The Pantsless Man on Market Street
Some thoughts on Humanity, Homelessness, and my Bike Route to Work
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I have two offices: one in Palo Alto, and one in downtown San Francisco.
When I work downtown, I can get to the office in 20 minutes, give or take, from my apartment. Starting from the hill in Duboce Triangle, I glide down to Market Street, orient myself toward Oakland, and pedal two or three miles until I reach our building. It’s an easy ride, all things considered. Traffic’s heavy, but the bike lane’s pretty protected. Paved a vibrant green, fence posts separate it from the six adjacent lanes of traffic. So long as I have a jacket, it’s a good way to start the day.
Riding home is a bit different.
On Thursday, some coworkers hit a bar for happy hour. I tagged along, and we laughed over cocktails in a dingy downtown basement. I eventually crawled from the subterranean cavern right as the sun collided with the Pacific. It was nighttime, and I needed to trek back home.
I unshackled my bike from its streetside rack and noticed some motion in the periphery. It was a man. A man, sitting on a bench, his pants at his ankles. A needle in his fist.
Jesus.
The man was a rabid dog - dangerous and unpredictable. Something to avoid. I tiptoed away, slowly pushing myself up Market Street toward home. As my pedals collected momentum, I looked back toward the bench. The man made sharp jerking motions as he fought with his belt and stabbed with his needle. His face stayed hidden, long hair and beanie providing cover as his eyes stayed fixed on the ground beneath him.
I pedaled harder.
It wasn’t long before I saw others like him: tattered humans in tattered clothes, smoking strange objects as they jerked and twitched their way around a neighborhood of camping tents, occupying sidewalks like strung-out Wall Street protesters circa 2011. The homeless are nothing new to me: I lived in Detroit for five years, a city with its own related issues. But never had I seen such density, and never with so much drug use. It was 9pm, and the night had just begun.
I once knew a homeless man in Detroit. His name was James.
An older man, James would stand by the highway onramp near my old office building. He had white hair and a white beard, wore something like a cowboy hat, and had a massively swollen leg. I stopped to give him change one day and asked for his name. He told me. For then on, we chatted for a bit whenever I saw him.
There’s a difference between being human and being human to others. The latter is James, and the former is the Pantsless Man from Market Street. The latter made eye contact. He shared his name and spoke to me. He was my friend. The former was nameless. I never saw his face, just his arms, skin, and needle. He couldn’t even stand upright. Nameless and faceless, he looked more creature than man.
Homelessness is an uncomfortable problem. Especially in San Francisco, especially on Thursdays after 9pm.
But we make it harder for everyone when we forget the former group is human, too.
Appreciate the honest unfiltered view.
Keep it coming please.