"I talk to her in my head."
A man in his 40's came by and offered Jill cigarettes for what remained of her beer, less than half a can. Without hesitation, she gave it up for two cigs. He swigged, then shared that he was getting off the streets the very next night, having found a single occupancy room in San Francisco for $135 a week.
Jill's face may be in post offices across the country, as MISSING, or probably not. Maybe no one's missing her. Up in Berkeley, there are hundreds of young people living on the streets, but those tend to band together, or at least pair up. This one was alone. I bought Jill a warm coffee from the lousy store, and she gave me a green pill. She popped three, so I ate mine, for it is impolite to refuse anything that someone else deems appropriate for her own mouth and body, be it possum, field rat or whatever American youths feel they must ingest to endure an absurd present and rudderless future, as wrecked by their elders.
Of course that was stupid, for I don't even do drugs, and am adverse to all pills, even the common aspirin. In fact, I dread, fear and deeply, deeply despise all chemicals, chemistry and even chemists, and never pass one without giving him the meanest look. My potassium, sodium, chloride and phosphorous-laden blood rapidly boils at the sight of any periodic table. If I see a pharmacy, I cross the street. (Are you happy now, Mrs. Reagan, or should I say, Are you, by chance, high on your pills, ma'am?) Yes, sometimes you must say no, but all it all, you should say yes to just about everything that's offered without malice or commerce in mind. Great travel writer Paul Theroux doesn't eat meat, and V.S. Naipaul doesn't drink alcohol, so they are missing out on a very important bonding ritual with their subjects, I think. If you come to my resplendent mud hut, you better swallow what I slop in front of you.
When Jill started to walk north, away from relatively safer downtown, I shouted after her, "You should stay at the square," meaning Frank Ogawa Plaza, where the Occupy encampment was, by the way, "You shouldn't walk that way." But she kept going and going, while picking up pieces of nothing along the way.
What is madness, anyway? I mean, who isn't insane in various ways, none all too subtle, for there is no person who isn't farcically deluded and mad, none except me, of course, though I'm foggily aware of Ben Franklin's foggy observation, "Each mofo walks around in a fog, but since the air seems clear around each, he doesn't know he's in a fog." Who's to argue with Philly's greatest MC ever? Of course, Ben's right. We're all fogged up, and being exposed to the elements day and night, and in constant danger of being robbed, raped or killed, won't likely clear up anyone's head. Near Oakland's Lake Merrit, I saw a man trying to cross the street in a wheelchair, so I gave him a push.
"Where are you going?"
"That bus stop right there."
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