group as committed to socially conscious women’s free-form improv dance style. It left a lot up to the imagination, though I could at least surmise that if I ever had a chance to dance with Erin, I wouldn’t be the one leading.
I doubted anyone would be staffing the headquarters of a performance art troupe. If they were, some other entrepreneurial journalist had probably gotten there first, but the key to unraveling a story was to muster the energy to start somewhere.
When I got there, a handful of journalists were indeed out front on the sidewalk, lingering or, rather, fidgeting. That’s what reporters do. It’s a product of the attention deficit disorder that is a prerequisite in the profession. A journalist not involved in a moment of intensity is seeking one out.
I walked to the dance troupe’s modest storefront. A crème-colored blind hung halfway down the window. I knelt and peeked through the bottom, but could see only two wooden tables on a linoleum floor.
I turned around and found myself looking into the sun. And felt a dull ache where the adrenaline had worn off.
Two months earlier, I’d written a story about how the vending machines in San Francisco’s schools were stocked with high-calorie crap sold by the same companies sponsoring extracurricular sports programs. To call it investigative journalism would have been an impossible stretch. It, like most of what I did, just involved noticing connections. Nothing cloak-and-dagger about my trade. I was a guy with a pen, curiosity, and deep thanks for the First Amendment. This quest was already demanding a different kind of grit.
I stopped at a Mexican grocery store two doors down from the dance center. Varieties of jalapeños, plantains, and tomatillos on the outside produce stand catered to the neighborhood’s concentration of Spanish-speakers, but inside the place smelled thinly of the barbecued duck I could see behind the deli glass. Many of the local stores had been purchased of late by Chinese, a demographic shared by the young man who sat behind a counter watching
Wheel of Fortune
.
“I’ve got a strange question.”
“Condoms are over there, bro,” he responded, pointing to aisle three.
“Good. Now where are your inflatable dolls?” I said.
I pulled out a newspaper clipping of Erin’s picture. “I’m trying to find someone.”
“Are you a pig?”
“Reporter. She survived an explosion the other day. I want to ask her how she’s feeling.”
Suddenly, that seemed like enough information. He picked up the photo and whistled. “Legs”—he held his hand three feet in the air—“up to here, bro.”
“So you’ve seen her. Today?”
No, but he’d seen her. She came in all the time, shepherding hungry kids from a tutoring center that was a block away. He pointed me in its direction.
A block away, I stood outside a storefront with its window covered with colorful and haphazard crayon drawings. A sign read, “Guerrero child-care and tutoring.”
I made my way through the sea of rug rats. I found her sitting in the back, huddled over a cup of coffee. I got ten feet away and stopped, just as she looked up.
Erin’s eyes widened. I saw her look to the left. I followed her gaze—to the back door. Over its top was a banner drawn in thick purple, green, and yellow markers with the words “Adios Amigos.” By the time I turned back toward her, Erin was already standing and heading full stride toward the exit, dangling a pair of keys from her left hand.
“Erin!”
She wasn’t stopping to look back.
8
M y view of Erin was a ponytail poking through a baseball cap, heading purposefully in the other direction. I flashed for a moment on whether I might tear my hamstring again, then gave chase into the alley where she was putting a key into the lock of an aging green Honda with a ski rack.
Even without having time to think, I knew on some level I didn’t like what I was about to do. I stepped forward, put out my hand, and pushed
I doubted anyone would be staffing the headquarters of a performance art troupe. If they were, some other entrepreneurial journalist had probably gotten there first, but the key to unraveling a story was to muster the energy to start somewhere.
When I got there, a handful of journalists were indeed out front on the sidewalk, lingering or, rather, fidgeting. That’s what reporters do. It’s a product of the attention deficit disorder that is a prerequisite in the profession. A journalist not involved in a moment of intensity is seeking one out.
I walked to the dance troupe’s modest storefront. A crème-colored blind hung halfway down the window. I knelt and peeked through the bottom, but could see only two wooden tables on a linoleum floor.
I turned around and found myself looking into the sun. And felt a dull ache where the adrenaline had worn off.
Two months earlier, I’d written a story about how the vending machines in San Francisco’s schools were stocked with high-calorie crap sold by the same companies sponsoring extracurricular sports programs. To call it investigative journalism would have been an impossible stretch. It, like most of what I did, just involved noticing connections. Nothing cloak-and-dagger about my trade. I was a guy with a pen, curiosity, and deep thanks for the First Amendment. This quest was already demanding a different kind of grit.
I stopped at a Mexican grocery store two doors down from the dance center. Varieties of jalapeños, plantains, and tomatillos on the outside produce stand catered to the neighborhood’s concentration of Spanish-speakers, but inside the place smelled thinly of the barbecued duck I could see behind the deli glass. Many of the local stores had been purchased of late by Chinese, a demographic shared by the young man who sat behind a counter watching
Wheel of Fortune
.
“I’ve got a strange question.”
“Condoms are over there, bro,” he responded, pointing to aisle three.
“Good. Now where are your inflatable dolls?” I said.
I pulled out a newspaper clipping of Erin’s picture. “I’m trying to find someone.”
“Are you a pig?”
“Reporter. She survived an explosion the other day. I want to ask her how she’s feeling.”
Suddenly, that seemed like enough information. He picked up the photo and whistled. “Legs”—he held his hand three feet in the air—“up to here, bro.”
“So you’ve seen her. Today?”
No, but he’d seen her. She came in all the time, shepherding hungry kids from a tutoring center that was a block away. He pointed me in its direction.
A block away, I stood outside a storefront with its window covered with colorful and haphazard crayon drawings. A sign read, “Guerrero child-care and tutoring.”
I made my way through the sea of rug rats. I found her sitting in the back, huddled over a cup of coffee. I got ten feet away and stopped, just as she looked up.
Erin’s eyes widened. I saw her look to the left. I followed her gaze—to the back door. Over its top was a banner drawn in thick purple, green, and yellow markers with the words “Adios Amigos.” By the time I turned back toward her, Erin was already standing and heading full stride toward the exit, dangling a pair of keys from her left hand.
“Erin!”
She wasn’t stopping to look back.
8
M y view of Erin was a ponytail poking through a baseball cap, heading purposefully in the other direction. I flashed for a moment on whether I might tear my hamstring again, then gave chase into the alley where she was putting a key into the lock of an aging green Honda with a ski rack.
Even without having time to think, I knew on some level I didn’t like what I was about to do. I stepped forward, put out my hand, and pushed
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