The building in front of me was unremarkable. If you could say anything at all about this particular building, it was simply that it blended perfectly with the other buildings near it, especially in the grey light of a late San Francisco winter. But that’s SoMa for you. You can walk down the street playing duck-duck-goose ― only here, it would be called boring-boring-sketchy. Or perhaps more accurately, office-office-office-Bed, Bath & Beyond.
I was standing in front of the third out of five “borings” on this block, wondering what the hell I was doing here. My life had taken on the usefulness of a stalled car on the freeway, and in an effort to jolt myself out of this rut I’d decided to do something incredibly brave or astoundingly stupid, depending on how you see that sort of thing. I might end up falling spectacularly on my face. Or, it might just make my life soar.
The first 26 years of my life hadn't exactly been worthy of a billion dollar Hollywood screenplay: I was just a girl trying to get by in San Francisco after moving here from the tragically ordinary Modesto. I did the obligatory college undergrad work. I bounced around a little bit with some odd jobs, trying to pay down my student loans. I moved here two years ago looking for something special, something that made me feel free, something I was passionate about. The thought of taking a normal job again made me squirm, which was what I told my best friend Jana every week when she called to check on me.
The last time she rang, I'd had news.
“I found something on Craigslist, something really interesting. I think this is It,” I said as an opener. When you are best friends, sometimes it’s nice to ignore the long distance by acting as if you see each other every day. We didn't bother with Hello, How are you, I’m fine, I need to talk to you, Do you have a minute. We saved those pleasantries for when there was something serious on our minds.
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“Ok, hold on, let me cancel my conference call, I’ll be right back.”
I waited on hold, listening to bad remakes of good songs from the 70’s while she got rid of responsibility, in order to live vicariously through my "carefree" (read: desperate) existence.
“Hey, sorry about that. Okay, Pale, what have you got?”
“I sent you the link, check your Yahoo.”
Silence on the other end as she clicked into her email account to look over the link I'd sent her. The next few minutes passed in silence as she read and I chewed on my lip and nails.
“I don’t know, girl, really? It doesn’t seem like you. If you do it, though, I think that’s great! Be careful, though. When I bartended, I saw some crazy shit out there. Did I ever tell you about the guy who ... ”
I tuned her out as she launched into story after story about her bartending days. She hadn't come right out and said that she thought I couldn't do it, but she didn't say I could, either. A familiar voice inside of me suggested that she was right; I would never, ever, ever in a million years do something like this.
But then a second voice fought back. “Not like me? Why, that was practically a dare! She's dared me to try this job; I can't back out now!"
And that’s how I had come to be standing here in front of a nondescript building South of Market on a cold February night. Taking a deep breath, I plugged in the 4-digit code I'd been provided over the phone by a sensual-sounding French woman.
I stepped through the door, ready to start my new job as part of the nightlife of San Francisco.