Walk the Walk
The walk home from the DNA Lounge is considerably longer now that I inhabit Bunker 2. Other residents of this building get around the problem by bicycling to and fro, which occasionally results in drunken 2:30 am skids across the pavement, but usually gets the bicyclists home safe and sound. My search for a bicycle that I can ride while wearing heels and a skirt with an enormous bustle is a story for another day -- in the meantime, I remain a pedestrian.
I rarely felt that I had anything to fear while walking down Folsom Street alone in the middle of the night. Nevermind that the police shot a woman in front of the Concrete Bunker just last week. Folsom is broad and well-lit and I have walked it so many times that it is the most familiar thing in the world. The walk to Bunker 2 takes me under freeway overpasses and dark alleys and that dead space behind the Costco. If I am in a big hurry, I will walk past the Hall of Justice and the little boulevard of broken dreams across the street from it, lined with haggard-looking 24-hour bail bonds men.
If you are alone and female in SOMA, wearing the sort of ridiculous clothes that I enjoy while clubbing, conversation tends to be short and sweet.
Random Drunk Guy: Wanna go home with me?
Lil' Miss Never: Nope.
Random Drunk Guy: Why not?
Lil' Miss Never: Married.
Sometimes the leather daddies like my hair. Sometimes a car slows down to hoot and holler. Sometimes some guy mumbles something as we pass each other and takes terrible offense when I ignore him. I wish that the mumblers and the stumblers, the inept Lotharios and guys in cars could understand that they are progressing down the street thinking, "Hey, that's a pretty girl," but I am walking down the street thinking "If that guy makes a move towards me, I am going to elbow him in the face, grab his hair, and ram his head into my knee."
I rarely felt that I had anything to fear while walking down Folsom Street alone in the middle of the night. Nevermind that the police shot a woman in front of the Concrete Bunker just last week. Folsom is broad and well-lit and I have walked it so many times that it is the most familiar thing in the world. The walk to Bunker 2 takes me under freeway overpasses and dark alleys and that dead space behind the Costco. If I am in a big hurry, I will walk past the Hall of Justice and the little boulevard of broken dreams across the street from it, lined with haggard-looking 24-hour bail bonds men.
If you are alone and female in SOMA, wearing the sort of ridiculous clothes that I enjoy while clubbing, conversation tends to be short and sweet.
Random Drunk Guy: Wanna go home with me?
Lil' Miss Never: Nope.
Random Drunk Guy: Why not?
Lil' Miss Never: Married.
Sometimes the leather daddies like my hair. Sometimes a car slows down to hoot and holler. Sometimes some guy mumbles something as we pass each other and takes terrible offense when I ignore him. I wish that the mumblers and the stumblers, the inept Lotharios and guys in cars could understand that they are progressing down the street thinking, "Hey, that's a pretty girl," but I am walking down the street thinking "If that guy makes a move towards me, I am going to elbow him in the face, grab his hair, and ram his head into my knee."