A Setting Sun
January 7th, 2025
I leave my desk early—there's not much. My work day was a bit hectic, and I'm slowly getting back to the groove of things of "owning parts."
When I stay at home in Texas I regress into someone who doesn't own anything and isn't accountable for anything, but the fact of the matter is that I am accountable for more and more as I get older.
The habits of my siblings and parents slowly rub off on me—avoid accountability.
I wear all black and head out. I get my eyebrows done on Columbus Avenue. The lady is nice, and while in there I notice two ladies waiting for her to finish threading my brows. They take notice of me—a young asian man getting his eyebrows done.
I decide to head towards Kearny and walk down to Chinatown. Homeless lay the streets, and old Chinese elderly frequent the streets. It's an older part of the city.
I pass by multiple restaurants and glance at the menus, deciding which one I'd try today. I picked one off Grant and headed inside. There were four white people at a table, speaking about Ukraine and Russia and the firewalls and politics—it reminded me of a conversation back home with cousins.
I read a page out of Proust's In Search of Lost Time while munching on Mongolian beef. Proust's regret about convincing his mother to go against her best wishes by crying and allowing his father to suddenly show mercy to the poor boy's sick ailment.
I pay my tab in cash and leave a five dollar tip. I head out and glance in the window at Hon's Wun Tun shop—I'm not sure at all. I get lost in the streets of Chinatown before hitting Nob Hill.
I realized this beforehand though, I think as a young man I look rather dangerous. Two asian girls were walking on the sidewalk when I approached, one grabbed the other's wrist and spun her around in the other direction. I sometimes forget how dangerous I look to others when I try to be intimidating.
My feet hit the pavement; mutterings of a conversation nearby, "How much meth do you have? I'll trade ya' for a bag of fetty." My glance swings back to a destitute homeless lady and man with their bodies hunched over near a bus stop.
Dreamy Embarcadero nearby.
Uphill, downhill, around and around, lives upon lives lived in the blocks of Chinatown. My mind races—what of the old gangs that frequented this place?
A thought comes to mind to stop by a dessert shop, but I hold myself back.
Shouting. There's footsteps and chants. Picketted signs and crowds block a street—ICE is a gang. My footsteps paused to see a young short asian woman in uniform pop out of a police car. She quickly directed traffic away the street the protesters were clamering about.
Knowing I voted for Trump, I promptly walked away. I realized the outcome of my actions there—people, real people, were being separated from their families, and there were a lot of upset, well, White people for the most part, but still upset nonetheless.
I looked to my side. It's the immigration building they're protesting in front of.
I go home and pickup some packages and head back up. It's late. The sun has set.
A voice in my head tells me to put on my jacket and hop on my motorcycle, but I think perhaps for another day. I am tired and have work to do.