My Day in San Francisco
by Guy W. Thomas I'm mildly famous for my "walks". They began shortly after I got my first power wheelchair at 13. I had spent two years as a "lump" in a
manual wheelchair. Unable to move around the house at all. I had to ask family members to push me to the breakfast table in the morning and back to my bedroom at night. To attend High School the school board had required my getting
a power wheelchair. So, when it arrived one morning. I refused to get into it. It stayed in the corner all day. Somehow, I had convinced myself that as long as I stayed in my manual wheelchair; I didn't need a power wheelchair.
Denial hurts. Like the power wheelchair was a symptom of my increasing disability, not a symbol of my independence. When my father came home he promptly lifted me from my chair, plopped me into the new one and pushed me to the back
yard patio. He engaged the motors and turned on the power. As he headed inside he said over his shoulder, "You better hurry up, dinner's almost ready." And disappeared into the house. It took me about 20
minutes to travel that 40 feet or so, but I learned to drive the wheelchair. That night, I barely got to sleep. In the morning, after breakfast, I left home alone. All I did was travel down to the Ben Franklin Store (a kind of
Woolworth's in Illinois) about a half mile from home. I bought a paperback and read all day right in front of that store. It was the first time in my life that no one knew where I was. It was the first time I was ever completely on
my own. After that my walks became a regular and important part of my life. Whenever things got too tough, or I was sad, or when I was very happy I would get the urge to roam. Twenty-four years later, on the first warm
day of spring in the Bay Area, I couldn't wait to wander. I'd spent an awful winter of depression because my disability has been changing, not for the better, and it is getting harder to operate my power wheelchair. In the winter,
(even the fairly mild winters of Northern California) I stay home a great deal because cold effects my strength. Along with my normal anticipation of increased mobility, a nagging and familiar anxiety fought in my stomach. I needed
to discover how much I'd lost over the wet season. I set out for the "City", as I grudgingly refer to it, San Francisco. I'd chosen SF because I hadn't wondered around there much and the secret reason was to
see a woman I loved from further away than I'd like. I loved her but to her we were "just friends". We had talked about getting together for coffee or something for months and because our schedules didn't get along we had
postponed it several times. I knew she worked near her home at the counter of a health food place. She was slightly embarrassed to work there (having a masters degree and all), but to get her MFCC she had to complete many hours of
free counseling and support herself. Her embarrassment caused her to be somewhat evasive about the location of her job, but I thought she had given me enough information to find it. I thought I'd surprise her with a visit. I knew "about" where it was from her description but I'm not exceedingly familiar with San Francisco. Yes, I could get more information from the object of my desire but that wouldn't be any fun now would it? I
caught the BART at the Ashby Station. Patting myself on the back for remembering my stick to push the elevator buttons, I officially pushed a button and began my adventure. Except for holding my breath in the BART
elevators (those who have ridden BART elevators know why) I arrived at 16th and Mission with no problems. I felt strong. Which may seem impossible given my disability but everything is relative. I began looking for a "V"
street, maybe the Van Ness or Van Buren, something like that. After looking for the street for an hour and a half, the closest I got was South Van Ness but nothing even resembling a restaurant was one that street. So I decided to
give up and head for home. Still with a wandering spirit, I thought I'd take BART to Civic Center and zip down Market Street to Embarcadero before actually going home. Now cruising down Market brings visitors past City
Hall, the theater district, and eventually the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin is the home of street people, drunks, hookers, drugies and the very poor. Not the garden district of San Francisco, but it does have something that people
from around the country come to see; a thriving adult entertainment industry. Having a probably unhealthy fascination with things sexual, I decided to cruise around. Maybe the gods were trying to tell me something, as
I turned up Turk Street, because all the strength left my body. What they don't tell you when you join the union of people with neuro-muscular diseases is the frightening variety of ways your body can change. From the onset of my
disability at a year and a half old I've gotten weaker but in the last couple of years I haven't always been able to trust my energy level from hour to hour. I had been feeling so good being out in the hot sun with a cool breeze
that I'd forgotten to be careful. Halfway across Turk I couldn't move any more. My inertia carried me to the foot of the curb cut but I had no strength to get up the incline. Fortunately, my strength does come back a little if I
just rest awhile. Its surprising how few people just sit around the Tenderloin. Some folks sleep on the sidewalk but very few just sit. I attempted to look like I had intended to just set partially in the street at the
bottom of a curb cut. Hoping that my strength would return quickly. I sat amongst; impossibly thin women with pock marked faces selling themselves, men with dreds that partially stood straight up arguing with themselves, old Asians
and women with deep red faces pulling old shopping carts looking for cans or bottles to be recycled. My curb cut happened to be right in front of an entrance to a bar. I couldn't see the patrons of the establishment but I did hear
snippets of their conversations and guessed they were speculating as to what the heck the cripple at the curb was up to. From behind me a man ran across the street, "Do you need a hand Mister?" I have a little trouble
asking for help in the best of circumstances. Asking for assistance in the middle of the Tenderloin didn't seem like a good move. So I told him. "No I'm fine". With a bit of a funny look he returned to the other side of
the street. I guess the bar patrons had decided I needed help and elected a spokesman who stuck his head out to ask if I needed a push. By this time I'd decided that the danger of being hit by a car was more pressing
than my fear/embarrassment at accepting help. A short pale man with red eyes staggered out of the door way, walked around behind me and pushed. Once up on the sidewalk, I thanked him and he shuffled off. As I waited on the
sidewalk, regaining my strength, no fewer than 5 other people of all different types asked me if I was OK or if I need help. I began to feel almost glad I'd run into trouble. It felt friendly. After about 15 minutes I felt strong
enough to continue my journey. Up ahead I saw a sign for a strip club I had heard of called Chez Paree, friends had said it was one of the best strip clubs in San Francisco And it was only two blocks away. Now I've
already admitted to being a "dirty young man" so I won't explain why I wanted to drop in to a strip club. The door man said admittance was $15.00. That was fine with me, after paying admission, I still had $27.00 in my
pocket. He helped me get the money out of my wallet being careful to show me he had left the rest of my money in my wallet. He moved a few chairs out of my way and pulled back the curtain. I found a table and parked. On a Monday
afternoon there were only two patrons. The staff out numbered us two to one with a bartender and two performers in addition to the door man. The woman behind the bar came over and asked if I wanted a drink. I declined and turned to
watch the dancers. What I enjoy about strip clubs besides the obvious titillation is the women there treat me like I am a sexual being. I mean, the reason men go to see strippers is to be sexually aroused. So I don't
have to assert or establish my sexual interest, that's a given. The first dancer was beautiful but not my type. She looked tall and strong, Brown hair, green eyes and a very serious continence. Her dance style was almost balletic,
lots of very elegant and controlled movement. As she ended her set another dancer passed around the tip basket for the dancer on stage. After she'd passed the basket she sat down next to be. I liked her face, large brown eyes
delicate features and silky blond hair. However, she was sickly thin making me worry about her much more than I could fantasize about her. We talked a few minutes and she asked me if I wanted a lap dance. I was even flattered by
this small bit of attention. I said no and she moved on, the second dancer took the stage and this was more like it. She was small and dark, perhaps her family came from India. She had deep bright brown eyes shorter
length black hair and full lips. Looking right at me, she began to do acrobatics on the pole to the music of, Dead Can Dance. More people trickled into the audience mostly retired men, but a few men in suits taking a long lunch.
After her first song she went back stage and changed. She appeared in laced up the calf Doc Martins, and a short gray dress with spaghetti straps. In fairly short order she was naked. Her belly button was pierced and her right
wrist was tattooed with a geometric pattern that flowed up from forearm just past her elbow. I thought she was beautiful. Once her set was over she made the rounds asking for lap dances. My turn came and I told her
maybe later. I only had about 25 dollars left and once that was gone I'd have to leave. So I was trying to make it last. About 15 minutes later she returned, "Well here we are again. Are you ready to go in the back?" I
asked her to give me a few more minutes. "OK, I'm coming back, I want to break you in." By the third time I relented and followed her into the back room. About 17 years ago I used to go to strip clubs semi regularly.
Since been I go infrequently once every couple of years or so. It had been three or for years since I had last gone and I wasn't very sure about the procedures. What did a Lap Dance cost? What did it entail? As I've
said the last year or so had brought with it many changes. I was weaker than the last time I'd done this. I was also fatter. The last time I'd had a lap dance I had a pretty good time for ten dollars. I hoped $25.00 would be enough
not to insult her. The back room was divided into eight cubicles with black curtains. Each cubicle had a chair with a small table next to it. On the table was a candle. The candle seemed to be the only source of light. She told me
her name was Meena and asked me my name as she pulled the chair out of my way. I backed into the empty spot and she told me a dance would cost me sixty dollars. I told her I only had 25 dollars and she said all right we'll see what
we can do for that. Now, the object of a lap dance is to have the dancer rub various parts of her body (not her hands because that would be prostitution) in the general direction of the customers penis to provide
sexual stimulation. Meena tried to sit on my lap and wiggle around a bit. I started to feel anxious. My stomach was in the way, I couldn't feel anything. I held my breath. I tried to lean back but nothing I could do would bring my
penis into range. Meena seemed to notice something was amiss because after a minute or two she suggested taking off her top. I think in the hope of visually stimulating me if she couldn't tactilely stimulate me. She also suggested
I go to the ATM for more money. "So we can have some real fun." Hinting that for more money she would use her hand. The humiliation was to much, I told her I'd have to think about it and left the club.
Feeling physically if not emotionally better, I headed home. I entered the Powell Street BART and asked the Station Agent to help me process my ticket. She returned telling me there wasn't enough money on it to enter the system.
BART tickets for people with disabilities are discounted. The good part of that is I ride BART pretty cheaply. The bad news is tickets for the disabled aren't sold everywhere tickets are sold. Station Agents know these facts and
will usually let me in without a ticket when I come up short. My luck this agent was by the book and refused to let me in. She did suggest I could buy a ticket at Nordstrom' s. I was a little panicked because I had just given all
the money I had on me to Meena. I almost tried to talking the Station Agent into allowing me on the train anyway but she seemed determined on this point. Having few options I left for Nordstrom' s. On the way there I remembered my
change. I usually throw all my change in the bottom of my pouch which hangs at the left side of my wheelchair where I keep my wallet, keys etc. Every few months my attendant will dig the change out and put it in a jar. Which, once
full, I'd take to the bank. I once deposited 200 dollars in my savings this way. I tried to remember when was the last time my attendant had "Cleaned me to out". Nordstrom's is connected to the Powell Station
by steps and a small lift. The lift doesn't operate like elevators do and I have difficulty with them but I saw a painter standing right next to the lift. I asked him to help me operate it and he agreed. He opened the lift door, I
got in, and he tried to start it. It wouldn't move. Usually when I asked someone for assistance they're in a hurry to finish the task. They push the button or pickup the book and are quickly on their way. This painter seemed bound
and determined to get me up those stairs. He opened and closed doors. Examined the lift controls on the BART level and went up stairs to see if those controls would work better. He spent about ten minutes trying to get the lift to
work with no luck. As he was giving up, a security person showed up and began helping. The painter explained the problem and said he needed to leave. The security person managed to get it running. Seeing it was working he left. Not
knowing he left, I continued to talk to him about other experiences I had with lifts and why I disliked them. The lift reached the top and stopped. These lifts are usually designed to automatically open once they have reached their
destination, but some need to have the door pushed open. The door hadn't opened so I pushed on it and nothing happened. "Sir, the door isn't opening. Sir?" Unnoticed by me the security guard had left. There I
was in a gray silver box with sides just below my eye level. I called out to several people for help but the best they did was look around for who was calling for help. Being well camouflaged, they never saw me. After 15 minutes or
so I caught a glimpse of my security guard and let out a bellow which he managed to hear. It must have been professional experience with the lift that got him to notice the top of my head and he dashed over. It took him a second to
unjam the door as I exited the lift he apologized, explaining they had had some trouble with the lift recently and it should have been repaired by now. He said he would contact maintenance right away and was very sorry for the
inconvenience. I've been disabled all my life and the able-bodied react to this type of situation one of two ways: with anger (you don't belong here anyway what are you complaining about?), or denial (of course it
works you must not be operating it properly). Rarely do stores or their employees simply accept responsibility and attempt to rectify the situation. It was a remarkably professional attitude. Free to move once again, I
continued to Nordstrom' s. Nordstrom' s is a store that screams, Guy Thomas Doesn't Belong Here. Very Upper Middle Class type place and I am decidedly lower class by upbringing and by circumstance. I'd been told by the BART Station
Agent tickets were sold to the left of the entrance but I noticed that there were just racks of clothes to the left. I must have looked as out of place as I felt because almost immediately a sales clerk rescued me. Nordstrom' s
sales clerks don't look like anyone I've ever met in real life. They remind me of a cross between New York run way models and high powered business people. The clerk who rescued me wore a black business suit like dress with dark
hose and black very high heel shoes. The dress had white stitching around the lapel and cuffs. Her shoes were accepted with gold buckles and her hair was in a shorter and tighter version of "That Girl"' s. She finished
off the outfit with Buddy Holly glasses and white makeup. She started out looking ill until she smiled and asked me if I needed help. Then the most peculiar thing happened to me. Things started working out again for
me. She walked me to where the BART tickets were sold brought me to the head of the line and asked another employee to help me. I confessed to the second employee that I needed to I buy a BART ticket but wasn't sure I had the
money. I told her about where I stashed my change and asked if she would look around for it. After about 20 minutes of looking we actually found 20 cents more than I needed to get home (its surprising the nooks and crannies I have
money hidden). Understand that stores don't make any real money when they sell BART tickets to their customers, it's more of a courtesy. Here I am entering Nordstrom's for the very first time. I have never nor will I
ever, short of hitting the lottery, be a customer of Nordstrom' s. Yet they spent a good half hour saving my butt. As I left for home the security guard I met earlier stopped me just to let me know that they were repairing the lift
as we spoke. Again I'm not used to that kind of follow-up around lifts such. The rest of my day was fairly uneventful. I got home OK and enjoyed telling this story to several people. It was exciting, frustrating, happy, sad day but
what strikes me the most about this day was how cared-for I felt in the extremes. The Tenderloin where some of the poorest people in San Francisco live I found lots of people willing to put themselves out for me. Only my own fear
and stubbornness caused me trouble. Guy
© 1998 by the author, please ask to reprint elsewhere.