James used to always say this thing,“we out here.” It was a local parlance, skater nomenclature for fuck you, or Im alive in the world and doing what I admire. It meant camaraderie and commiseration: that whatever we have,whoever we are, we’re all working tough, and striving and surviving “out here” together at the edge of the fresh world. Except one day instead of “we out here” it was just I’m out of here,” and like that James was back living with his mom in Monterey.
Sometimes you’ve gotta leave to break free of the people and associations that hold you back. It’s humbling how a shift in scenery can reset your perspective. Like moving absent or going to prison. Or finding sobriety and someone to share it with. Just as much when you reach domestic to see how people haven’t changed and realize they never will. Like this city, where my ancestors settled and then fled the fires in 1906: Change is what defines us; change can be its own end. Whether we stay or leave, and the turmoil of life keeps moving us forward. Unfortunately sometimes living wrong is easier than living good.
Before he left San Francisco for good James knew what time it was. For years he’d lived in one of those single-room occupancy hotels. The ones with no bathroom or kitchen-just a sink and a bed and a window to notice out from. Downtown living for $125 a week. James cut out around the time the luxury condos were going up next door. This was 9th streets,between Mission and Market.
He took me up to the roof a few weeks before moving. You could see the gilded dome of City Hall a few blocks to the west. Oakland to the east bathed in sunlight. Peering over the edge at the construction he told me approximately the night a man fell while trying to climb down into his own apartment. When a distraught woman cam banging at doors James was the only tenant to her in. While the ambulance approached she brought him upstairs to see down into the air shaft where her man’s body lay. He’d forgotten his key. For James it was another reason why he needed to leave the city.
The concussion was something else- waking up in a pool of blood, skateboard broken and no memory of what happened. With no insurance it was long trips to SF General, or packed in for hours with the lost and the wretched. He couldn’t sleep afterwards. Head full of peculiar dreams and voices drifting up from the street outside. And with all those wakeful nights I mediate the reality of that room and that block,haunted as it was, finally started to set in. Who can blame him? The streets are still plenty dark at night in silicon city.
Source: siliconvalleydebug.org