Love and Luxury
I’ve lived in San Francisco for twenty years, and I still wait for the first businessman at the crosswalk to step into the street before I do.
It’s not a gender thing. Please don’t mistake me for the type of woman who takes all her cues from a man. That line of thinking would’ve left my career in shambles, and my bank account drained—never mind the winter storm that would’ve moved into my bedroom.
We all do it. Next time you’re in the city, look around as you cross the street. For just a split second, everyone else holds their breath, waiting for the ironclad beasts rumbling nearby to lose control and slam through his weak, fleshy meat sack—then everyone else crosses.
And before you say it, don’t. There is always a businessman at any crowded intersection in San Francisco. They’re like ants—in presence and behavior. Where there’s one, there’s a million, and once you’ve spotted them, they’re all you can see.
Some people think techies have ruined the city.
They’ll claim major corporations settling in San Francisco hauled the peace-loving, free love advocates into high rises built to sink, slammed MacBooks into their hands, and reminded them they’re “changing the world” with an embroidered Patagonia fleece.
Instead of art, we got AI. Instead of makeshift stoner salons on Haight apartment floors, we got self-driving cars.
A city formerly known for peace, love, and public nudity is now famous for billion-dollar companies that turn out to be fake, and the most human feces on the street per capita of anywhere else in the world. But still public nudity, so there’s that, at least.
Some people mourn the loss of the San Francisco that was, no longer able to recognize their home in what San Francisco is.
I’m not some people.
All I see when I watch that businessman step into the street is a sale.
He’s just another lazy millionaire who can’t be bothered with a forty-five-minute commute—on public transit no less—and wants a condo in the city for his work week.
He’s just another proud family man with his gaggle of brats who need yet another bedroom.
His tech job foots the bill while his wife does all the work, but it’s okay—he gets to say he’s providing for his family when I show him the $3.
57 million five-bed, three-bath single-family home in Noe.
Can’t he already hear the grandparents’ approval when they come for Christmas?
No, I don’t mind businessmen. If I weren’t so obviously gay—I would get called out every time I breathe in the direction of the Castro—I would tell you I love businessmen. But what I really love is their money and the commission I cut from their checks.
Well. I used to love it.
A crosswalk ruined my life five years ago. If that sounds dramatic, just wait—it gets worse. But before I tell you the beginning, I’ll tell you the ending because I can’t have you mistaking me for some pitiful matchstick girl out in the cold.
I rise above some seriously creepy shit. I stone-face my way through some of the worst, most insane, nastiest clients I’ve ever had. And soon—like in mere days—I’ll get the fattest check of my life and never have to work again.
I neither need nor deserve your pity—not because what happened to me isn’t fucked up. It is. But because in a bout of absolute, finely distilled, pure moronic stupidity, I brought all this on myself.
And my life may never be the same.
Fog rolled over San Francisco in punishing waves, swallowing any living creature that dared step into its opaque reign.
From my office, I had a view of the insect-like foot traffic that scurried endlessly through the financial district, Monday to Friday, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. But today, it was as if the city were empty, the fog dampening the usual drifting sounds of traffic and random shouts of passersby.
I’d ordered a coffee and bagel from my usual spot, instructing the delivery person to drop the order with the secretary at Fort, Smith, & Ralley.
Despite knowing that Laura’s job was largely doling out the steady stream of deliveries to my fellow real estate agents and me, I still left the app open, occasionally glancing down at the delivery’s progress while I worked.
You can imagine my annoyance when my phone rang with the tell-tale “unknown caller” ID that usually meant the delivery was now lost.
“Yes, you need to bring it to Fort, Smith, & Ralley. You’re on the wrong corner.
” I hung up before they could protest. When a solid ten minutes passed, and the dot remained stuck in the opposite corner, I started to see red.
$7.89 in delivery fees alone for a coffee that cost half that, and this bastard couldn’t press the elevator button into the right building.
Slamming my laptop shut, I threw my weight into my hips, letting them swing my heels down on the marble floor. It was only a few feet between my desk and the elevator, but it was enough space to broadcast my irritation.
“I can go down—”
I held a single finger up to Laura, pausing her half-standing position before she could completely straighten.
I knew she called this my “Bitch Walk.” I’d heard her on the phone to whoever after a particularly elitist client refused an over-market offer because it didn’t come from the “right person.”
“They’re paid to come here,” I said, forcing calm into my voice.
The elevator dinged. I stepped in, turning to watch the doors close over Laura’s tightly knit brows, mouth pulled down at the corners, next words swallowed by my rapid descent.
In barely a breath, the doors opened again on the polished lobby floors, and before the security guard could look up from their phone, I was slamming a hand on the crosswalk button outside.
Head on a swivel, I scanned the swirl of bodies around me for the bright red delivery service bag most of them carried on their back, usually straddling a rickety bike. But despite the press of people streaming by me as if I were a rock disrupting the current, I didn’t see a single delivery logo.
Minutes ticked by as I waited for the light to change, the steady roar of morning traffic keeping me bound to the sidewalk instead of jaywalking to get this over with.
My first client of the day was particularly time conscious and wouldn’t like me being late—even if I was only delayed three past the hour.
Finally, the accessibility voice rang out from the button, the vibrating metal letting everyone in ear shot know it was safe to cross.
I sprinted into the crosswalk like a horse set loose from its stall, the racetrack yet unturned by hooves and speed.
This is where I fucked up. When I look back at my life-altering fumble, I can’t help narrowing in on these few precious seconds ticking by in slow motion, desperate for an opening from fate where I could’ve turned away, changed my mind, swiveled, fallen on my face—for fuck’s sake. Anything.
Anything but what happened next.
Tick. One heel in front of the other, a light jog jostling the earrings and gold chain I chose to accessorize my paper-bag slacks and high-necked floral blouse. Eyes forward, chin up, mind laser-focused on finding my coffee and rescuing it from incompetent hands.
Tick. A strange body connects with my shoulder.
From somewhere far away, barely above the blood thundering in my ears, a strange voice calls out, “Watch it!” On pure impulse, rage building in my sternum and threatening to erupt out of my throat, across my lips, I return a “NO” to the unfamiliar voice.
Tick. I never reach the far side of the street.
Instead, my feet connect with dirty yellow linoleum.
The foggy morning evaporated, as if someone had captured the low clouds in an atomizing jar, condensing them into something even more opaque and oppressive.
Weak light struggled through them, barely flickering over my new surroundings.
I found myself transported to the most depressing office I’d ever seen. Half-hearted cubicles surrounded me on all sides, hunched shadowy forms clacking away on some device obscured by further darkness.
“Hello?” I called, whirling around in a panic, desperate to get a better grip on my surroundings. This was not Spear Street.
From across the endless expanse of cubicles, a door creaked open. An elderly woman in a worn houndstooth ensemble, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her warty nose, stepped out. She clutched a stack of papers in her wrinkled hands, shuffling them with a put-upon sigh.
“Next,” she called in a voice like dead leaves cracking underfoot.
I looked around to see if anyone would rise to the call, but the shadowy forms didn’t so much as glance in the woman’s direction.
“Next,” she called again, this time glaring pointedly at me.
Eager to get out of whatever hallucination I was having, I resisted the urge to sprint toward the door, settling instead on a smart clip.
I hoped I looked annoyed—I was—and like I had somewhere to be.
I did. But it took only three steps before my self-important act withered.
No sound echoed across the silent space but for the scattered typing from the shadows. I couldn’t hear my steps thud on the cheap flooring, got no confirmation of the annoyed “tsk” I made at the woman’s repetitive call, couldn’t so much as hear my own heart in my body.
It was a hellish silence—encompassing, smothering, consuming—leaving me to sheepishly cross the expanse to what was hopefully my ticket out.
Worse yet, I felt eyes burning into me from all directions, but every time I tried to find their source, I was met only with the same hunched, focused forms. It was as if everyone was looking at me but only when I couldn’t look back.