(this is annie)

Tonight, down in the bowels of Powell Street station, a very skinny woman with wild hair and wilder eyes was talking with a man. Talking at him, more accurately, because he had that polite but uncomfortable "mm-hmm" face. The thought bubble above his head read "Please, god, get me out of here."

She wanted money and, as you might guess, he did not want to give any to her. "Give me a dollar and I'll go away," she bellowed. She had a voice like a dying bullhorn. He tried to reason with her. "Gimme a dollar!" she continued. His train arrived and he darted away.

The woman slowly spun around on her bird-legs, her glazed eyes scanning the crowd of people. The trains were running late (thanks, MUNI) so the platform was more crowded than usual. As she made her way toward the bench where I was sitting, I stood up real casual-like and quietly walked about 10 feet away. It felt like backing off from a puma while wearing a coat made of filet mignon.

The woman accosted two more people before coming my way. She almost didn't; she walked past me, then turned back to begin her pitch. She stood maybe 18 inches away from me, a little closer than I like most people to be. Up close, her face was even sadder. It was gaunt, deeply wrinkled, and pained. There was an inch-wide gap where four of her bottom teeth should have been. Even covered with a layer of glassiness, the bright blue of her eyes hinted at past beauty.

Here we go, I thought.

"Hey, miss! You can help me," she said. "I need money."

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you," I replied.

"You know what your problem is? You can help me but you don't want to give me your money," she yelled. (She had a point.)

She started sticking her index finger in my face. "I'll tell you what's wrong with you," she ranted. "You won't help me and you're dirty inside, sick soul, sick sick soul! You don't listen to me but I can see where you're going, I see the darkness in you. You can help me and you won't, you black heart."

A smarter person would have just let that ride, but having witnessed her badger that man, I realized that being polite would get me nowhere. So I decided to pull the alpha female card and hope that there wasn't a shiv hiding in her sweatshirt.

"I'm sorry that I can't help you, and I'm sorry that you've got me all wrong," I said in a loudish and firm voice. "Please leave me alone now."

She glared at me. "I see where you're going and it's a bad place," she hissed. "You have no idea what you're in for." Then she wandered off to approach the next person.

A pretty woman a few feet away gave me a sympathetic look. "Cheese on Aeron," she said, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Cheese on Aeron."

I still couldn't understand, and I began to wonder if I was actually having a nutty dream about gouda and Herman Miller. So I asked her to repeat herself again.

"She's. On. Air-o-in." The woman tapped her arm.

Ohhhhh. Right. "Sad," I said.

"I know," said the pretty woman.

I didn't regret not giving the scrawny woman money, because, well, it was clear she needed a fix. I did feel sorry for her, though. My train came soon after she disappeared into another part of the station. On the way home I wondered how she wound up being who she is. She was a little girl once, I thought, and this cannot be how she imagined her life. How does a person go from one point to another to this?

Then I thought about the heroin-kicking taxi driver, as I often do when a cab blows by. Is he staying clean? Is he struggling? Does he imagine that a stranger is quietly wishing that he'll make it? The answers will never reveal themselves, but tonight I hoped that he sees where he's going, and it's a good place.

Labels: san francisco, strangers