Kathleen Fraser
California College of the Arts, San Francisco 
 
 
 

solidad decosta
16th Street Mission,
12:59 PM
 

Confessional He’s tall, sweaty and very pissed, with ebony skin. I ignore his clothing for some reason and go for the bat-sized stick of wood in his hand that he keeps holding up over his head, shooting angry diminutives meant for whoever is gonna get their ass whuped, or so I presume. He walks rapidly up 16th street, then back to the plaza several times, still holding the bat, but not swinging it. I start to lose track of what he is carrying on about, and follow the pace of his movements -- he moves like rapidly flowing water, uphill for a bit, then rolls back down. He starts to pick up touristas at this, the shrine of all things unimportant.  Privileged? Committed a sin? Stick your tarjeta in the sleek modern turnstile. Have a confession? Talk with the station agent, or better yet -- come up to the street to join in the pilgrimage. A small crowd of the faithful look on as he winds up again, their heads turning like they’re following a tennis match, then briefly followed by their bodies just before he swoops back in. He’s still yelling, and when he comes deep into the plaza, they part to let him through, silent. Eventually, he disappears, stick in hand, and all that is left are pairs of brown and blue eyes staring at his wake up 16th street from behind multiracial faces.  Sacrifice The sun is breaking through. An old bearded man lights a cigarette.  A man with a white shirt and black pants runs for the bus.  “How bad? I mean...” She laughs.  “Lisa! Lisa! Hey! Huh? You wanna catch it? Let’s get it!”  “Bonito, come here, grab a bag.” A yuppie woman talking into a cel phone.  A man singing off-key. “The on-ly time I feel” ”Pero tu...caboses su man...” Wheels on the road. The sound of a bus or truck. Sweeping.  A plaid shirt runs for the bus. Step, step, step, step. Step, step step, slide.  A McDonalds wrapper. A woman in an orange vest picks up trash. The garbled sound of a voice coming out of a walkie-talkie. “Haaaaaah?” Another woman doing something functional that I can’t quite make out. “Oh no, I’m tryin’ to...Oh no I haven’t seen you in so long..sacrifice, God bless you, brotha..you were always there for me!”  The brotha shoots back, “I always will be!” She replies, “I believe it, I believe it.” Apostate A young male hipster talks into his cel phone. His body seems relaxed, and he appears to be lost to everything around him, floating in some sea of broken words. “Oh, I wanna go! And there’s also a cartoon I wanted to go to.” “You have a car?” “Yeh.”  A Wells Fargo sign looms behind him on the side of the building next to the plaza.  “I don’t -” He laughs. “Hunh, yeah, which is --” “I ALWAYS go the wrong way on one way streets!” “Finally, yes, yes, I was driving back really mad, and worried, you know? And this homeless guy knocked on the window and I screamed, ‘GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!’...Oh.” He laughs again. “He was in a wheelchair.”  A woman walks her bicycle slowly across the stones inbedded into the plaza, then goes behind a parked bicycle, and the two merge together for a second.  “And it was closed! OK, anyway...you could just cover yourself in deodorant, that’s what my brother does, it’s really gross...I’ll just get to the station. OK. Bye.”     (c)solidad decosta 2004

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