Portrait I

Wind whipped man with kimchi hair drags three rolling suitcases of disappointed color through Pacific Heights. He scream whispers “Fuck you”; “You piece of shit”. He chants. He prays. He marches away form downtown. This morning he waited in line at a casting call he read about in the SF Guardian. The ad called for a man of thirty to forty; caucasian; urban. He thought acting jobs would abound in San Francisco. He left the free clinic at eight this morning to find a line around the block. He stood with the healthy, with the handsome, with the trained, with the hungry. He stood with the last shred of chemical dignity to be turned away while still in line by a cattle rancher, herding the tasty. The five percent failure rate is subterranean. He scoops through concrete with his hands. Families crack crackers on Boxing Day. He curses the digital age.