These days Scotty has to take the bus whenever he goes to a medical appointment because after he had the stroke, he lost his peripheral vision so he can’t drive any more, and he always dreads the wait at the bus stop because of the older Black man—with his dreadlocks, knit cap, shopping bags, and dirty sleeping bag—who spends every day sitting on the bus stop bench—the man always asks Scotty for money and Scotty always gives him some, but he feels so uncomfortable—it just isn’t right for this person to be living on the street and there must more he could do, maybe offer the use of his basement as a shelter during bad weather—but what if the man started a fire down there or did something else dangerous—no, it’s just too risky—if he were living alone he’d be willing to take that on, but he can’t endanger his wife—still, that it has come to this—when he was an idealistic young hippie in the sixties, did he ever imagine that he would end up a retired, old middle class white man, occasionally reaching into his pocket to find a handout for someone living on the street, or that there would even still be people living on the street for fuck’s sake—but this time when he arrives at the bus stop, there is a television crew standing across the street with a reporter he recognizes from the local evening news, a slim, beautiful Asian woman, in a pristine, ivory-colored pants suit that looks incongruous on this drab as always intersection of Gilman and San Pablo streets, where there is a gas station, a chain drugstore, a liquor store, and an inexpensive Vietnamese restaurant, and the older Black man on the bus stop bench turns to Scotty with a wry smile,
“Looks like they’re trying to do some big story on the 'Historic Gilman District,' but can’t figure out where it is,”
and Scotty smiles back at him and says,
“Yeah, it’s funny, isn’t it? I’ve been living in this area since I graduated from Cal and it was always just a part of Westbrae, and suddenly in the last few years just because we now have a few brew pubs and a Philz Coffee they’re calling it the Historic Gilman District, and there’s even that giant fake-old mural now on 9th street proclaiming it, so my neighbors and I joke that since we’ve lived here for decades before the Gilman District even existed, we actually live in the Prehistoric Gilman District,”
and the man on the bus stop bench replies,
“Prehistoric Gilman District—hah—I’ve been here a long time, too, man," and then “here’s your bus—have a good one,”
and Scotty says,
“You, too—see you later.”
by Nina Zolotow
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