Chrisonomicon

Monday, December 3, 2001

I'm using a Mac in an internet cafe up the street from the coffee shop that has become my regular spot to post. Something told me to come here after I stopped in to a laundromat to dry the rain that had accumulated on my coat and hat yesterday, but it could have been the fact that another man had already taken up residence at my usual computer. Anyway, I'm not very impressed with this Mac. The mouse is sticky and too small for my big hands. Normally, I use a PC.

The Nanowrimo party was good fun. After a great movie and sushi dinner with Chris and Jessie, I took a cab across Market to a hidden alleyway. The evening rain had collected into clouds of mist that draped the street in a movie-like aura. Printed in large, stenciled numbers on a delivery door, I matched the address with the number on my printout and knocked. No answer. A few people had walked behind me to a small, makeshift door directly behind me, and as I looked closer, I noticed Christmas lights dangling from open rafters in a courtyard through the door.

The party was unmarked, but inside it was obvious by the appearance of the crowd that I had made it to the right place. I mingled and chatted for a few hours and read lots of pieces that people had hung up on clotheslines all around the room, drank lots of beer, wore a Burger-King-like paper crown that was given to all the writers who had taken part in the event and finished. Around midnight, Chris Baty gave a toast to everyone, and dancing commenced. I was feeling rather tired, so I decided to take off. Mingling with a crowd of complete strangers is amazingly exhausting.

I strolled home in the rain, the streets empty and wet, and caught the Market St. trolley full of dripping, silent people. The city smelled of water. The homeless in this city are overwhelming. I've lost count of how many have asked me for change--surprisingly, it's the ones that don't ask that I tend to give it to--and I had started to get a little irritated by the end of the night, which wasn't being helped by the copious amounts of alcohol I had recently consumed.

Outside the hostel, a thin, black man in a leather jacket was watching me approach, and asked me for four dollars. As I shook off and tied up my umbrella, I said no, but he kept pushing me. They're almost as bad as telemarketers.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but you're probably asking for money in the wrong place." I motioned to the hostel in front of us.

"C'mon man. Four dollars." His voice was getting antagonizing, almost as though he were annoyed at even having to ask me twice. "Would it hurt you that much?"

With that question, I snapped. "Would it hurt you that much to get a job?" I asked, and as he flustered for an excuse, I hurriedly walked into the building without looking back. A thousand scenarios run through my head and I wonder if perhaps a few bucks or some change would have really helped the guy, but I hate the fact that I feel even the least bit guilty. How dare these people invade my life with their problems and then make me take the slightest sliver of responsibility for them? It's almost as though they expect handouts as a natural recourse of nature. I know I don't need to, but I'm apologizing now. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I won't help them with a few dollars, but it's only a band-aid. It's not fixing the problem, but salving the symptom. Someday, when I can, I'll do something better to dig it up at the roots. Until then, this is me shedding that burden. I won't carry this on my shoulders anymore.

Okay. Well, that was the month's rant. It's nearly noon and the city is still sleepy. Of course, it's Sunday and the football game is on and everyone is recovering from the rain. I'm hoping the airport will be equally subdued. Chris has offered to drive me to the airport this afternoon, so I should probably go see if they're awake. My next post will probably be from home. It's hard to believe the weekend is over.