THE CITY OF GOOD HERBS (Part Two)

As I crossed the street, I suddenly felt a vice-like grip on my right elbow. “Help me across the street, Girlie,” croaked an old woman. She wore a long black dress, woolen fingerless gloves and a man’s felt hat. She was coated with bird poop. It was the infamous, “Pigeon Lady.”

Everyone in San Francisco knew about her. Devoted to the pigeons in Union Square, she fed them breadcrumbs, and then stood as silent as a statue, as they perched and decorated her with their droppings.

First the weird egg guy, then the fallen man/woman, and now the “Pigeon Lady,” who smelled like a fowl potty.  Halfway across the street, we saw a policeman directing traffic. When I heard her yell, “Hey, Joe,” and loosen her grip on my arm, I shook her off and sprinted away.

After I returned to the hotel, W.S. informed me that we had been invited to a reception and private showing of the works of Salvador Dali.  I had just enough time to comb my hair and sponge off the right sleeve of my jacket, before we hurried out of the hotel to hail a taxi.

It was beginning to drizzle, and we felt very fortunate when a cab pulled up. W.S. shouted the address at the driver, who didn’t turn around to acknowledge our presence, but since he started driving, we assumed he knew we were there. His photo said that his name was, “Youssef,” and his scowl announced, “Don’t mess with me!”

After Youssef ran his second red light, W.S. noticed that his emergency light was blinking. “Your emergency blinker is on,” said W.S. Without a reply, Youssef’s head suddenly disappeared into his lap. “Where are you going? I screamed. “Looking for the switch,” Youssef replied. “Well, come back up here to do it,” I said.

By this time, Youssef was driving 50 miles and hour, up and down San Francisco’s hilly streets with his head in his lap. W.S. calmly said, “Youssef, why don’t you wait until you drop us off to find the problem?” “Okay,” said Youssef, lifting his head.

By now, other drivers noticed the blinking light, so every time a car passed us, a helpful driver would yell, “Your emergency light is on.” Whereupon, Youssef would shout something back about spitting camels or mother/son relationships. All we wanted to do was to get out of that cab. Finally, we arrived at our destination with a screeching halt. Youseff’s head disappeared toward his clutch, W.S. threw a $20 bill onto the front seat, and we stumbled out of the cab whooping, “Hello Dali!”

Passersby merely shrugged and assumed that we were a couple of loony locals just enjoying Yerba Buena.

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006