Prose
It began as a visit to San Francisco after many years. We checked into a famous hotel.
I can remember its name because I was having a dream that typified Alzheimer's. I
realized in a dream fashion how horrible it is.
Somehow I ended up in a district I can only describe as a combination of Portrero Hill
and the Marina only it resembled how I remembered the Filmore over thirty years ago:
Dark, burned out, vacant, and crumbling.
I began walking and walking seeing only shadows of old Mini rails and cars. The
streets were black noir as if it had been raining many nights. Occasionally a fleeting
figure would pass and I would ask it where the hotel was but I couldn't remember its
name. I would ask to please help and I went through the names of famous hotels I
could remember, but none of them sounded right.
I climbed a hill of burned-out tar rooftops still smoldering and heard a voice in the
distance comment that it was the kids who set them afire. I found a path down the
mound and was exhausted when I saw some figures standing in front of some dim neon
clubs. A taxi seemed to be approaching when one of the women outside the club hailed
it at the same time. I asked her to please let me take it because I was so tired I could
go no farther and I had to get back to the hotel. She said they were tired too and
needed the taxi.
I walked farther to a food stand and ordered a dish of something with a side of
something. It came out turned over resembling a slice of pizza upside down. Though it
wasn't what I ordered, I decided to take it anyway and got out my billfold to pay. Photos
that I didn't know I had began falling on the ground along with my credit cards. I tried to
pick them up to look at them as more fell out. I saw what looked like a wallet lying at the
corner of the counter. A heavy woman moved in front of me just as I was able to
recover my pile of contents to place on top of the billfold on the counter, thinking I
would cop the whole pile and the left wallet. Then someone copped the whole pile and
ran. I asked an old black man standing nearby if he saw who took it. He motioned to a
doorway across the street and said he thought the person went in there. I went to the
door to look in. It was another club, and I asked the black man at the door if someone
just came in. He asked me to describe him, which I did. Then he said no one of that
description had come in and that there was no need to assume the person I was
describing was black. I said of course not and he shut the door in my face.
One of the women didn't take the cab, so I started walking with her hoping she was
going in my direction because I couldn't keep going without help. I pleaded with her to
let me walk with her. She asked where I was going and I told her I couldn't remember
the name of the hotel. Then I thought of Glenn's address at 1403 Gough Street but
realized he hadn't lived there in years. We walked toward her place. I hugged her and
told he I needed help. Her body became like an empty bag. I hugged her more and
asked to go home with her and kissed her. Her mouth was hollow.
Charles Plymell
April 1, 2000
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