Finally, after many stops, I was there in
Castro, and my arrival was marked by the blaring of horns and a large, er, man,
complete with hairy, beer-gut, wearing a blonde, curly wig, in black brassiere and hot pants, heels, holding a sign that read, “Honk if you think I’m sexy.” A
friendly couple pointed me to the Walgreens, which was apparently the place to
be, attracting fellow ill folks from across the span of San Francisco. The guy in front of me appeared to have Noonan's syndrome, and I was trying not to continue diagnosing him during the monotonous wait. I gave them Mom’s scripts, and they said to give them an hour. So, I went across the street to
grab a quick bite to eat.
I figured I’d take the cab home since it
would be late, and I had a $20, which would be enough for one way. If you know
the Castro district on a Saturday night, you’re laughing. By the time I got
Mom’s meds, it was almost 8pm, and every taxi I saw had a fare. So, I walked
and walked. All taxis full. I walked until the lights weren’t as bright and the
folks were thinning. All taxis full. Then, I decided to head over to the muni
and just ride back. There were plenty of people out; so I felt relatively safe
and walked the few blocks from the muni to the hotel. I nearly ran into a
slumped over man who was pushing his cart, probably trying to find his place to
sleep. I quickly said, “Excuse me, Sir.” He looked up, gave me the once over,
maybe decided that I was sincere, and smiled.
We wound up spending our extra day down at
Fisherman’s Wharf, and then we had a leisurely trip to the airport. Soon after
I checked in my clothes at the airport, Boop got sick all over herself, our
carry-on bags, and me THREE times. It was an un-fun ride home. Why do I always
have to ride back from CA with puke on me that isn’t my own?
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