Market Street
January 10, 1998 (Saturday)
Meeting Ralph Gordon, a homeless guy, Market Street, San Francisco, as written in an email ostensibly to Sarah Chan, but really to a whole bunch of friends.


My cousin and I were driving around San Francisco desperately looking for an ice cream parlor to exorcise the lingering taste of garlic and olives that had haunted our mouths since dinner at Little Joe's in North Beach.  We're stopped at a red light on Market Street and there's this girl standing at the curb right alongside my front bumper looking up and down the street as if trying to catch a glimpse of a car or maybe a Muni to pick her up.  That looks kind of like Sarah.  Is that Sarah?  Turn your head this way?  That did look a lot like Sarah.  Is that really Sarah?  I could swear that's Sarah.  Turn your head this way again?  Is that Sarah?  That's gotta be Sarah.   But after a whole minute of indecision and no eye contact (How come you didn't recognize my car, huh?), the light turned green, and you just can't stop on Market Street.  Not on a Saturday night at 8p with only one lane for cars and several right on your rear bumper.  And especially not with a two-door hatchback when loading a passenger in the back seat means a sort of Chinese fire drill that cannot be done in less than seven seconds without prior hours of diligent practice.   So we drove on.  Two blocks down, a right turn was legal, so we pulled in, found parking, and walked back to hopefully offer le mademoiselle a ride.  But as we walked back up Market Street, a Muni bus bound for Ocean Beach passed, and even though I didn't see her inside, she was gone when we got back to the corner.
  So we're walking back down Market Street to the car.  Somebody walking behind us starts singing.  Not quiet, singing to yourself singing.  Strong, bold sing for the whole world to hear singing.  I don't remember what the first song was.  But the guy had a damn fine voice.  A good set of pipes.  After a bit, I turned my head to see what he looked like.  And just like that, he had us.   'Hey, hold up a second.'  So we stopped.  He caught up to us.  Started singing
  'I got sunshine     on a cloudy day...'.  "My Girl."  Four black kids were walking by and they stayed for a few songs.  Besides being damn athletic, black folk are blessed with more rhythm and soul than anyone else, I think.  So he earned some bread from 'em.  They were happy to give him a buck each.  And then they walked on.   I knew I was in trouble.  I almost always try to keep small bills in my wallet at all times.  They come in handy when splitting a group dinner bill.  And they especially come handy when you want to help someone out.  But I didn't have any then, and I knew it.  So I gave the guy a tenner.  And he sang and walked us all the way back to the car.  It was pretty damn cool.   Not perfect, though.  He did try to hit us up for ten more bucks.  I guess that made it a bit less perfect.  But more real.
  Ralph Gordon.  Grew up in Detroit, Michigan.  The following day would be his fifty-second birthday.  Kissed my cousin's hand, gave me a hug, and told us we'd made his night.  I told him he'd made ours.

So it actually turned out good that we didn't catch you, Sarah.  And sometimes good things happen when you don't carry small bills.

When he sang, he occasionally put one foot back and did twirl, even.  :)

--Yong, 1/12/98



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