Bay Pride

The light was minutes from slipping away from the aftermath of pride. He glanced my way, it seemed, with a soberness uncommon for this street, at this hour. I drew cautious, holding the lens up as a shield from his looming presence. This alley of feathers and popsicle-stick fans was merely a visual detour. I lingered, awaiting the darkness to wrap my wide-angle around the entirety of City Hall.

He skulked a safe distance away sporting Barbie-pink heeled boots. A lady-shaped skeleton blew down the corridor— rags flapping, poking, picking out party paraphernalia. Another, a well-bundled character, scrutinized each port-a-potty. “Flap, flap, flap. Seek, search, find— we hold dystopian treasures!” the sani-cans sang.

The lens slipped from my face just long enough to notice his eyes implored to have a conversation.

“I need to make a call.”

“…”

“My friends, I’ve lost them.”

“Keep going…”

“I have lost my phone, my friends, and my debit account is empty,” his tone matter-of-unabashed.

As he spoke in a calm, steady panic through the wire, a wild spectrum of starburst sliced through the darkness. It became clear Barbie-boots had missed the return ride to West Hollywood.

There was the option to leave him, flourescent bangles and floral scarf. He didn’t ask or imply. His gratefulness and defeat were both felt as he returned the phone.

It wasn’t his first time in San Francisco, but it was his first Pride weekend in San Francisco. The city’s reputation for compassion and liberal acceptance flapped against my sunkissed shoulders. He would come home with me.

A microcosmic burning man in the mission. Pink boots sprawled, bangles in disarray, scarf limp, his eyes no longer looking for a conversation.

The Amtrak struck 7. Erect boots marched to meet the tracks. One-way to Union Station Los Angeles, just seventy dollars of future payroll promises.

Friend request graciously accepted, wide-angled adventure in the rear-view. San Francisco’s proud, prismatic past-time shimmers still.