A Tear in the Canvas

Let me paint the scene:

It's a gorgeous, Saturday morning in San Francisco. I'm sitting on a park bench by the bay with a cup of coffee, a lox and cream-cheese bagel, and an enthralling book. I watch a light wind blow ornate kites over the heads of delighted toddlers. Alcatraz, The Golden Gate Bridge, and the hills of Marin County form a panorama beyond the choppy sea as boats sail in the marina. A crew of men around my age are outfitted with flags playing football on the green while dog-walkers, bikers, and tandems of joggers pass by. From the distance, I hear the muted trumpet of an ocean-liner approaching the harbor. Occasional susurruses of laughter escape from a bunch of sailors by the docks, who are packing in their rigs.

I smile. Such beauty!

I'm still in my reverie as I meander up Fillmore Street, by the Marina school - its marble facade glistening in the afternoon sun. The land beneath my feet is the rubble of the great quake from 1906. I marvel that the stately houses around me are built on ash and mortar bulldozed into the sea. Tragedy decomposed into such splendor!

Just then a bicyclist at the intersection stops abruptly. A black sedan following too closely nudges his rear tire. The cyclist dismounts, removes his helmet, and kicks the grill of the car as the demure lady behind the wheel mimes frightened apologies. Obscenities echo off of the walls of surrounding buildings like the bursts of firecrackers. People stare. "She hit me!" shouts the pedestrian, scanning the sidewalks for support, and finding only aghast onlookers with open jaws. "I've got to teach this woman a lesson!" Remounting his bike the cyclist plants himself in front of the car at the intersection, refusing to budge. Within seconds, horns blare, but the impetuous cyclist remains motionless. The woman in the car sighs and rests her head on the window, exasperated.

At last - a tear in the canvas.