A Visitors First Day in in San Diego

                                                     

I never thought I would survive my first night at the YMCA  on Fourth and G Street. It was May of 2011. I arrived hungry, homeless and disorientated. HUD had given me a special rate. The Broadway hotel charged about one third of my monthly income. Now I could afford the luxury of a roof over my head. No longer did I need to budget my money,  so it would last till the end of the month-or so I thought .
   The application had been filled out a week earlier. I had stayed at the Carlsbad Quality Inn and needed to pay two hundred more before leaving it. The hotel charged me a special weekly rate of $49 a night. I paid my bill and somehow navigated my way into the downtown area of San Diego. I survived the 5 freeway road work and after circling the one-way-streets finally found a parking place.
   I parked my car on First and Union. I owned a disabled plate so it provided me with three days of free parking, until street cleaning.  Exhausted, I entered the Old Y  and was greeted by the Reginald Jefferson. He looked neat as a pin and wore the latest Brooks Brother's fine threads. His lazar eyes looked me straight in my eye.
   "Mornin, Mista Get, I have just the room for you. Is jus above de street. Did you fill out ya application?"
   "Yes Mr. Jefferson."
   Of course the registrar could not locate my application. I had told Mr. Cervantes to call me if there was any problems. I had forgotten that many in this South Bay City speak, but don't understand, a word of English. Mr. Jefferson eye-balled my application.
   "Mista Get, we need you monthly income."
   I felt dizzy, mad and ready to dismember this unfit staff. Yet I did remember to place my last pay stub inside my leather briefcase. I crossed Broadway and walked two blocks to my Cavalier Chevy. It was there! With joy, I thanked God again..
   I was given a special black coded key. After a few tries, I entered and closed my eyes. Yet my nose did not wish to sleep. Across the street was the aroma of bagels. . I told my nose to wait, but it sent signals to my stomach to burp, and not stop until it had been satisfied. Baedegger's Bagel shop stood a block west toward the Harbor on Columbia Street. They charged a quarter for a slice of butter, and more for jam. After two everything bagels I now walked back to my shelter.

     The hotel had been built in in 1924 of brick and mortar. It stood six stories high and had been the home of many San Diego sailors. Two round marble columns greeted me my first day. A  swimming pool used to be in the basement or under the first floor. It had been alleged the picture of a swastika had been splashed on the bottom. It changed to a basketball court when a military team faced a junior college or some other team.  A brand new Santa Fe Station had been completed about the same time. 
   It was recorded that a Charles Lindbergh paid a dollar-a-night while he  supervised the building of his Spirit of St. Louis in February of 1927.  Some old denizens say his spirit roams the hotel at night. So far I haven't seen him but have heard planes overhead. The fumes can't be smelled, but it does cause me breathing problems.
   On the first floor sat the registration desk. About four hotel clerks fastened their eyes on a computer to record those who asked for a room and a date. Sir Henry Washington had ushered me to my new room, about eight feet by ten. It was late afternoon, and my mind needed to rest, but that was impossible.
   My first evening reminded me of a hospital for the insane.  I did not know that San Diego had a zoo so close to the Harbor. The cell to my right produced the highest pitched sounds I had ever heard. The poor creature screamed every hour on the hour.
   Door banged every five minutes.Those doors did not provide oil or springs for its hinges. It sounded like a sonic boom anytime a door closed.  The evening screams never ended, since other cells housed those who screamed for their mothers.  Outside my window, the early morning night walkers spoke to God. Most of the words began with an "F" and ended with a "K".
   By early morning the profanity changed to the clanging of the five o'clock trolleys. I fell into a blissful deep sleep for the first time in a long time. In deep slumber, I felt something tickle my feet, and then my ankle. I shook off the varmint , but the ping on my ankle turned into a unending ping pong of pain.
   I could not stop the itching and finally made my way to the unisex bathroom down the hall. I thought a long hot shower would abate this stinging feeling. I put my black black slug inside the lock and opened the door.   A large beast sat on the toilet with her big black bull dog. The dog leaped at my leg. I hastily closed it. It barked so loud, the building seemed to sway.  woke up the buildidog barked so loud, the building seemed to sway. Many thought San Diego had been struck by an earthquake. noise could be heard clear to the San Diego Harbor, a few blocks away.
   The opposite toilet gave me the chance to produce my first shower. I stood under the powerful shower for what seems like hours. The warm water and the two receptacles with both shampoo and the other soup gave removed the last pains from my blood shot ankle.
    I returned to room 202, unlocked and opened it. The door made a heavy banging sound that bounced down the hall like a handball. I put on my dirty clothes and checked my wallet. I had two hundred dollars to last me till the end of the month. It was only the Third of May. 1911.    The deep snoring and endless use of profanity stopped. When I opened the door, the culprit looked me over and quickly walked the other way. He must have weighed about four hundred pounds, with a large torso holding up a large head and elephant ears.
   The only thing I could think of was the smell of fresh bacon. I remember the hotel owned a big cafe to its left. I lumbered downstairs to the lobby and made a right turn into the large cafe. The menu looked not beyond my means.
   "I'll take the bean and eggs and can you provide sliced tomatoes instead of hash browns."
   "What kind of toast would you like, and do you wish coffee?"
  Too exhausted to read the ugly rag local newspaper, the Union, I stared outside. Many men wore contractor yellow hats. The few Mexicans ambled together. There were no Asians or African Americans. I asked the waitress there destination.
    "They are building a Federal prison on Union and F Streets. They broke ground about a month ago." She reheated my coffee cup. Making it a duet, I emptied four bags of sugar into my  cup. I slowly churned the sugar to evaporate it into sweetness.  Thirty minutes into my breakfast vacation, I looked again outside. This time the business did their strut to work."
   Many men  wore white or yellow shirts. All wore yellow ties. All held a Starbucks in one hand, and a brief case in the other. They walked like on a funeral march. Not a one grinned. Several turned to enter one of the four bank buildings, the most prominent was the Chase and next in line the Well's Fargo.
   The office working women walked like in a fashion show. Those without a generous bosom wore short skirts to unveil their sexy long legs. High heals or long boots were the style. Many held a cell phone in one hand and a mocha in the other.
   Since banks are strangers to my wallet, I paid with cash. Including tip, it came to ten fifty. One of the two elevators had a sign on its door: "Out of order, sorry for any inconvenience." I waited for the one remaining to talk and finally ended up walking to my second floor cell.
   More doors slammed. I took a look at my new friends. I now had a small frig, a telephone and an electric fan light over my head. After almost a year of homelessness, I needed to run somewhere, anywhere as long as my legs moved. I felt scared now, having a roof over my head.
   My monthly compass card was the one thing I owned. It was gold for me. I decided to celebrate. Well George, let's go to Lindbergh Field to celebrate. On the corner of Kettner and Broadway was the bus station. I had my back pack with its reading and writing material on my back. Two red suitcases sat next to me with a Mexican gal anticipating a ride to terminal two.
   The 922 arrived and sat for a few moments. Not a stranger to fast food outlets, the huge bus driver told us to wait for the  large caned lady. She forged her way down the steps. In single file we entered. I taped my yellow compass card and waited for the machine to sing. I strolled to the rear next to a black bearded hoody. He smelled of the streets and stale lager.
   A few more suitcases entered. The Chinese owned the silver metal ones. Many Chinese have come to the finest city in the United States and captain small shops like the cleaners, or grocery stores. Not-a-one is fat, in fact all are slim.
   The lone Mexican boarded the bus now. She fumbled inside her purse but did not seem to understand the bus driver. After a few minutes, somebody translated for her, and the bus continued on Broadway before turning right on the Pacific Highway. From there it belched on to Grape where it turned left onto Harbor Drive.
   "Is anyone getting off?" Nobody hit the string above to let him know to stop at Terminal One's Southwest.(Not finished.)