Thursday, June 15, 2006

Divisadero

I'm only a few blocks from my car. It's midnight, and I'm walking alone down a quiet street in San Francisco, noticing how many black tarry bubblegum scars are splattered over the sidewalks. There doesn't seem to be any pattern to it; spread erratically but relatively evenly over the sidewalk is evidence of the heavy traffic that this area sees during the day. Right now, though, I'm the only one out here.

I love the empty city at night. The silence of the nighttime seems so much more complete when you can contrast it with the day. Instead of being loud against the quiet backdrop, the darkness somehow absorbs my footsteps and the sound of my breath. Cold, clear light from the streetlamps sharpens the edges of the buildings and plasters my dark reflection to the path before me. I feel so free. It's easy to imagine that I'm the only person out here and that I can do anything I please. My backpack adds to the fantasy that I am a traveller, a vagabond on a carefree open-ended tour of wherever the hell I want to go.

A car stops at the intersection in front of me, waiting for the light to change, and my world shrinks a bit. I try to see if they are looking at me without letting them know I'm checking, and my fantasy receeds in the light of my self-consciousness. As the car finally passes, a man appears from between two parked cars, crossing the street a quarter of the way down the block, headed straight for me. There is nothing threatening about him, yet suddenly I realize that the isolation I found so invigorating a second ago translates directly into vulnerability. I grip my backpack straps tighter and try to move to the edge of the sidewalk in as nonchalant a manner as possible. I don't dare look at him as he passes, but I listen to hear the sound of his steps retreating. Once I'm satisfied that he's not sneaking up behind me I start to watch where I'm going again.

Settling into my car later, I find myself releasing tension I didn't even realize I had. As I turn the key, the doors lock automatically with a satisfying click.

1 Comments:

At June 20, 2006 2:55 AM, Anonymous c said...

i love the way you write.

 

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