San Francisco
Fisherman’s Wharf; the place I was at, the next location for sightseeing. San Francisco was indeed much different from Singapore, and I ended up having to wear a jacket just to keep myself from suffering hypothermia. The wind was brisk but freezing, and came frequently. I could vaguely remember what a particular souvenir magnet I had bought said: “The coldest winter I ever had was a summer in San Francisco.” I reminded myself to add on more lip balm next time I went sightseeing in America. I slowly continued down my path past Pier 39, looking around and window-shopping.
The aroma of clam chowder and fresh seafood was the toughest temptation to resist, but I knew the hole in my pocket could not afford to grow any bigger. What a pity, the hotel was much too far away and it was absurd to take a cable car back. Their queues were as long as dragons one saw during Chinese New Year. Also, if I bought anything with the three dollars I had left I’d have to walk home (Three dollars was exactly the fare for the cable car which I would eventually have to take back). I continued to walk down the piers.
Just around Pier 35, I stopped after I glanced at something that caught my eye. Just across the road, an old man was sitting on a bench, shredding sourdough into small pieces and scattering them on the floor for the pigeons to eat. He seemed somewhat frail, and in his late seventies. Next to him I could see a cup and a cardboard sign, traditional signs of homeless folk.
Something suddenly crossed my mind then. Everyone there knew he was homeless, so why wasn’t there a single soul who was kind enough to give him a dollar, or even a quarter or dime? Yet I could not bring myself to take out my wallet and walk over to give him a small donation. Eventually the guilt overtook me. I knew that I didn’t have any money to spare on him, but at least I could provide him with some company. I looked around to make sure there were no cars or chariots, and moved across the road.
When I edged closer to him, I suddenly realized how many pigeons there were. Despite its size, surely one piece of sourdough bread alone was not enough to please them all! I felt rather lost in his motives. But he continued to scatter bread as if he had no purpose in life apart than to give to others. The pigeons bowed down in front of him, to accept and receive the blessing the old man had for them. Despite finding a hard means to talk to him, I decided to just start the conversation anyway.
“Excuse me, mister.” He turned around to look at me. “What’re you doing?” How typical a start to a conversation.
“Me? I’m just feeding these young ‘uns here. They really like this bread ‘ere, yea?” He seemed sincere enough. At least he wasn’t going to kill the conversation by chasing me away or something.
“But look at them, there’s so many! You couldn’t possibly feed them all full with just one piece of sourdough bread, right?”
“Listen, kid. Lemme tell yea a story. These ‘ere pigeons never really were appreciated by ‘em tourists. No one feels for these poor lil’ things, yea? These birds ain’t got much spunk left in ‘em, so no ‘un cares. Except for people like me. I ain’t got much spunk left in me either, so I know. You gotta help anyone who needs help, even if just a little bit. Then that way they help you. These pigeons won’t help me no matter how much sourdough I give ‘em, but hey, at least I feel happy about it, right? You have ta keep happy especially when yer homeless and old like me, ya? Treasure yer happiness, does wonders for ya. Treasure people too, ‘cause life’s… what’s that word again? Oh, yeah, evanescent. So anyway-”
“Ok, thanks, I get the idea.” I proceeded to take three dollars out of my wallet and put it in the cup next to him. He was shocked for a while. Three dollars must’ve been a lot to him.
He got back to reality after a few seconds, and smiled at me. “Thanks for the donation, kid.”
“It’s not a donation. It’s a tip.” He stared for a while, before understanding what I meant. I smiled at him again, then turned around and started to walk back to the hotel.
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Whee, new prose. Comments again, please. *Yes, the conversation isn't too good. I must improve my conversational prose.* And once again, I'm not too happy with this, but what the hey. After one or two rewritings, I'm sure it'll be better.
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