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“The Beat generation in San Francisco”, a literary walking tour in the footprint of poets and writers at the turning point in 60's American literature.
Wednesday, 22nd October. At the end of the third Beat tour of the book, I had to cave for food, gambling on sushi opposite Beniamno Bufano's sculpture at the Longshoreman's Hall.
Inside, it's a strange scene. I've walked in, late for lunch and early for dinner, a near empty shop as I approach the counter. Near I say. With as much interest as if he were a fly caught in the blinds, I notice a shabby hooded body 'walking' between the chairs, basic movement reduced to skittery stomps on the spot. He's stuck.
Trapped in a prison of strip LED's and shiny chrome stools, I see that'll he'll never escape laone. The restaurant owners peer over the plastic counter at him, hoping the problem will fix itself.
I'm no wuss. And this is no dangerous person.
I see that this can be rectified easily with a bit of guidance. Sidling over the shabby frame, I get a closer look...
One dirty hand, held-out like a probe, wrinkly fingers poke at the air looking for something. Searching, feeling, reaching out with grotty digits.
Carefully avoiding its extremities, I place a light hand on his shoulder.
"Here y'are mate, let me help you out"
Mutter mutter mutter.
Christ. His thumbnail is a long splintered talon, gone from off-white to a spore-like yellow. Easy there man, right this way.
Boom! He's out, and I order my food, sitting down at the window bar to watch the the statue bless traffic. But he moves at snailspace. Had he been helpless, they may have left him there for the opening shift. Observing him 'leave', I see how he follows the wall. With legs like vibrating stilts that poke out from filthy clothes, 20 tiny stomps for one regular footstep. A bad conversion at any rate. Uh oh, he's lost.
Untethered from the wall he's in space, one too many stomps right, not enough left, he begins to steer ship through an arms-reach desert. Painfully, I gaze on, like a tired harbour-master behind glass, while the shuffling pile of clothes banks a wide turn, unbothered by the silent passer-bys, on a collision course with the window between us.
My food arrives. Gross timing. Hobo Jo (slowbo) slowly walks into the window, thumbnail first with a 'tack', leaving a playful line of grease that trails after his pinky finger, back to square one.
God forbid a guy have an appetite. The sushi was fine, but too much stodge.
︎︎︎ Two days later, same spot.
Before he vacates the area, he has a cursory rifle through the bin.
Old boba? Yummers. A plastic bag? Useful.
May as well empty out the piss bottle while I'm here, put it back in the bag (also emptied) with a new coffee cup.
There's a logic in his pocket management, but it needs to be studied. Boba in hoodie pouch figures, accessible and spacious. But piss bottle in the general bag? Inconclusive.