My flight was twenty hours away. I still needed to finish my O-audition online application, stop by the consignment store just in case there is a new dress or handbag for my last minute trip to Georgia that is on half price special, oh yes and pack. Oh and I was due to hang out in San Francisco that evening with two separate sets of friends--one group from NYC and another from Delhi, India. I made a quick purchase at the consignment store, ran down North Main Street to the place I consider my second home, Café LaScala, finished my application and then hopped on a train.
On my way to the city, a homeless spoken word artist sat behind me and struck up a conversation, before asking for money.
“I would,” I started to say. “But, today, I’m….”
“I don’t need to hear your excuses,” he snapped.
I was feisty that day.
“You didn’t let me finish,” I snapped back.
“Where you from? I’m from Richmond. I bet you’ve never even been there.”
Wrong, wrong and wrong. I went to Richmond all the time—it was the neighboring city to the San Pablo, the home of Contra Costa County Rape Crisis Center. It’s where I went to cover the Richmond High Rape Case, The West Contra Costa Unified Teacher’s Strike, International Women’s Day. I actually went to Richmond every chance I had.
By the end of the ride, the spoken word artist and I found our rhythm and he even did a demo for me on my audio recording devise.