Hotel Whitcomb. Bidding goodbye to the specter of Jack Nicholson, his Big Wheel-riding son, and the flesh-and-blood maids who cleaned my room at 8 a.m. (if and only if I put out my Do Not Disturb sign), I finally schlepped my suitcase and cardboard box to a modest studio apartment in San Francisco’s Mission District, which lay south of Wicked ’s theater. This, by everyone’s account, would be a truly happening neighborhood—providing much-needed relief from the psychological injury incurred by doing hard time on Market Street (campus for the public urinators and coffee-snatchers).
But, alas. My first evening in the Mission I walked by a man playing a broken-stringed guitar and singing about the evils of sodomy. A few blocks later, a woman emerged, completely drenched, holding a mattress and yelling at the top of her lungs. Soon she was coughing and sputtering in my face, and wouldn’t stop spitting until I’d ducked around the corner.
“Wait, what?” Marshall said, gasping. I could see his face contorting on my computer screen, next to the time ticker of our Skype chat that read 74 minutes. We’d been doing the long-distance thing, and so had become obsessed with talking via webcam.
“It’s all true,” I said. “Everyone who has visited San Francisco must be in on some conspiracy; they all say it’s amazing, but no matter where I go, something outrageous happens to me.”
“Should I be worried, Fel? Are you safe?”
“Sure, I’m safe. I think I just, like, need a car. Or an electric scooter.”
“A Segway! You should get one and also wear a giant helmet. For safety.”
“I need some kind of vehicle to get around. Everybody in the cast who has a car appears to be really happy.”
“But isn’t there public transportation?” asked Marshall as he sipped from a stout glass of Bourbon. (On Skype date night Marshall went all-out, while I abstained in the service of vocal health, sipping lemon water from a straw.)
I explained to Marshall how in San Francisco “public transportation” was a term used loosely. Everything was so spread out and scattered that after you took a train or bus, you’d end up having to walk really far to your end destination anyway, up and down the steep hills. In the meantime, you’d have no choice but to faceoff with the army of insanity. In short, “public transportation” worked best for people who didn’t actually have anywhere to go.
“I could be your car,” volunteered Marshall, taking a generous sip of booze and swirling it in his mouth. “I’ll carry you.”
“Okay, deal. Are you gas or hybrid?”
“Hybrid.”
“You run on peanut butter and string cheese.”
(These were two of his favorite foods. I know, you don’t have to tell me—I’m so good at flirting.)
“Anyway,” I said, recovering, “I’m really excited for next month.”
Marshall and I had been planning his first visit for weeks now. He’d even bought his plane ticket to San Francisco New Year’s Eve weekend, when I’d been visiting his family. Orbitz.com had never seemed so romantic.
“I’m excited, too!”
I began listing a bunch of stuff around the city that we had to visit—the Ferry Building, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Aquarium—when, suddenly, something possessed me to say,
“Seriously? When you come out and visit, you should just stay.”
Marshall snickered, loose from the Bourbon. “I know, I totally should.”
“I mean, think about it,” I said, indulging in the fantasy, “you could just shack up with me. It would be like summer camp. You don’t like your job, so that would be a way out, and you could spend your time here deciding what you really want to do.”
The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Marshall had been having career doubts since before I’d met him. He’d been working at an e-commerce website that sold men’s pants, where he did their customer service and wrote a style blog (on which, incidentally, I’d started
But, alas. My first evening in the Mission I walked by a man playing a broken-stringed guitar and singing about the evils of sodomy. A few blocks later, a woman emerged, completely drenched, holding a mattress and yelling at the top of her lungs. Soon she was coughing and sputtering in my face, and wouldn’t stop spitting until I’d ducked around the corner.
“Wait, what?” Marshall said, gasping. I could see his face contorting on my computer screen, next to the time ticker of our Skype chat that read 74 minutes. We’d been doing the long-distance thing, and so had become obsessed with talking via webcam.
“It’s all true,” I said. “Everyone who has visited San Francisco must be in on some conspiracy; they all say it’s amazing, but no matter where I go, something outrageous happens to me.”
“Should I be worried, Fel? Are you safe?”
“Sure, I’m safe. I think I just, like, need a car. Or an electric scooter.”
“A Segway! You should get one and also wear a giant helmet. For safety.”
“I need some kind of vehicle to get around. Everybody in the cast who has a car appears to be really happy.”
“But isn’t there public transportation?” asked Marshall as he sipped from a stout glass of Bourbon. (On Skype date night Marshall went all-out, while I abstained in the service of vocal health, sipping lemon water from a straw.)
I explained to Marshall how in San Francisco “public transportation” was a term used loosely. Everything was so spread out and scattered that after you took a train or bus, you’d end up having to walk really far to your end destination anyway, up and down the steep hills. In the meantime, you’d have no choice but to faceoff with the army of insanity. In short, “public transportation” worked best for people who didn’t actually have anywhere to go.
“I could be your car,” volunteered Marshall, taking a generous sip of booze and swirling it in his mouth. “I’ll carry you.”
“Okay, deal. Are you gas or hybrid?”
“Hybrid.”
“You run on peanut butter and string cheese.”
(These were two of his favorite foods. I know, you don’t have to tell me—I’m so good at flirting.)
“Anyway,” I said, recovering, “I’m really excited for next month.”
Marshall and I had been planning his first visit for weeks now. He’d even bought his plane ticket to San Francisco New Year’s Eve weekend, when I’d been visiting his family. Orbitz.com had never seemed so romantic.
“I’m excited, too!”
I began listing a bunch of stuff around the city that we had to visit—the Ferry Building, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Aquarium—when, suddenly, something possessed me to say,
“Seriously? When you come out and visit, you should just stay.”
Marshall snickered, loose from the Bourbon. “I know, I totally should.”
“I mean, think about it,” I said, indulging in the fantasy, “you could just shack up with me. It would be like summer camp. You don’t like your job, so that would be a way out, and you could spend your time here deciding what you really want to do.”
The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Marshall had been having career doubts since before I’d met him. He’d been working at an e-commerce website that sold men’s pants, where he did their customer service and wrote a style blog (on which, incidentally, I’d started
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