Frank Lewis

Friday nights in the Tenderloin are full of hope and energy around midnight. People aren't yet completely drunk; Whoever is playing The Great American Music hall is just ending and people are letting out, astonished at how the evening has transformed. Others are returning home; some are getting ready for Stage 2. It's not cold at-all.

I had parked my car in the garage and prepped myself for the walk from 888 O'Farrell to 666 O'Farrell, The block between Larkin and Hyde is most interesting. We get such an ragtag assortment of drug dealers, prostitutes, user, johns and other shady types because there really isn't much for regular folk on that block, but it is such a conduit. It's like when you're driving and you reach the last stretch before civilization - it's an opportunity for those in the know.

Reaching the corner I see/sense a 30-something black man walking beside me. He's spied me, obviously, and he's saying "How y'all doing tonight." Twice. I ignore him because there is just one of me, and i have zero desire to engage him, but no real fear. I know he's talking to me, but I want to go home and PEE.

Frank is wearing a tan teed sport coat. HIs hair is curly and picked out. He fancies himself a sophisticated gentleman of the night. He finally engages me directly and says, "I'm Frank, Frank Lewis". I say "Are you talking?" He says yes and I say "Mmm Hmm". That was that. He slowed amongst the many others on that block, playing games, talking shit, selling drugs, and themselves. I left him, and he let me go. He's both worthless and absolutely worthwhile to me.