My street is quiet. Rows of houses empty in the afternoon lull. Birds sing along the tree-lined road. The sun basks down and I realize it's already too warm for the light sweater I donned earlier.
I shed my hoodie in front of the local comic book store. I tuck it in my messenger bag as I pass the beekeeping store on my block. Two unique chickens roam outside its door. One, speckled white and black with an impressive mane, pecks at the leavings from the coffeshop next door. The other, caramel and beige with showy fluffy feathers covering its claws like fancy fur boots, clucks at me as I pass.
I turn right onto Mission and the avenue is already bustling with people. A familiar aroma hits me but is not immediately recognizable. My stomach rumbles, even though I already fed it mere moments before. As I continue my route, the smell intensifies. Oil and crispy fried chicken.
Outside Popeye's, a woman sells large over-ripe avocados. She sits on this corner every day with her basket full of produce. "Dos dólares por cinco!" she cries. A man on the opposite corner eats one of her avocados whole, biting at the bright green flesh.
In front of the Wells Fargo, a man strums his guitar and sings about Buddah. He tries to entice us with fresh orange slices in the hot heat. They look like they've been sitting for hours.
At the corner of 24th and Mission a man with a microphone and a small amp shouts at passerbys. "Somos pecadores!" he shouts. The crowd moves blissfully unaware. "Dios es nuestro Salvador!"
I get caught at the light on 24th and South Van Ness. A customer waits patiently a few people ahead of me. When the walk-man appears, I hang back and change my gait to be a bit slower. I savor the last five minutes of quiet before I get thrown into a fervor that is Philz Coffee.
As I near the store, more familiar faces recognize me. We smile politely. I wave.
... And I walk into the busy and bustle of Philz.
