hey got lucky; found a space three parking meters from the corner. I watch them from where I’m sitting with my Dunkin Donuts cup as the driver cranes his neck to back in a car that’s nothing fancy. Tall and skinny, he comes round to the sidewalk as the man in the passenger seat scrambles out clutching a black leather brief case. He looks to be about my size. The driver guy clicks the lock as the older man peers around the neighborhood. They’re probably dot.commie guys who been moving into the Mission. Briefcase seems not to like what he’s seeing--fast food joints, incense dives, gals soliciting, the street corner confab of guys with over-size gang tattoos. Moochers like me—though I keep it polite and tell everyone’s back to “have a nice day.”
The driver starts off, but Briefcase stands there peering into the car. The driver returns, pissed off and they exchange some testy words. Briefcase plunks down his briefcase, the driver unlocks the car, and together they pull and heave a huge brown plaid suitcase out of the back seat. It’s so large it looks like they’re going somewhere for a month. Probably holds enough clothes and shit to last me a lifetime. Maybe even stuff worth pawning.
They don’t wheel it away. Instead, they try like hell to jam it into the trunk, but it don’t work no matter which way they push or pull it. I grin at the older guy’s dismay that they got to leave it in the backseat of the car. In it goes and sits there like a big overfed zoo animal. I’m wondering why they don’t just trundle it to wherever they’re going. One of them new restaurants with a mariachi band. They argue, and Briefcase waves at the neighborhood. It includes me, but I know I don’t register. Then he points to the trunk. The driver shrugs but returns to his trunk and starts dragging shit out—a dog bed with stuffing poking out, McDonalds crap, boots. They drag this stuff around to the door of the back seat and pile it on the suitcase. It starts to disappear except for its refrigerator shape that they been trying to hide. Briefcase studies the situation, then he shakes his head and sends the driver to the trunk for more stuff--a kid’s skateboard, a deflated inner tube, fishing gear. They layer this on top of the suitcase in the back seat, cleverly rearranging it into mountains and valleys. A soccer ball going flat is last.
Now the driver looks at his watch and motions it’s time to leave. Briefcase follows, but keeps looking back, worried. When they pass by I don’t ask for spare change. They don’t see me. The minute they round the corner, I stash my donations cup in my special place behind a chimney wall. I keep a wrench handy there too. Anyone walking by would think this car with its messy back seat don’t have a thing worth stealing. Except I been watching the show. I hunker down and wait for some corner noise and soon enough two dudes are arguing over nothing that matters, giving me cover for my shower of glass.