I learned that night I left early.  The road home takes me in unexpected directions.  I walk for many hours through the fog in the San Francisco evening.  I give my shawl to a homeless woman with no teeth.  She cannot cry because she is so cold.  I empty my pocket of change down into the line of hands stretched out at the end of the block.  I begin to cry because the nice man who sells me a street sheet for a dollar points towards my bus waiting ten blocks southward.  I walk back and forth on Market searching for a stop for the 800 I’m sure is there.  A young man  named david runs across the street wearing an Oakland Athletics cap, calling his friends dumbasses and shouting about the ride he will provide for.  I tell a serious joke about needing a ride to the east bay.  That is where he is going, and we go there.  After I use David’s phone to call a cab, he drops me off at the North Berkeley bart station which is closed for the strike.  I think that my cab arrives, sees me eating the last of my falafel and in a beanie wearing a tall tee printed with the virgin mary holding a figure of the crucified christ in her hands.  The cabbie escapes.  I wait on Sacramento and flag down another cabbie who asks where I am going.  I tell him I need to go to the little hill, but the cabbie says that this is a berkeley and san francisco only car.  He eases off without another word as I shout pleas at his pack windshield.  I walk to the seven eleven on the corner of sacramento and university.  The counter lady tells me there is no free phone inside.  I will have to use the payphone outside, but I have already given away my quarters.  the old man who I had waited behind in the store line gets into his prius.  the side of the car is printed with the information for a company offering courses to student drivers.  I ask the man if he can call me a cab.  Pulling out his flip phone, the man asks me what is the number.  I cannot remember, so I tell him what I think and that is the wrong number.  I remain silent, standing in the parking lot wondering if I will make it the fourty blocks and several hundred feet rising in elevation to my home on the little hill.  In my periphery I notice the man is clearing papers off of his passenger seat.  He offers me a ride, and I am astonished so I ask the man where he lives. Â
Furious at my question, the man growls “none of your buisness do you want the ride or not?!”  I stammer a yes I do and get in the passenger side of his car.  I try to explain to the man that I just don’t want to inconvenience him, and he asks me whether I am going to rob him.  I say no, and he tells me to remove my foot from the extra passenger-side brake pedal.
“have i offended you in some way sir?” I ask
“maybe you just shouldn’t talk anymore” says the man, whose name has now come out but which I now forget.  When we start to move along, I tell the man that my name is Elijah.
the man signs “what do you do Elijah” wishing I had listened to his advice.  I tell the man I am a singer, and he lies that he is a singer too.  He demands that I sing a song to pay for the ride, so I start singing, improvising both melody and lyrics.  we have reached the Arlington and I run out of lines.  The man is satisfied anyway, and we begin to discuss the very matter that has confused me now for so long. Â
I began this trip of mine with a simple goal in mind.  I wanted to travel at night from the San Francisco civic center, to my home in El Cerrito.  Sitting in this man’s car, I realize that even on a simple trip like this one, I may arrive at point B from point A, but the journey between the two points may not be the easy, convenient, warm, and relaxing trip I imagine.  I may take every wrong turn, but I will make it home thanks the goodwill of assholes like this driving teacher. Â
He drops me at the intersection of Moeser and Arlington and we share a fistbump before I disembark and The man glides into the dark fog. Â I am still impressed. Â The man was generous and charitable, but this did not make him vulnerable. Â He would not take any of my shit, only the load he had chosen to carry for me. Â I think the choice he demanded brought inspiration into his life too. Â No matter his demeanor, he still did something for another person. Â
is emitting positive emotion always so important? Â exasperation and anger did not change the physical reality of my journey, and even scared me into coaxing up inspiration and a performance. Â
when I am afraid to be anything but nice, I will remember the hard nosed, hard soled gentleman, and the power of opening a single door.
