I’m rolling through the Bayview on Jerrold, heading back to the Mission after dropping at Third and Newcomb, when the order goes out over the radio.
“11th and Folsom. Drivers, 11th and Folsom.”
Artur repeats the cross streets for several minutes, his voice becoming increasingly irate.
I grab the mic. “This is 233. I’m by the yard but can probably get there in 10 minutes.”
“Thank you, 233. Go to 320 11th Street.”
Since rush hour is on the make, I figure Rhode Island over Potrero Hill is my best bet. I down-shift and take the inclines with gusto.
Despite making great time, there’s gridlock on Division. And forget about making a right onto 11th at Bryant. So Harrison it is.
After finally getting through the intersection at 11th, I flip a U-ey in front of Slim’s and pull up to the address.
A few minutes later, a guy emerges from the liquor store. He’s on crutches. His clothes are in tatters. There’s a giant cast on his left foot that looks like a kindergartener’s papier-mâché project gone awry. And he’s holding a gas can.
Read the rest here.
[photo by Christian Lewis]