The fence

The fence runs along the back of a large parking lot at Brannan and 5th Streets. The lot is where I take Louie to pee and poop and run countless times a day. The fence is also where I have made a new friend — a homeless man named Mike and his two cute dogs (who adore Louie). Except, he and his dogs live in the back of his pick-up truck parked on the street just on the other side of the fence.

Mike was there this morning as I took Louie out for some fresh air. The air has been a chilly 54 degrees at most during the day, but Mike was out with his long dirty overcoat and doing some paperwork on the hood of a nearby car.

“Hey Louie! Hey Dan!” Mike shouted as Louie ran ahead to greet his two dog friends through the fence.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m great! I’m doing some legal paperwork for my upcoming court case.” Mike seemed to want me to ask about his legal woes. I did not.

Louie started running furiously back and forth along the fence while one of Mike’s dogs copied him on the other side of the fence. “You got plans for the holidays?” Mike asked. I had thought about inviting him to have dinner with us but I haven’t.

“We have a friend coming from New York and will be home relaxing. You?”

Mike told me he was joining family in Northern California for several days. I was embarrassingly relived that I wouldn’t have to ask him to join us. I thought for a moment about the fact he had never asked me who “we” are. I guess it didn’t matter to him.

We chatted about our dogs as one of his headed down the street. He yelled at her to return and she did.

“Do your dogs take off a lot?” I asked.

“No, she likes to wander. I worry about all the trash and needles here for them to get into.”

Louie was still running back and forth when I mentioned the homeless shelter at the end of the alley. Mike told me that he had stayed there once but since the shelter only allows one dog, he preferred sleeping in the back of his truck. I glanced over at his home — his truck had a cab over the entire bed and looked comfy with layers of blankets and his worldly possessions neatly organized in it. A small charcoal grill was smoking just aft of the truck’s back bumper. Mike smiled as he held out his fingers for Louie to take a lick of through the fence.

“It’s too bad this fence is here,” Mike said. “The dogs would probably have fun playing together for awhile.”

I responded. “I know. To get where you are I’d have to walk pretty much all the way around the block.”

I thought about the countless late nights I had come out to this exact same spot and saw the truck sitting across the alley. I could always make out one of the dogs silhouetted by reflected light through the dirty back window of the cab, watching Louie and me carefully as my dog did his thing. Sometimes, another homeless person would be squatting nearby and shooting something up while Mike and his two dogs slept peacefully in the safety of his truck. Other times, the truck would not be parked there.

“Yea - I feel pretty safe in that old truck,” he reassured me, turning slightly to acknowledge his sanctuary.

And, in spite of the proximity to the shelter and drug users, I had always felt pretty safe on my side of the fence, too.

As I hitched Louie’s leash back to his harness, Mike turned and walked away from me towards his stack of paperwork sitting on the Mercedes parked in the next spot. Instant office, I guess. His dogs eyed us intently through the fence as we turned to walk back to our comfortable loft.

As much as I bitch about homeless people in San Francisco — with their crazy, cracked-out demeanors; their using the street as a toilet; and their endless solicitations for money, I realize that Mike seems like a pretty good guy. I was glad to hear that he has family he can go to. I have worried to death about what would happen to his dogs if he lost his truck, for instance. I guess I can say I have a friend. Maybe the fence allows us to be cordial without building a real relationship. Whatever its purpose, I think we both know that fence will always be there.