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November 4, 2012
Walking in - 10/24/12
10/24/12
Walking In:
Another solid rain last night. I lay in bed listening to the rain fall on North Beach.
Up Filbert Street. Down Kearney Street. Very cool this morning.
Up Union Street. The rains really pounded the New Guinea Impatiens and the Trumpet vines last night.
And now down the Montgomery Street steps.
Green Street ends in a little dead end full of Jags and Beamers and private bay-view patios behind sharpened steel spiked fences and...I get it, OK?
I understand the allure of class warfare.
But the reality is there will always be people who are better off than you are.
But there will always be people who are worse off also. And if we chant "Eat the Rich!" and shut down the banks and tax the job creators to the hilt,
then we're left with nothing to show for it but bloodied hands and the economy of Paraguay.
I pass through the shadow of the tallest building in the city. Shredder trucks drive up and grind documents the world will never know into mulch.
The guards stand before the banks, defending them just the way we didnt defend our embassy in Libya.
Inside the Bank of Guam, bright red Calla Lillies behind tempered glass.
And the truth is that the city hardens you like the sidewalks.
Sharpens you like a whetstone, 'till you shine like a rich neighbor's fence.
And you learn not to say 'Hello' to people on the street. Learn to avoid the seeking gaze of the downtrodden.
Gradually, I come to realize that the lights on Montgomery Street are timed perfectly as I walk along such that I never have to break stride. I can walk the length of Montgomery Street without stopping a single time.
A homeless guy with a double baby stroller and a car jack.
They tried to get rid of the Occupy protesters. Fenced them out from their encampment and power-washed the sidewalks until they shined as new.
But the Occupy protesters just moved down to Montgomery and Market, as persistent as fire ants.
I ask they flower lady if it hurts business and she says 'Yes. Please. Call the city. Every little bit helps.'
Grant's pipe shop on Market has gone out of business.
At Portico, they're getting ready for the lunch rush as homeless cough up phlegm onto the sidewalks.
The smell of fresh hobo feces in the morning are as I cross Market.
Impatiens and Asparagus Ferns and Fuscias and a few tenacious Fox Gloves.
I'm at work.
Posted by Rob Kiser on November 4, 2012 at 8:06 PM
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