Haight Ashbury and the Red Picasso

If you have been to the Haight Ashbury District, you may remember seeing the neon shadowed Amoeba Music sign, coupled with a slightly larger sign towering next to it that read Bowling. I saw that brightly illuminated sign off the side of the road, and I couldn't help noticing the homeless who were also lit by its broad reach. Across the street from the record shop was a small gift shop owned by one of the counterculture rebels, now old but still flying the wave of psychedelic discovery and promise. I noticed that Marvin - the shop owner, didn't care much for religion and began sending curse words toward nuns brandishing holy orders.

I purchased a rope necklace from that store with a marble pendant hanging from it, and inside was a small blue mushroom. I placed it around my neck, and it dangled close to the center of my chest. Outside, it was raining, and the cars and longboarders passed by on the puddled road, and the lights of the streets reflected off the wet concrete. The classic smell of rain: a mix of dirt and false aroma filled the noses of everyone on the busy street. There existed a strange feeling of being in a place where cultish types gathered and burned on mental stimulants or retardants. Uppers and downers, whatever I am permitted to call them, were most likely still in the cracks of the sidewalks, and I could picture people digging around for any semblance of the freedom 60s. It was a Friday night, and my mom and I walked down the street, talking about the large overhanging trees and how she loved the overcast weather of northern California. She wanted to show me how others lived and pointed to one of the homeless men on the corner. He was throwing his arms around his head, and his legs buckled under the weight of his swings. I didn't know why but he was wailing loudly into the air, sobbing and screaming about something nobody could understand. It was then I noticed a small black cat sitting above him. I met its bright green eyes with my glare, and it got up to walk away into the alley. 

A different man had a sign resting on his stomach as he was slumped up against the building wall with dried blood stemming from both of his nostrils, and I couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed. He was groaning loudly, just lying there suffering. People walked past and left him like nothing was wrong. The trees were green that day, and they canopied the street trolleys and passerby pedestrians while the skateboarders and taxis rolled up and down the steep hills of San Francisco. We went into another store, but just at a different angle from the man on the street. He didn't do anything except lay there and wipe the streams of blood pouring out of his face. I could read the sign much better now and understood where the continuous blood was coming from. 'Punch me in the face for five dollars,' it said. At first, I felt no sympathy for the man, but then I saw his lifeless face and the pints of blood accumulating on the concrete. 

A group was now forming around him, and they all had swollen knuckles that were black and blue, but somehow they appeared to enjoy it. At that instance, a taller white man with a jarhead crewcut struck the homeless man and whiplashed his head against the building wall. Blood splattered like a Picasso, and the jarhead laughed while shaking his hand in pain.

"FUCK, that hurt," he shouted, briefly turning his head in my direction. 

The bloodied man's eyes fell on me, and I knew he saw me watching through the storefront window. One of the other men kicked him in the stomach, and more blood gurgled from his mouth, but his bloodshot eyes never left my gaze. 

Short and quiet voices began to flow through my head, and I began to feel the warmth of blood drip from my right nostril. The homeless man mustered a short, red grin and then got the piss slapped out of him, spitting blood on the boot of the aggressor. Every time they hit him, a five-dollar bill dropped into his lap.

The voices continued but were muffled, and I felt I was going crazy. I couldn't tell you how much time passed, but it felt like hours. Just him, knowing that I watched him, comforted him, but how? That wouldn't make any sense. 

Nausea scrambled my stomach, and I rushed to the restroom. It was quickly becoming night, and the bathroom light flickered as my reflection looked back at me in the narrow mirror on the wall. 

Blood was flowing out of my nostrils, and my shirt was soaked crimson. The voices came back.

"I can't speak or talk, son," a disturbed voice whispered.

"Thanks for watching me. It felt good to see someone notice what happened to me. Oh,

there's so much I could tell you, but right now isn't the time because I am convinced I will die. These men are here a few times a week, and for some reason, they hate me, but I can't tell why. Maybe it's because they're jealous. I just sit here and smile as they abuse me because their money is in my lap, and my blood sticks to the insides of their fingernails. They must live with a lot of regret for that. I would bet, at least. It seems you have what I have. You can speak without saying anything at all. You have your thoughts and that precious stare. To be honest kid, I just want the old me back because I am so lonely, you truly have no idea. Nothing of it matters anymore, and I'll just keep letting my head splattered for money. That makes me happy. It feels nice to be happier than most people. I lost my ability to speak, but I can speak to those like you. I don't even move my own limbs anymore. I think it's the brain trying to survive with a soul that doesn't care anymore. 

The voices began fading out, and I returned from my trance. My face was cherry red, and tears were rushing down my cheeks. 

Urgently I rushed back out to the window, and I could hear the whispers of customers in the store and my mother's footsteps following me. I peeked out into the rain, and the man was gone. His sign lay on its back, and the blood was washing from the concrete into the stream along the sidewalk. 

  A distant voice came into my hearing once again.

"Bad things have happened to me, and I try to forget, but I can't because there isn't anything in this world that you can forget if it hurts you enough. I suffer from something, but maybe it's existence itself. I'm gone now, but hopefully, only you will notice."

Suddenly my shoulders were being shaken, and I could hear screaming, but my eyes were fixed on the spot where the homeless man had been, and suddenly I could no longer speak, and my mind went blank, only trying to find the voiceless souls like the man who had left me.