Oh, I am a country mouse.
A suburban mouse? A yuppie mouse?
A pansy, yes, that is a good word.
I fear I would simply be unable to handle true city life. Though I have been tangential to large cities my whole life (Phoenix, if you count it, Chicago, Atlanta, which I was technically IN but not really in the heart of, and now San Francisco) I have never really had to experience gritty, stinky, downtown life for more than a few hours at a stretch. And I now shamedly realize I prefer it that way.
Cliff and I went up to San Francisco to hang out with Morgan last night. We (well, Cliff) managed to navigate the convoluted streets of the city, with the indispensible help of Google; we swept Morgan out of her apartment and away to Benihana. We whiled away a pleasant evening with tasty teppanyaki, crepes, and coffee, and of course our usual blend of conversation, cuddling, and caustic wit.
"I was
chased the other day," she told us over dinner. Apparently some desperate homeless lady saw her smoking and became well-nigh violent in her request for a cigarette. And Morgan simply took this in stride -- I mean, she admitted to being scared at the time, but now that it's over it was just one of those things that happens. (She has, however, quit smoking, as of five days ago now.)
We chatted on our way to the coffee shop. "Don't walk up 6th street at night," she warned us -- "in fact, not during the day either; you NEVER walk up 6th street." 6th street, incidentally, happens to be directly next to her apartment. Oh boy.
Frankly, the very stories terrified me, let alone the thought of them happening to me. Am I a terrible person for being afraid of the crazies on the streets? In my defense, I am small, and though I have taken self-defense classes I have doubts about my ability to actually fend off an attacker. I'm sure that doesn't cover it all though. I clung to Cliff's hand as we made our way back to the car last night after leaving Morgan in her apartment (where there was unexplained blood on her front door), wrinkled my nose at the urine-stench (that somehow smells the same in every major downtown), and carefully made sure my door was locked once we were safely protected by Honda. We drove slowly up the street as Cliff asked Google how to get us home, and out the window there were what looked like blanket forts set up in building doorways, propped up with shopping carts and cardboard boxes. Absent, of course, were the giggling children's voices and waving flashlights. This was life.
I know so many people that are better than I am. In Chicago one day, Maggie drifted away from our group and started a lively conversation with a homeless, dreadlocked, multi-pierced kid, drumming on a tub and hoping for tips. When we caught up with her again, she introduced him and a couple of his friends all around. I could barely make eye contact.
A few months ago, Allan picked me up and drove me to a hangout-session with friends Christian and Debbie. We stopped for gas, I think, and a man, probably homeless, approached Allan with several pieces of "art" and offered to trade for a few bucks. Allan happily and calmly sifted through and found a piece he liked, paid the guy for it, and sent him on his way with a few more bucks in his pocket for a simple ink-and-paper drawing. Now, granted, Allan's a lot bigger and tougher than I am, and as such might have less reason to feel a qualm or two, but it was still a noble and admirable thing to do, and had it been me out there fueling the car and not him that man would be plus one ink drawing and minus a few dollars.
I am afraid of city streets. I am afraid of the hollow gaze in the eyes of the homeless. I am afraid of the man shouting to himself on the subway; I am afraid of the woman plodding along with her possessions strewn around her body.
I feel guilty for being more privileged than these people, and yet I am often too afraid to help when confronted. Cliff and I recently sat outside a movie theater, and a near-toothless man walked up, asking for a few dollars to help him get his Depakote. Not food, not a bus ride -- a medicine for bipolar disorder. Cliff handed him whatever was in his wallet at the time, $5 or $10 or something, and engaged in a few minutes of relatively pleasant conversation, while I buried my nose in a newspaper and trembled lest this man ask me next.
I feel like an asshole. I feel small and scared, and I don't know how to get over it and become a more compassionate, giving human being. Is this an extension of my agoraphobia? Is there therapy for it? Am I an asshole for being able to afford therapy?
Vince always called me a country mouse. I protested -- but he was right.
