intertwingly

I pull into a gas station in San Francisco.  I'm looking for my hotel in Union Square and the maze of one way streets has me beat.

It doesn't help that it is late at night.  Three hours off of my normal time zone.  After a six hour plane flight.  And me without my glasses.

I'm slightly nearsighted.  Not enough to require glasses.  In fact, I passed the eye test for my drivers license without them.  But the truth is that I see distant things clearer with glasses.  Particularly at night.  And it is night.  And I'm tired.

My glasses are in a rental car in Boston.  One that happens to be the same model and even color as the one I am riding in now.  Actually, as I write this, they are in an Airborne express envelope on their way back home.

Anyway, I am in a gas station.  Tired and lost.  And before I can get out of the car, up walks a black man.  Disheveled.  A hint of gray in his unkempt hair.  With some rags in one hand.

He asks me where I am trying to go.  I tell him the name of the hotel I am looking for.  He points off to my left, tells me to cross Market street, and tells me where to turn after that.

I thank him.

At this point, the man tells me that he is homeless.  And explains that the rags are what he uses to clean windshields.  And asks me if I can spare some change.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a bill.  It is a ten.  I hold it out.

He looks shocked.  It almost seems as if he had never seen such a large denomination bill before.  He tentatively reaches out.  I gesture that it is OK.  He uncertainly takes the bill.  He looks thrilled and thankful.

I drive away.  At the light, I look back.  He gone.

I slept well that night.