It Takes A Red Ball Gown to Make a Home

The scene:  I am walking to my girlfriend’s apartment in San Francisco’s Tenderloin…a  cool Über urban neighborhood filled with a tasty mélange of  junkies, transsexual hookers (who always compliment me on my outfits, thank you, Ladies!) and business men in their Dunhill finery.  I always smile at the incongruity of homeless people asleep in the doorway of a liquor store and a limo pulled to the curb, driver rushing inside to buy a Vietnamese sandwich for the guy in the backseat….then again, the sandwiches sold in that liquor store are the finest around.

I come to the corner to wait for the light to change.  Little Chinese grandmas clutch shopping bags over flowing with bok choy and pink boxes full of chinese goodies.  This is the typical crowd one sees at noon, people going about their daily chores.  The light turns green, as I cross the street, the crowd shifts.  In front of me, about half a block  ahead of me walks a very tall man.   He towered over me, and the group of  Chinese grandmas.  I’d say he was easily 6’4.  He had a short haircut and a neatly trimmed beard. In one hand was a shopping bag, and beneath his other arm, was  folded a copy of this week’s edition of the New Yorker.

Nothing outstanding, nor particularly unusual, except that he was wearing a full length red ball gown.  The dress’ train must have been 3 feet long.  The crowd shifted and weaved to avoid stepping on the fabric.  Nobody stopped. Nobody stared.  Just a normal day in the neighborhood.

I smiled as I thought, this is why I could never live anywhere else.

Published in: on December 18, 2009 at 1:42 AM  Comments (3)  
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