An old friend from my Tahoe days, visits me in San Francisco. We haven’t spoken in over four months, pre-Brazil.
“Natasha” has a new condo in the East Bay with a private lake, a tennis court, AND she adds proudly, “It’s in a gated community”.
Perplexed, I ask, “What are you afraid of?”
“Are you joking?” she says. “Haven’t you been watching the news? What about that guy who was killed at the Giants game and how about that woman who disappeared last week in Oakland?”
“Yes, I heard about it,” I said. “Over and over again until I began making a dive for the off button.”
“Don’t watch the news Natasha,” I say. “They bombard you with horrible stories, things that in reality happen rarely. But because it is all that you hear and because you hear it so frequently, you begin to believe that crime and danger lurk everywhere and that you are the next victim - unless you lock yourself behind the safety of a gate.”
She just looks at me strangely.
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I accepted Marc Bruno’s invitation to attend one of his monthly dinners for the homeless. Bocce Cafe in North Beach donates the space and much of the food. Other restaurants like the North Beach Cafe graciously prepare desserts, salads, bread, and drinks. The purpose of these meals Marc says is to give the homeless a feeling of community by sitting down to dinner with their neighbors.
And so there I was eating at the table with people I normally see emerging from blankets on a corner.
28 year old Punky, died last week of liver failure, and tonight they memorialize him. Tall lanky “Macaroni” talks about what a kind soul Punky was, how he’d do anything for anyone and how they were all going to miss him, but hey, he is in a better place now. Then one after another they stand and talk about how Punky touched their lives. I talk to the people seated at the table with me - it's not entirely clear who is homeless and who is not. Except for the frightened wild eyed look in his eyes, the gentleman sitting across the table from me could be from anywhere. I am careful to veer away from typical small talk - you know questions like, "Where do you live?" It's a fine line between us, if there is one. We are branches on the same tree - and that is the point of these dinners. I for instance, worry at times about how I'll pay for my apartment. My newly divorced friend Karen has been looking for a job for six weeks. My old boyfriend buys an SUV so that he can sleep in it if ever he should lose his home. In other words, there but for the grace of God, go we. At the end of the dinner, Macaroni stands and says that he and Dougey need thirty-five cents each for cab fare. One man says, "Do what I do and sneak on the back." A woman adds, "Or look on the ground for a bus pass." We, neighbors all, walk to our homes - some under roofs, and others under the stars.