Jane is leaving for her day with the grandsons, and as she departs, I do the same. I am encouraged in this maneuver by the low-level beeps emanating from my Apple Watch. ”Time to roll,” the watch says. It has discerned that I am in a wheelchair and offers me this hourly advisory. Apple, being from Silicon Valley, home of the physically fit, which encompasses the liberal vision of the “differently abled”…is concerned about my quadriplegic cardiovascular health. One cannot help but be flattered. Also slightly disturbed that something about my activity suggests wheelchair use. And equally aware of the occasional dialogue we enter, Messieurs Apple Watch and I, around the issue of my body positioning.
The watch occasionally beeps, then asks me if I have fallen and if it should call for help. No, I always reply by way of tapping on the watch face. Thanks for asking, I want to say but don’t. No sense in fucking with technology. And in particular, no sense in getting an undesired visit from the police. Just to clarify, this alert is triggered by my frustrated smashing on the wheelchair armrest. This maneuver I find most gratifying in frustrating moments but is, well, complicated. Burdened, one might say. In any case now I am off, out the door and down the hill.
I confess to feeling slightly abandoned with Jane’s departure for a day in the suburbs. In reality, nothing could be further from the marital truth. But there you have it. Feelings of abandonment may always be with me. And the remedy? Go out for cappuccino and something else. The latter doesn’t matter terribly. But this morning it feels critical. The available possibilities seem so diverse.
First, there is Cup Café, redoutable home of caffeination and refuge. Second, there is La Santaneca, my Salvadoran favorite restaurant in the Mission District. Of course, the latter involves a subway ride. But it’s only one stop on BART, I tell myself, so what the hell. Before I know it, the elevator is descending to the Glen Park station platform and a train is rumbling in. Having positioned myself skillfully, the seventh car out of 10, here it is, the 24th St. station elevator. I press the button, the doors open and and, seconds later the door is closed with me still on the platform. There is a human being lying on the floor of the elevator.
In principle, there is absolutely nothing wrong with anyone lying on the floor of any elevator anywhere. However, the general appropriateness does not figure in my personal equation. The scene disturbs me. There may, or may not, be something threatening in the presence of a figure supine on the elevator floor. Doesn’t matter. I’m not getting in the elevator. COVID-19 does figure largely in the equation. The person is not only on the floor but unmasked. It does not bode well, either way.
I see some people coming down the stairs and ask if they will notify the station agent. They don’t. Instead, the elevator goes up, then comes down, and the doors are again opened, now to reveal a mother with stroller. In other words, all three individuals have happily shared space, as we say in California. Not to mention sharing public transit. And for the briefest instant I consider myself a prig. Then I reconsider the person sprawled on the floor of the BART elevator and see a simple truth. There isn’t room enough for me, the sprawlee’s legs and the four tires of my wheelchair.
Note that with the elevator route impassable, there is really no option. Except to go elsewhere. Such as returning to Glen Park and reverting to Plan A. Fortunately, BART’s running frequently these days. And sure enough, within moments there I am chatting with Sam and ordering his new special. A chicken sandwich. No, I overstate this. A sandwich with what the supplier proclaims directly in a promotional photo sticker next to the cash register is a “chicken patty.” I consider this order option, balk, then proceed anyway. Yes, I will try one of those.
Chicken, one notes, does not come in patties. It comes in, well, you know, chickens. The latter can be sliced. But if something is patty-fied, it has been reformed from things like, you know, chicken remnants, a terrible thought awaiting my sandwich. And the result proves to be somewhere between tasteless and artificial. Never mind. At least no one is lying on the floor of Cup Café.
Let us acknowledge that San Francisco is in a world of trouble. The wild division between rich and poor has much to do with this. And that division is more than disturbing these days. There are two approximate approaches to the urban situation. Retreat or advance. I have opted for the latter. Watch the space for details, for the course has already been set.