One particularly balmy summer’s night of 2012, I couldn’t get to sleep until I had all the windows wide open to allow a minuscule bit of breeze in. Unfortunately, what was a sleep aid earlier in the night came to facilitate my abrupt awakening later on.
The sounds of a man’s voice shouting, a woman’s voice replying groggily, and a car engine idling rose directly into my ears via the open windows.
“Where are you going?” cried the man, over and over. “Where are you going?”
In my half-asleep state I imagined that I had already deciphered the entire situation: a woman was leaving a party and getting in her car, but she was too drunk so the host was coming out to stop her.
“I’m just going home,” pleaded the woman. She sounded almost confused, almost intoxicated.
“Where is that? How are you getting there?” the man demanded.
“I’m going to the 24th street BART station.” The man seemed content with this answer, and there was a moment of silence.
He soon became suspicious of her explanation, however. “If you’re going to 24th and Mission, how come you’re on Capp street?”
The woman didn’t reply.
“Do you want to get arrested?” shouted the cop, from inside his cruiser, idling on Capp Street.
“No sir” whimpered the prostitute, from atop the sidewalk, standing on Capp Street.
“Well start cooperating unless you want to get arrested.”
“I’m just trying to go home, I only need to get to the 24th street BART station.”
Another pause.
“OK, fine.” the cop revved his engine, and tore off into the distance down Capp Street. Then there was a slow but steady sound of footsteps which eventually faded into silence, as did the cruiser.
