Only Human

No one ever goes to the Tenderloin unless they have to. Most of us try to pretend it doesn't exist, even if it means we take the long route to work in order to avoid getting ourselves involved with that area. We do a damn good job, too. Days, weeks, months pass in-between the times when the Tenderloin shows its face in San Francisco, as if we have stuffed it in the basement of the city, hidden deep underground so no one will find it. Not that anyone would. It's full of washed-outs and has-beens and slick, seedy guys who want to watch the world crumble. Only crazies and shells of characters live in the Tenderloin.

The day I walk down the city's basement steps, the air is dense and thick. Fog blankets most of the city, making everything dangerously hushed. Invisible water droplets come to rest on my forehead and my hair is damp within minutes. I walk quickly, head down, for no one wants to stay in these parts for too long. Bad things happen to good people down here in the depths of San Fran.

The only reason I've come to this neighborhood in the first place is to deliver my roommate's script to her. She works down at the EXIT Theater as an aspiring star, and if it weren't for her rich, careful parents, by now she'd probably be out on the streets with the other "aspiring stars." I know she already hangs out with some of them, invites them over to our apartment for dinner. Those nights are especially awkward, because even though it's clear they have dolled themselves up, they still reek of dirty streets and dirty dreams and dirty souls.

I can feel the hungry eyes of the Tenderloin's citizens on me as I hurry along the sidewalk, breathing fast. If I try hard enough, I can envision their thoughts - cruel, crude thoughts about my body, my money, my everything. They'd suck my soul right out, I'm sure, if it meant getting their next fix on whatever drug they're on. How can these people be alive? How can they be human? They can't be real. They're just ghosts in the basement, that's all. Monsters they keep locked away so young innocents won't be stolen in the night. But here I am, walking with the spirits, balancing on the line between safety and danger.

The line snaps when my heel gets caught in a crack in the sidewalk and I stumble, fall to my knees. I am paralyzed with fear, certain someone has knocked me down and is going to drag me into a dark alley to have his way with me. I'll be powerless, useless, because my for just-in-cases pepper spray is in my purse, which has fallen a few feet too many away from me.

Terrified, I brace myself for the nearing end, certain this is how I'm going to die, only to find nothing happens. I have just tripped. No one cares, no one is around to care but a few homeless women sitting on the sidelines across the street, watching me with sunken eyes. Giving them a terse glare to let them know I'm not one to be messed with, not that they would mess with me anyway, I get to my shaky feet and walk over to my purse. It looks fine, undamaged. I sigh with relief and when I bend down to pick it up, something catches my eye. It's a clear bag of a thick, white, powdery substance. With caution (who knows what could be on the stuff lying around this neighborhood), I grab it for further inspection.

It doesn't take long for me to figure out what it is. I've always been in the in-crowd, been to parties and raves and other such social events every young adult is required to attend. Obviously, it's coke. I never wanted much to do with it - I always found drugs a bit disgusting and alcohol was more of my thing - but still, finding it sparks some curiosity. I would've thought people around here in the basement of the city would care more about their precious drugs - especially quality cocaine like this. Sure, it's easy enough to find if you have money, but down in this area, money and along with it - coke is scarce. It's like leaving your diamond necklace out in the middle of the financial district. You just don't do that sort of thing.

I'm just about to slip the baggie into my purse - maybe one of my roommate's theatre friends will want to buy it off me - when a firm hand grabs my wrist. I let out a startled shriek as a low voice growls, "What're you doing with that?"

I want to scream, run, kick him, do something, but I find I have turned to stone. I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stand there shaking as the assaulter, a gruff, dark-skinned boy who looks only a few years older than me, spins me around to face him. I study his face, notice how dull and glassed over his brown eyes seem, how dirty his face is. If it weren't for the circumstances, I might've even felt sorry for him. "Well?" he presses in a harsh, scary tone that eliminates all chance of pity.

"N-nothing," I sputter, my voice shaking. My heart is pounding and I'm still too stunned to reach for my pepper spray, which most likely is at the very bottom of my bag. This is it. This is the end. This boy is going to rape me or kill me or worse because of an innocent mistake, and all because my roommate forgot her script. This is why good people shouldn't go to bad places. I'm stuck here in the basement of the city, in the basement of the world, in Hell and there is no escaping.

Scowling, he rips the bag out of my hand, stuffs it into his coat pocket - a navy blue jacket which I notice must have been very chic at one point, but is now tattered and torn - and releases my wrist. "What're you doing here anyway?" he demands. "You look well-off." He studies me for a minute before finally asking, "How much do you cost?"

"What do you mean, 'how much do I cost?'" I ask dumbly. As I speak, I move my hand to my purse and begin digging around for the pepper spray. Like I predicted, it's lost in the depths of my bag, tucked away in some shadowy corner. I am wondering why the boy has not dragged me away yet - aren't they supposed to do that right away? Or is he waiting for his friends to show up? My heart skips a beat at the notion. If that happened, there is no possibility I'll make it out alive.

He rolls his eyes, mumbles a profanity. When he looks up, he meets my confused face with an annoyed yet equally bemused expression. "Why the hell are you here? You a rich kid looking for drugs? I know a place where you can get them real cheap," he says, "so you can stop trying to take other peoples'."

I shake my head, blurt out something stupid along the lines of, "No, I'm just going to the EXIT Theater and please don't hurt me I don't want to die." By now my legs are trembling and my heart feels like it's about to burst. I've never been more scared in my life.

Anger - no, frustration - flashes across his darkened face. He shakes his head, says in a strong tone that causes me to reel back, "You people are all the same - ignorant assholes. I'm not gonna hurt you just 'cause I'm black and live here and want my property back after you tried to take it. You think we're not people just because we're not like you."

"N-no, that's not true," I stammer, though it seems like he has nailed how I feel. Could it be true, not all people here are bad? No. This is the locked-up chest of San Francisco - the place where no one goes because all the horrors of the city are here. It's what I've learned, what I've been taught - don't go wandering the streets down in these parts, Jess. You'll get hurt. Bad people are there, criminals and thieves who want to hurt you.

He frowns. "Yeah, it obviously is. I ain't gonna hurt you. Those ladies," he points to the old women watching us from across the street, "aren't going to hurt you. We're just trying to live. You people need to stop judging others and stop being afraid. 'Cause maybe, maybe if you don't stop, we'll end up turning into what you make us to be."

His words slowly sink in on me as I turn them over carefully in my head. The canister pepper spray is locked in my sweaty palm, fingers poised on the button. But instead of whipping it out and spraying the boy right then and there, I slowly release it from my grasp. I feel it as it slips off my fingers and disappears back into my purse.

The boy stares at me with those empty eyes with such intensity I wince as if I've been slapped, quickly look away. This seems to make him angry, for when I look up, I see he is scowling as he digs around in his pocket. Finally, the bag of coke appears in his hand. He stuffs it into my sweaty palm, says fiercely, "Here, go do something with this. You need it more than me."

With that, he turns around and marches off until he reaches the corner of the street. The rundown brick wall he is standing in front of is decorated with graffiti, pictures of psychedelic flowers and tragic eyes and outlines of people in pain.  He studies the mess of artwork for a moment, as if trying to comprehend what all of it means. Then he turns the corner and disappears, leaving me with the cocaine in one hand, the other hand in the purse.

I give a feeble, "Wait!" but I know it's pointless. He's gone for good. I'll never see him again, never set foot here again. That I know for sure. The women across the street are chattering to each other in a foreign tongue. I glance over at them, watch them curiously. They're talking and laughing and seem to be having a good time. And that's when it hits me. Even though they're wearing threadbare clothing and are covered in dirt and have no place to call home, they are alive and they are well and they are human. They feel my gaze upon them and smile up at me. I give a warm smile back and as I do so the bag of coke slips from my fingers, landing back on the sidewalk where it was before. I don't bother to retrieve it, and instead continue on my way, walking slowly and enjoying the sun that has just started to penetrate the fog.