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Oakland street, urban neighborhood, cigarette butts and used condoms in the
gutter alongside the amber shards of a broken whiskey bottle. Black man
straight ahead, jukin' and jivin' and snapping his fingers. Skinny guy,
loose black pants, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, no tie. Walking along
all jangly, big grin, bright eyes.
Oh, damn, where to hide? Me, a middle-class white woman, feeling trapped and
looking for escape. Across the street, construction workers with their
coffee mugs sit on a ledge and watch the inevitable confrontation. To move
among them? No way. Step off the sidewalk and into the gutter to avoid this
jivy dude? Uh-uh. Might be construed as dissing him, and that way lies
disaster.
No choice but to go straight ahead, eyes lowered, maybe a nod if absolutely
required. Yep, just walk on by this guy with the phony beatific smile. I've
seen his kind before. Listening to gangsta rap or other voices? High on
crack, or scam artist with what he thinks is a new line? Well-dressed junkie
or poorly-dressed pimp? Could be. Could be any of those, or worse.
We're twenty feet apart, now ten, now six...
"Hey lady, how you doin' this gorgeous morning?"
"Fine," I mumble. "You?" Gotta be polite in downtown Oakland. Polite, no
matter what. Otherwise...
"Blessed!" he says, raising his hands toward the sun just cresting the tall
buildings and illuminating the grimy street. "Monumentally blessed." And he
passes me by, still finger-snapping, half-skipping to music I can't — or
refuse — to hear.
I turn and watch him leap over some garbage on the sidewalk, trash from the
Korean grocery on the corner, and he's dancing, swaying, shimmying. Even
from behind him, I can see that smile.
"Hey!" I shout.
He turns.
"Me, too. I'm blessed. Thanks."
He pantomimes a Sir Walter Raleigh sweep of an imaginary cloak, does a
Renaissance bow, and then he's gone around the corner.
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