almost okay

A DETROITER IN SAN FRANCISCO

Our first seventy-two hours in San Francisco were relatively normal, I guess. I’m starting to learn what San Fran’s “liberal” tag means. As the wife and I walked two blocks away from the shiny Union Square shopping area (new $80 Merrell’s for me at Nordstrum) I heard a voice scream from a window above.

“Hey, you don’t do that here! Hey, what’s wrong with you? You do not do that here!”

A bum, pulling up his dirty filthy nylon running pants, emerged from a doorway to join another bum.

“What am I supposed to do, shit in my pants?” he said to the other guy. They both shrugged and sauntered down the avenue.

*

Unreal…they have no Labatt Blue available here. I’ve been making do with cold MGD but the stuff gets skunky as it approaches room temperature. Thank God (if there is one) for Sauza Hornitos. The tiny, yet mighty Yogi Market around the corner carries half-pints for just over six bucks. Besides the alcohol, I’ve also bought TP, a diet A&W root beer (to chase the Hornitos), and Trend detergent there to wash the urine soaked towels from Taxi’s accidents in our temporary high-tech headquarters as he adapts to city life. Back in the D, we’d let the doggy out in our spacious backyard to take care of business. Our new yard, a two-by-two centered with a scrawny tree, is just outside our front door which opens onto the uphill busy sidewalk. The handsome, puzzled Border Terrier doesn’t know where to poop yet.

Maybe I’ll take him to where the bum shat.

Your pal,
Lyzako