump on and leave the multilingual Quixote
on the island alone to rant. I dump a dollar's worth of pennies into the fare
box. I laugh all the way down Market. Dulcinea escapes.
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