What’s it Worth to Ya?

 

What’s it worth to ya?

He asks, his Scottish accent heavy.

He’s older, squinting in the violent

San Francisco sun

the same sun I’ve been baking under

for 8 miles of walking.

What’s it worth to ya?

and I laugh

because I don’t know how to bargain.

 

See,

we walked from North Beach down to the Golden Gate Bridge

and the whole time,

my husband kept saying

that bridge,

and then he’d sigh, that bridge

and I’m thinking

Yeah it’s beautiful,

look at us baby, walking over the Golden Gate bridge

 

And he sighs again and says,

That bridge, goddamnit

it just isn’t getting any closer is it?

 

And he’s right because we’ve been walking

for miles

following older women in yoga pants

who seem like the type

of spry ladies who walk this bridge all the time, just for fun.

But 5 miles later,

they got into their cars, laughing

we knew we were on our own.

 

And still that red rust goliath was just swinging out there in the bay taunting us.

I walk five miles a day back in Brooklyn

but we’ve got clouds back there and here, over San Francisco

it’s just so much open sky, so much blazing sun

you could go dizzy staring into all that blue

 

So that by the time we got to Sausalito and realized,

there was no way back but to turn around and do those 8 miles all over again,

I said

No,

I can’t

not in these shoes

not after driving the pacific coast highway

not now.

No way.

 

And walked right up to the old guy sitting on the brick wall

next to the parked sightseeing trolley

and said, pointing to the thing, is this yours?

 

Aye.

 

How much to get a lift back over the bridge?

 

The company charges $35 a piece.

 

Steep, I say.

 

And he nods. Steep, he says.

What’s it worth to ya? he asks

and I laugh

because, I’m not good at this.

 

But we settle on 15 for both of us, and my husband hands him the money

and we slip down into those hard wooden seats

that held so many fat lady asses

so many old men with their bum knees

and Chinese tourists with ipads

 

and he drives us over the bridge

and I think to myself,

my god, there isn’t a prettier city in America

than San Francisco.

Look at her shine.

From this wooden seat

the wind blowing my hair crazy

and the ocean

just laying out

waiting for you

like a beautiful woman

lying in your bed,

and right now,

I’m as golden as the coast

I’m driving over

thanks to this wooden trolley

and my Scottish hero

pulling her home.