I Plan to be Naked By Lunch

My friend Brittonlee, along with her son, Magnus, and I were headed to the San Francisco Zoo one fine Friday morning. We live pretty close to each other and from my house it’s a quick trip down to Muni where we could catch the bus that would take us to our destination. Our little walk took us by the public library where, from time to time, actually pretty much always, there is a congregation of homeless people that like to hang out around the front steps. Today, as we pass by we hear a lady dressed in black say to her friend, “I plan to be naked by lunch.” My friend smiles at me. I ask her if I had heard that right. Yup, this lady was pretty much stating the facts at the time, which made me wonder what kind of life does this lady lead in which her plan for the whole day entails being naked by lunch. I’ve actually seen way more naked people, mostly homeless people, than I would like to while living in the Tenderloin.

The lady at the Laundromat, the guy peeing behind the car while I was on the phone at the house, the guy peeing at the civic center while I came from Muni, a stream of wee coming from his you-know-what when it should have been in his pants not waving around in the air for all to see. And the ladies, it’s happened more than once, I’ve seen pooping and peeing between cars, their asses hanging out willy nilly. The random shirt that doesn’t fit the way too skinny homeless lady whose boobs you can see when it flaps open. Look away! Look away, I tell myself frantically as an impression of what I’m seeing is being imprinted on my brain at that exact moment. It’s like a car crash really, you see it coming, you know you should look away, but for some sick strange reason, you can’t. And then it’s there, FOREVER! Or at least until I get old and am diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

The lady at the Laundromat, this is what I’m talking about when I say it’ll be there FOREVER. This day was particularly scaring and now I’m apprehensive about what I might see there every time I do the laundry, which is about every week. My Laundromat is not located in my apartment building, but rather it is on the same block. I like to do the laundry as early as possible in the morning, which amounts to about ten or eleven for me.

The day started off fine enough. I gathered my laundry in the bag; I took it down the stairs and put it in to wash. I usually feel pretty safe leaving my laundry alone while it washes since the machines are front loaders and I don’t think someone can or could open them while it’s on. They wash and then I go to transfer them to the dryer. When I get down there this time there’s a lady roaming around the place. She’s dancing and twirling and swaying around. I don’t like to leave my clothes alone in the dryer at times like these. So I sit and wait, figuring she’ll move along soon and I can go back home to get the bags that I will need to collect my clothes. She continues to dance and sway, except now she starts to sort of lift her shirt up, little by little. I’m trying not to watch. There’s only one other person in the Laundromat besides us and he’s reading a newspaper sitting between me and the dancing lady, trying not to pay attention to her. She starts to pick at the visible scabs on her arms. She has a lot of them. I try not to look. This time, as she pulls up her shirt, I see her boobs. I look away. Unfortunately, I keep looking in her direction because she’s dancing next to the dryer with my clothes in it and I don’t want her to mess with it. The next time I look over she has her pants around her ankles, her right hand shoved into her asshole and her left arm is holding her shirt over her head. Shit. I call out, “You probably should put your clothes back on.” The man with the newspaper is still reading his newspaper. He’s ignoring everything, the naked lady, me yelling at the naked lady, the naked lady. This kind of stoicism is an art only to be painstakingly perfected in an area such as the Tenderloin. I’m thinking at this point, if she goes for the clothes, she can have them, they’re hers, because there is no way I’m fighting someone with poop on their hands. I ask the gentleman to please keep an eye on my dryer and tell him that I will be right back. He nods, but doesn’t look away from his paper.

I run up stairs to get my boyfriend to come help me with my situation. I frantically tell him what is happening while I gather the bags and my phone. I make a call to the land-lady who is in charge of the Laundromat and leave her a message. I suggest that there be a regular attendant. We run back downstairs. As we get to the door I notice the lady passed out on the floor by the front door, her clothes on.