The One Who Walked Away From San Francisco
This piece was inspired by Ursula K. Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” a short story about a conditional utopia.
The Muni train stops at Montgomery Station at approximately 5:29 am.
I emerge from underground into frigid, metallic air. I shove my hands into my pockets and throw a glance upwards. The city is awakening, slowly. I am by no means the only one. We scurry like rats in the shadow of skyscrapers.
On my right, across the street, I spot the sleepy gondola; a little metal and glass box attached to six diagonal cords. It yawns in the wind. It is too early to travel back and forth, to lift mortals from the ground and deposit them in the Salesforce Park—a “floating Utopia,” as the New Yorker says.
On my left, as Market Street blends into the Tenderloin, I see the homeless stretched out on mattresses or on cold ground. They are asleep under awnings and doorways. I recognize a man with a large leather coat. He is usually sitting by the statue with a grocery cart. He once offered me weed on my break: I respectfully declined. I don’t remember the man’s name.
I punch in after downing an espresso shot and my manager puts me to work. The air smells like milk and coffee grounds and a faint whiff of compost if you’re standing too close to the bins. A trickle of customers becomes a steady stream as the morning progresses. Most of the unsmiling businessmen work for First Republic or Chase. They take their coffee with a phone call.
The homeless wait for me after my shift. It’s 7 pm and dark. I push open the door with my foot and haul a large black bag of leftover ham & cheese sandwiches and croissants and broken pumpkin bread onto a table in the square. There are five or six people already. The food is cold and brittle, but they thank me nevertheless, and I say it’s nothing because it is.
There is a reason that all the pictures of the Salesforce Park are taken from a birds-eye view. Humans, rats. The next day, work again.
Photography courtesy of SalesForce Park.