For years, the rhythm of my life was measured in losses. Two to four times a month, I would lose everything. My bedrolls, my clothes, my toiletries — stolen by others on the street or swept away by the Department of Public Health. Each loss pushed me deeper into the cycle of addiction, a blur of panhandling, washing windshields, and flagging down cabs outside the theater for tips just to find the next drink or the next hit.
The addiction was a heavy, demanding ghost. It took my money, my dignity, and eventually, my shoes. That was the saddest part of the “drop.” I had a high tolerance, fueled by cheap vodka and crack, and I would run until I physically collapsed. Without fail, I would wake up from a three-day binge to find that someone had slipped the shoes right off my feet while I was unconscious.
One particular three-day weekend, I woke up to a world that felt completely desolate. It was a holiday; the downtown business crowds were gone, and the streets were cold and empty. I had no money, no drugs, no pride — and, true to form, no shoes.
Hunger isn’t just a feeling when you’re in that state; it’s a physical weight. I started walking up Van Ness Avenue, my bare feet hitting the cold pavement, heading toward the Burger King. It was a famous spot for us — a place where we’d fight for the right to stand by the drive-thru line to beg for a spare burger or a few coins. But when I arrived, the gates were locked. It was closed.
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I kept walking. I felt a loneliness so profound it was almost cinematic. With no one left to talk to, I did something I rarely did: I started talking to God. I usually figured God was too busy for me; surely there were people with more “worthy” problems than a shoeless addict coming off a binge. But the silence of the city emboldened me.
On the first block, I whispered, “Oh God, I’m so hungry. I wish I had a slice of pizza.” In my mind, I wasn’t picturing a gourmet pie. I was picturing the cheese pizza we used to get in the grade school cafeteria on Fridays. It was simple, but in my memory, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.
I walked another block. The cold was biting now. “Oh God,” I said again, “I’m so hungry. I wish I had an apple fritter.”
By the third block, the absurdity of my situation hit me. I tried to think of a third thing to ask for, but I couldn’t. I started laughing out loud, a dirty, shoeless man talking to the air. If anyone had seen me, they would have thought I’d finally lost my mind.
On the fourth block, I fell silent. I just walked.
About halfway up the street, I saw it: a white paper bag, slightly larger than a lunch bag, sitting on the sidewalk. A voice in my mind, clear as a bell, said, Look in the bag.
I walked over, picked it up, and opened it. My breath caught. Inside the bag were two slices of cheese pizza and exactly one-half of an apple fritter.
I stood there on Van Ness, stunned into a different kind of silence. I love apple fritters, but they are so sweet that I can only ever eat half at a time. This wasn’t just a discarded meal; it was a specific, tailored response to a conversation I thought I was having with myself.
There is a verse in the Bible, Psalm 139, that says: “If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.” I had made my bed in hell for a long time. I had lived in the fire of addiction and the cold of the streets, believing I was beyond notice. But that day, on a desolate sidewalk, I learned that no matter how deep the pit you dig for yourself, you are never out of reach.
People can tell me many things about the world, about science, or about luck. But there is nothing anyone could ever say to make me believe that there is not a God who hears a shoeless man on the fourth block.
River is a longtime resident and steward of the Tenderloin. He’s experienced it from sidewalk to sanctuaries, gaining a unique and deeply personal perspective. Now 64, River’s writing aims to honor the community’s history and enduring spirit.
