"Shopping"

I emerged back into the dark rainy neverworld of downtown San Francisco in the holidays, from Macy's - having grudgingly gone in for my yearly replacement of a certain bottle of makeup. And standing right outside the door was a skinny, toothless, old man, wild white hair, holding out an upside down baseball cap with a few coins in it. "It's my birfday. 70 years old today" with an upward intonation on "birf" and "70" and a doe-eyed look that tugged so hard at my heart. I didn't stop amidst the traffic of shoppers to take out a soggy dollar from my dilapidated barely functional wallet to hand it to him. I looked instead. I looked at him for instants longer than anyone usually looks at anyone who's a stranger on the street and I hope it said something cause I couldn't say anything. Union Square, the nauseating glitz and glam of Christmas decorations, the ultra-elaborate window displays poised to strike the heart of consumerist desires, the overly bedizen people with overly large shopping bags, the wet breaths and sweaty rained on faces, the dusking day with its darkening sky and the pouring, pouring, pouring rain. And this old toothless man. I was sorry I didn't give him a dollar and I was sorry I even had to wonder if he was making up the fact that was his birthday. I wanted to cry as I walked away replaying his words and his voice and the look on his face. I wanted to cry but I was numb.