A Simple Matter

10 p.m., and I'm standing in the pale white glow of a Muni bus shelter at the corner of McAllister and Van Ness, kitty-corner from the great dome of City Hall, reading one of Haruki Murakami's jazz-laced, rain-drenched explorations of loss and loneliness. Close by, a gaggle of young college students heading home from the opera or the symphony laugh and chatter amongst themselves. One of them sports an atrocious pair of muttonchop whiskers, or so it appears in this light.

A scrawny blond boy in a grey hooded sweatshirt and faded denim jeans shuffles up. His hair is neat, like a choirboy's. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and he looks at something just above my right shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir. Do you have a spare $0.75? Blessings."

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"I'm a bit short," he says, and turns away, methodically moving on to the next person, a biker who gives him some change, which he tucks into a back pocket, crosses the street, and heads down Van Ness. I watch him until he disappears.

My first thought is not that he must be cracked out, nor that he might be part of a cult. These might be my second and third thoughts, but they are not my first thought.

My first thought: he is somebody's son.

And just like that, a tear forms in the corner of my eye.