Lesbian Dancing After The Show: An Improviser's Non Improvised Life

It Takes A Village To Remove Human Poo

It's called South of Market for those who don't live in San Francisco. The SOMA if you want to get all "In the know of your SF Neighborhoods".

This was my residence. My hood, yo.

When I moved to San Francisco May Day of 2000 with a huge body bag of clothes in a 450 square foot "Jr. Bedroom" in Hayes Valley (It had more bedroom than apartment) waiting for the rest of my belongings and husband to arrive a month later, I had two thoughts in my mind:

1) This is where I always wanted to live since 1989.

2) How the hell are we going to fit fourteen years of shit into a two-year apartment?

The need to live in a beautiful city. For a lot of money. Hunting for a place via Craigslist in Chicago, my husband said: Try to find a place that is comparable to The North Side of Chicago.

In 2000, a beautiful place in Chicago at that current SF Rent would have landed us in Daley City or Oakland.

Which inevitably, it did. We did our stint in Oakland.

No offense to its residents: I did not move thousands of miles for San Francisco to live in Oakland. A friend of mine staying with us quipped: How did this town get a baseball AND a football team? It's the Gary, Indiana of California.

After the Oakland excursion, I was pretty desperate to somehow afford living in San Francisco proper. A friend of a friend was moving to Scotland with his girlfriend. He calls me up and asks if I would like to take over his apartment. A coup. Taking over a friend's lease, knowing the landlords beforehand, and getting a really good fixed rental rate? A San Francisco Residential coup d’état.

For all of the problems of my place (lack of direct sunlight), there were perks. A gated front porch. A back porch. A washer and dryer! A dishwasher! Walking to every major theater I currently worked at and walking from Downtown.

I had good neighbors and we are all close. I became close to the surrounding businesses. The X-Rated Cake Store? Dreamy. The German Restaurant? Delicious. The Climate Theater? The Keys to the place are still on my chain.

It is everything you would ever hope for in Urban Living. And with that comes the downfall for people who like trees, peace and quiet....and well...non-human poo.

When you live in the SOMA around that 5th through 9th street areas in between Mission and Folsom, it is what most people would call "Dangerous." Some call it "Interesting." More hopeful call it "Diverse." More cynical call it "Crack Land," "Rave Town" or the more popular "Program Row."

For a while there I called my front stoop "Human Poo Depot."

Every morning for about three weeks after moving in, there was this guy who had taken up residence on the side of the adjoining building. He had figured out the layout of his outside home. In the schematic layout in his mind? My place was The Bathroom.

Oh sure you can fool yourself thinking it's a big dog or for some reason someone has bought a horse, but you know it isn’t dog or horse poo. You just know, if you've ever had to go to the doctor and deliver your own poo. Embarrassed to hand it off to some poor nurse. Covering your hands around the cup.

There was no embarrassment for this man. My front door was the toilet. Why be embarrassed? He was taking a shit in his toilet.

Where I come from, this is not considered a lifestyle. Homelessness is not a lifestyle. For the more practical reasons: Chicago is the polyester of cities. Hot in the summer. Cold in the winter. You would freeze or burn in Chicago.

Also, it is humane: You can have all of the food voucher programs, all of the free clothes services, let the police turn a blind eye? Homeless people need HOMES. And in San Francisco, the only movement you can do is *Up* as it is only 49 miles square. Tons of open spaces in the SOMA. None of them used for housing. Not even for the homeless. Hell, not even for people who move thousands of miles away just to live.

So for a good three weeks, there was my regular homeless man taking his morning dump in front of my home. I guess this man has been doing this ritual for a good year or so. Other people complained. Called the police. Yelled at him to no avail. The more people complained? The more need for this man to relieve his bladder and bowels.

I asked my next-door neighbor (who complained as much as the others) if anyone has ever talked to this guy. No. Most of the conversations with this fellow consisted of yelling matches. No one ever talked to him in any sort of compassionate way.

This man really considers my home his toilet. My reasoning: So what is the harm of going up to this man and *offering him a real toilet in my home?*.

It was October. I went outside and there he was, curled up on the building next door. In front of my house was his poo. I closed my gate to rouse him. He looked in my direction. I walked up to him as he was lying on his flattened cardboard box:

Hey. I live here on the first floor. I know it's hard out here. Since you have been living here longer than I have? I consider you my neighbor. Whenever you need to use the bathroom? Please feel free to ring my doorbell, and I'm more than happy to let you go inside instead of here.

He stared at me for a moment. A blank stare, not getting that this was actually occurring. Then his face went bright purple. He had that look when you give your own poo to the doctor in a cup.

It was not the real intention to snap him out of his schematic floor plan of his home into the brutal reality that he was shitting in front of someone's house. I just wanted him to actually have a *bathroom*.

He stammered a bit then he said: That is so nice of you. Thank you. I smiled and said you are welcome. I went back inside of my apartment. An hour later I came back outside to go get some coffee from Tony Balonies.

He was gone. Earlier than usual. Everything was gone. Him, his belonging and his cardboard box. His poo? Was gone too.

I never saw him again. I wonder what he was possibly thinking when I went back into the house. Was my offer of a bathroom the final eviction notice for his home? Was I the overbearing roommate with the color wheel chart of chores around the house that no one could put up with and you had to move out?

Or did I really snap him out of "This sidewalk is my home" into "Fuck, this is HER home with my SHIT in front of it"?

In a town full of homelessness? I just didn’t know anymore. My hopeful side goes deeper. He thought, “What am I doing with myself to be at the point where I have no place to relieve myself and this woman went out of her way to help me. I need to get up and start trying to really find a home. I really need to find this help, no matter how hard the paperwork for one is in this town. I got to DO SOMETHING NOW. No. No! I'm not fooling myself any longer! This is NOT A LIFESTYLE.”

The cynical comedic side of me says that I'm the chick with the color wheel. Either way, it takes a Village to Remove Human Poo.

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