San Francisco Moments
The Golden Gate to the Golden State has a dark side

By T.J. DeGroat

San Francisco is a city full of contradictions. One of the most gorgeous places in the country, the views from the impossibly steep hills and lush parks are awe-inspiring. But for every breathtaking vista, there is an equal number of seedy nooks filled with gang activity, prostitutes and homeless people.

This is a city that attracts wealthy tourists and destitute street youths, out and proud queers and illegal Mexican immigrants. San Franciscans are bombarded with so much diversity and so many bizarre acts that they become somewhat desensitized to the daily craziness.

There were, however, a handful of moments that made me step back and giggle, or gag, during my two years as a San Franciscan.

I was late for a lunch date with a friend so I decided to try my luck and drove to the restaurant in the Mission District, where street parking spots are scarce. After driving past innumerable half spots (why couldn't those morons pull all the way up to the next car?), I finally found what I thought was enough curb for my Civic. I was a pro when it came to city parking, so I wasn't freaked out when I tapped the car behind me while trying to squeeze into the space. After all, that's what bumpers are for.

Yes, I was OK, but the homeless man sleeping in the old truck I had hit was not. I heard screaming, but I was late, so I ignored it and kept maneuvering my way into the spot. Finally, the shouting became louder and when I looked into the rearview mirror, I saw a scraggly middle-aged man giving me the finger and practically foaming at the mouth while screaming obscenities. I was used to the city's large homeless population, but I figured it was best to make another lap around the block.

San Francisco’s public-transportation system, MUNI, is really easy to master and convenient, but boy, in terms of people, it’s usually a total freak show. One lovely day, the only available seat was next to a slow, white man who was air drumming and rapping. I chose to stand. And I turned up the volume on my mp3 player. I finally snagged a seat, just in time for about 40 sixth-graders to burst onto the train. All of these out-of-towners and their chaperones were crammed onto one train, shrieking every time we went down a hill and (sigh) whenever someone farted.

After I climbed over the kiddies to get off at Church Street, I got on a bus, where instead of filling in the open spaces, a group of five obnoxious women decided to thoroughly invade my space. I was sandwiched between two of them when an ancient man came up to me and said, "You know what the difference is between a dog and a fox? Four or five drinks."

Oddly, it was a truly disgusting peek into street life that convinced me that I was a true San Franciscan. I was walking to the MUNI stop at Potrero and 17th on an overcast winter morning when I spotted him. Obviously homeless, I thought, as I panned down from his dirty hood to his ripped khaki jacket to his -- oh dear God, where are his pants? I was looking right at his hairy ass, but even worse, I was staring at the bull’s eye.

Like a driver passing a devastating car wreck, I couldn't take my eyes off of this disaster. Almost a minute into my hypnosis, I realized that this man was bent forward at the waist with his ass cheeks spread apart. On a main city street! I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept staring, until the inevitable finally happened. Yes, he dropped the kids off, right on the street.

You better believe I shared my horror story with everyone I encountered during the days that followed. Most of the responses went something along the lines of, "Ha! Welcome to San Francisco." It was a kind of rite of passage -- certainly one I didn't wish to experience. But I do admit, it's a great anecdote to share at cocktail parties, over martinis and fancy hors d'oeuvres.

But not over candy bars.

Hatch senior editor T.J. DeGroat has logged many hours walking city streets and riding public transportation.