I share the corner of Taylor and Ellis, where Glide is located, with a remarkable patch-work quilt collection of humanity: staff, clients, congregants, tourists, the homeless and the strung-out. After a year and a half, I've come to recognize the "regulars" and note the tell-tale signs of a tourist (it has less to do with their camera and everything to do with their clothes--most people come to SF expecting warm weather and wind up buying SF sweatshirts).
One man, in particular, is someone I always look for. Graying hair and beard and in a dirty white coat, he is a ghostly presence on the corner. Sometimes I pass him, asleep alongside the building. Other days, he is sitting on a planter, talking to an unseen companion. Still on other occassions, he is standing in the middle of the road, shouting and gesturing like a fiery preacher.
Today, I realized he hasn't been around for a while. We have been passing each other daily for 18 months, and I can't recall when I last saw him on the corner. What was it about today that made me realize that he was gone? How long has he been gone?
I don't even know his name.
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