Morning
I guess I slept through my alarm clock, this morning, which is something of an event. I woke up half an hour late (which is fine, as I usually try to get up an hour early) to Stevie Nicks singing ‘Landslide’. Fog in the streets and in my head. I couldn’t figure out where the music was coming from. I opened my window, and saw Hou sitting on the sidewalk, back against the wall of the massive apartment complex across the street. I pulled on pants and a hat, and went down to sit next to him.
‘What are you doing up so early, man?’ I shrugged. ‘Have to leave for work in about an hour.’ ‘How’s that going?’ I was about to complain, but then I remembered who I was talking to, and bit my tongue. ‘It’s work. I’ve got a job. Not what I want to be doing, but I can’t complain.’ He nodded.
‘I wish I could talk to my son.’ I looked at him in surprise. ‘Where is he?’ ‘He died. Twenty-three months ago.’ My immediate reaction was to ask for details. How old was he? What was his name? I didn’t. Hou wiped a tear off his cheek. ‘You a good brother.’ I heh’d.
‘I been really blessed. There are some good people here for me: You. Alan. Steve. [The guys at the Haight Street digital music studio that helped Hou record his CD.] But it’s hard, man. It’s hard. But I got to struggle through this. I just got to struggle. But it’s hard.’
I had woken up not five minutes earlier. The man had tears. It was foggy, and San Francisco, and quiet. There was a definite sap factor. Still… Jesus Christ. Sleep-deprived, homeless, and thinking about your dead son… How do you handle that? How do you handle grief when you have nothing — when you don’t even have a bed in which to seek sleepy oblivion? I think I felt both closer to and further from Hou than I had before. And I had jack to say. Hou elbowed me. ‘You got to get ready for work.’ We shook hands, and I did.