Nighttime Strangeness in the City of Fog

I was out last night taking pictures. It was foggy and cold, but the streets were busy. The sidewalks clogged with small groups of tourists clutching guidebooks and freezing in their shorts and t-shirts. Everywhere I looked there were dejected looking homeless people and inebriated panhandlers posted up on street corners looking for handouts.

At the Stockton tunnel’s entrance I stepped into the street and almost got killed by a city bus full of late night shoppers and tired looking office workers. The driver just didn’t seem to care as he steered wide around the pedestrian island and careened past blowing diesel fumes in my face. Balancing on the sidewalk’s edge I manually opened the shutter for a long exposure. The bus’s taillights burning a redline through the pixels as my camera caught the blur of movement and the oncoming traffic’s headlights burned blazing balls of white into the viewfinder.

All around me the city glowed. Streetlights and office buildings vaguely shone through the fog as it came pouring over the hills and down into the streets. Pulling my jacket around me against the cold, I slowly walked toward the tunnel’s entrance looking in the camera’s LCD trying to suss out another shot. A group of girls came running towards me, laughing and shouting. Seeing them approach through the camera’s viewfinder I backed into a brightly lit alcove to get out of their way.

“Waddya doin?” asked a voice. I glanced over my shoulder and there’s this little disheveled guy, really thin, scruffy head of hair, standing next to me smoking a cigarette.

“Takin pictures dude,” I said and then moved over a few inches as this guy was standing really close.

“Lemme see,” he said as he moved even closer.

Obviously this guy didn’t understand the concept of personal space. Like dude, you’re in my space, you’re creeping me out, go away, stop breathing my air.

A bit reluctantly I turned and showed him the shot I had just taken – the one with the bus and the tunnel and all the lights burning and blurring – holding the camera’s display up to his face as he squinted and puffed away on his cigarette. A gust of wind blowing through the tunnel sent a mixture of his stinky body odor and cigarette smoke rushing up into my nostrils and I stepped back and coughed.

“What the?” he said. “It’s all blurry.”

“That’s on purpose. I’m trying to, never mind,” I told him as I backed away.

“Hey man, hey. Take my picture,” he said, gesturing with nicotine stained yellow fingers. “Over here, up these stairs. It’s my spot.”

“Alright,” I said thinking it would actually make for an interesting shot and followed him through the alcove into this weird stairwell that climbed up off the tunnel’s entrance. A single row of bright overhead lights mercilessly shone down illuminating the aqua painted walls and there was some sort of insulating foam carelessly sprayed across the landing. The place felt confining and repressive, but again I thought its strangeness would lend itself to the image. So I continued up the stairs behind him.

“Right here,” he said. “This is my spot,” gesturing to a corner of the landing where there was absolutely nothing but greasy stained concrete and crushed cigarette butts.

I stopped and looked around. This was such a forlorn spot to be calling one’s own. Slowly I backed away, the stairwell too cramped to get all of him in the viewfinder. The skinny guy leaned against the wall and stiffly stood there staring at me like he was posing for a high school yearbook. Right before I took the shot I thought, how strange, why does this guy want me to take his picture, and why here? Hurriedly I snapped off a couple of shots, said thanks and then turned to leave, planning on walking up the next flight of stairs to the street above.




“Hey man. Lemme see it, lemme see it,” he screamed and lunged towards me. I put my hand out, told him to chill and held the camera up for him to see. He dropped his cigarette and quickly looked down the stairs behind him. Then he made a grab towards the camera with both hands as he moved in closer. I stepped back and looked in his eyes. He looked in mine, bit his lip and continued to reach for the camera. At that second we both knew what’s going on.

I quickly palmed the camera behind my back and moved up the stairs. He went into a crouch and looked at me wild-eyed. The dude only weighed a hundred pounds max. I could easily have stopped him from trying to take my camera. Probably just had to push him back down the stairs if he came charging. Then his left hand went into his back pocket. I’m thinking weapon, I’m thinking knife, I’m thinking I really don’t want to get stabbed over a goddamn camera. But then again, I really don’t want to just give my shit up to some skinny-ass crack head in a lonely deserted stairwell in the middle of downtown while tourist wander by and a block away the cable cars are creaking up the hill.

“I need money,” he screeched as his hand came out of his pocket holding some change, a few dimes and a penny, and he was holding them up towards me, begging.

“I don’t have any money,” I told him over my shoulder as I walked up the stairs. The last two I took in one stride just to get out of there and then immediately regretted it. For some unexplainable reason I didn’t want this guy thinking I was afraid of him, or that I was running away. Something from deep inside of me, perhaps from a long time ago, wanted to be sure that I wasn’t wussing out. Acting appropriately, doing the right thing as the situation called for. Although what the right thing in this situation was, I had no idea. I sure as hell wasn’t going to beat him up for trying to take my property. So why was I feeling strange?

A cold wind blew in my face and I looked over the railing. Down on the street below the traffic flowed in and out the tunnel as an electric sign for a message parlor bathed the sidewalk in an eerie green light. I looked back toward the stairwell, but the skinny guy was nowhere around.

Lifting the camera I took a picture of some dive bar’s sign and wondered if I had lost my edge. Fifteen years ago a crack head wouldn’t have tired to steal from me and I would have been less forgiving if he had tired. Could it be that my street credibility wasn’t showing any more. No pennyante snatch-and-grab thief would have come up to me like that in the old days. But then again I wouldn’t have had a camera. I would have already sold it for dope.

“Whatever,” I muttered to myself and turned down Bush Street towards the Financial District. The blurry illuminated outline of distant office buildings disappeared above me into the foggy night. A woman walked by with a dog on a leash. I looked at her. She looked at me, smiled, then said hello. I smiled in return, said hello and thought how civilized this all was. Then the dog yapped at me. If you could really call it a dog. It was about the size of a rat. Sorry, the woman said, and walked away scolding her rat-dog about not barking at people.