A strange and miraculous day, indeed. Firstly, or lastly actually, my relief officer not only showed up for her Saturday night shift for the first time in three weeks, but she showed up ON TIME. I think that beats the whole bread and fishes miracle hands down. Secondly, I had the most fascinating unconventional with some kid who was high on some hallucinogenic when he mooched a cigarette off me. I saw his leg bend in ways not meant by the master anatomical plan. Now, the third strange and miraculous experience is a longer story, and cost me 18 dollars.
I was out at the side of the building I so diligently guard over, having a slow cigarette break, watching the pedestrian traffic filter through the alley walkway from Market to Mission. A short and clean man, dressed reasonably well, stood there as I sighed about taking my last cigarette from a pack. I thought he like countless others, had wanted to bum a smoke off me, but instead he offered to go to the store and buy me a pack. Being the terminally nice guy I am, I politely turned him down. I held up a marble wall as he came closer and began conversing with me about the cynical and rude tendencies found in San Francisco denizens. I agreed, since many Bay Area folk spend much time trying to cultivate a jaded urbaneness. Then he asked me if he could take me into his confidence, being as he had picked me especially for how much nicer and open than the others he had propositioned conversation from.
Thus began what was either a dramatic trip into this fellow's personal reality, or a total Snow Job. Or a combo of both. Or it could have been true. I lean toward the middle choice, with willingness to mull the possibility of the last choice. Have to admit, he really was dressed well. Decent black leather shoes, a fresh sweater, and little diamond (or cubic zirconia for all I know) studs in his ears. But his skin was like leather that had been wet and left in the sun too long, and he was missing every other tooth. He set down his Starbucks coffee and Williams-Sonoma shopping bag and held up the marble wall with me.
He told me he was.. Ah, sorry, if I write publicly who he is, the deal he offered would be off.. He was the son of someone somewhat famous, and had spent years wandering the country giving away the billions he inherited from his grandfather. His grandfather owned a chunk of real estate on the Las Vegas Strip, and learning that somehow segued into a talk about what property owned in Las Vegas. Then he got all emotional.. and kept saying stuff like "the last time we talked" or "did I ever tell you this story?" And we'd never talked before, and he'd seen me around but hell if I remember this snaggle-toothed mystery philanthropist before. Then he had said that if creative and compassionate people are consider crazy in this society, he was just about the craziest person out there.
I humored him, because truth or not, it was getting interesting to just hear him weave this narrative foreshadowing some enigmatic offer. He asked if I was open-minded. That I am. Selectively gullible is what I should have said. I knew I was most likely being conned, but we weaved his tale with drama and detail that kept me wanting more. He had been in four major accidents in his life, which put him in comas that totaled four years of his life. He had worked in Vegas with Frank Sinatra Jr. He had only been in San Francisco for seven years. And he kept qualifying each thing he said with, "Should I go on?"
Then came the hook. Although he had given away so much money to charity, he wanted to make good things happen to good people. And he was quite convinced I was good people. If I did him a favor, he would do good that would make my dreams come true. Ten million bucks would be given to me in a cashier's check from Chase Manhattan Bank if I did him this one favor, something that was a test to check the resoluteness of my open compassion.
And that was that he needed sixteen dollars. I started out giving him eight. I told him the truth, that I was probably getting conned here, but meeting him was worth losing money over. He got a bit indignant. He wasn't saying all this from his heart for my amusement. I told him another truth. I was ready to lose money for the experience of meeting him, and writing about him. Long as I didn't mention his name, of course.
I ended up giving eighteen dollars. Everything in my wallet, minus a dollar. He sang me a song he had written. He really did have a great voice. He asked me if I had ever been to Miami. I told him for Passover, many many years ago. Then it became Jew to Jew time. I was doing him a Mitzvah. And as I finally walked away, because I had to get back to work, he sang me off with "Havah Negilah."
So, I'm out eighteen dollars, but I had one last seminal San Francisco experience. But hell.. maybe he will show up on Wednesday and pay me back my eighteen dollars. Plus ten million more. You really do never know.
I was out at the side of the building I so diligently guard over, having a slow cigarette break, watching the pedestrian traffic filter through the alley walkway from Market to Mission. A short and clean man, dressed reasonably well, stood there as I sighed about taking my last cigarette from a pack. I thought he like countless others, had wanted to bum a smoke off me, but instead he offered to go to the store and buy me a pack. Being the terminally nice guy I am, I politely turned him down. I held up a marble wall as he came closer and began conversing with me about the cynical and rude tendencies found in San Francisco denizens. I agreed, since many Bay Area folk spend much time trying to cultivate a jaded urbaneness. Then he asked me if he could take me into his confidence, being as he had picked me especially for how much nicer and open than the others he had propositioned conversation from.
Thus began what was either a dramatic trip into this fellow's personal reality, or a total Snow Job. Or a combo of both. Or it could have been true. I lean toward the middle choice, with willingness to mull the possibility of the last choice. Have to admit, he really was dressed well. Decent black leather shoes, a fresh sweater, and little diamond (or cubic zirconia for all I know) studs in his ears. But his skin was like leather that had been wet and left in the sun too long, and he was missing every other tooth. He set down his Starbucks coffee and Williams-Sonoma shopping bag and held up the marble wall with me.
He told me he was.. Ah, sorry, if I write publicly who he is, the deal he offered would be off.. He was the son of someone somewhat famous, and had spent years wandering the country giving away the billions he inherited from his grandfather. His grandfather owned a chunk of real estate on the Las Vegas Strip, and learning that somehow segued into a talk about what property owned in Las Vegas. Then he got all emotional.. and kept saying stuff like "the last time we talked" or "did I ever tell you this story?" And we'd never talked before, and he'd seen me around but hell if I remember this snaggle-toothed mystery philanthropist before. Then he had said that if creative and compassionate people are consider crazy in this society, he was just about the craziest person out there.
I humored him, because truth or not, it was getting interesting to just hear him weave this narrative foreshadowing some enigmatic offer. He asked if I was open-minded. That I am. Selectively gullible is what I should have said. I knew I was most likely being conned, but we weaved his tale with drama and detail that kept me wanting more. He had been in four major accidents in his life, which put him in comas that totaled four years of his life. He had worked in Vegas with Frank Sinatra Jr. He had only been in San Francisco for seven years. And he kept qualifying each thing he said with, "Should I go on?"
Then came the hook. Although he had given away so much money to charity, he wanted to make good things happen to good people. And he was quite convinced I was good people. If I did him a favor, he would do good that would make my dreams come true. Ten million bucks would be given to me in a cashier's check from Chase Manhattan Bank if I did him this one favor, something that was a test to check the resoluteness of my open compassion.
And that was that he needed sixteen dollars. I started out giving him eight. I told him the truth, that I was probably getting conned here, but meeting him was worth losing money over. He got a bit indignant. He wasn't saying all this from his heart for my amusement. I told him another truth. I was ready to lose money for the experience of meeting him, and writing about him. Long as I didn't mention his name, of course.
I ended up giving eighteen dollars. Everything in my wallet, minus a dollar. He sang me a song he had written. He really did have a great voice. He asked me if I had ever been to Miami. I told him for Passover, many many years ago. Then it became Jew to Jew time. I was doing him a Mitzvah. And as I finally walked away, because I had to get back to work, he sang me off with "Havah Negilah."
So, I'm out eighteen dollars, but I had one last seminal San Francisco experience. But hell.. maybe he will show up on Wednesday and pay me back my eighteen dollars. Plus ten million more. You really do never know.
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