Dear Person who pooped in my driveway,
In a word: thank you. I know that whoever you are, you probably didn’t want to be pooping in the alcove of my garage. You were most likely seeking some refuge, some privacy so you took to my quiet street in San Francisco’s Mission District.
I only moved here a few months ago and you’ve probably been pooping outside for a lot longer than that. My quiet street between hipster-happening Valencia and troublesome Mission offered you some much needed peace. And I get that.
I’m new to the neighborhood. I had been planning to bake cookies for my new neighbors this holiday season. Some of them have been living on this transitional street in the Mission for over 30 years and I’m part of the brazen young crew that’s moving into this hip neighborhood for its proximity to Dolores Park, Bi Rite, and Delfina.
I thought cleaning up your human feces would be like picking up dog poop, but as I stood there with my hand in a newspaper bag, I realized it was a lot worse.
The neighbors who I had wanted to meet via cookies were standing outside and I called out to them, “Does this happen a lot?”
“Sometimes,” they say, “Get some clorox and and hose it down.” The group of three neighbors took my question as an invitation to come over and check out the situation. They found the hose in my garage and started cleaning up the mess with me.
“I’m Julia,” I say, holding out the hand that’s not holding plastic bags. “I’m Al,” says the rotund Latin man.
“And I’m Barry,” says an older white guy.
We talk about how the neighborhood has changed and they make some jokes about how I should invest in a sprinkler system.
After some moments, we say, “see ya later.”
“If you hear gun shots, stay inside. And when you want shooting lessons, come on over,” says Barry.
I still plan to make cookies for my neighbors. Fudge might be too reminiscent of the shit. But I’m grateful for this very human moment. Just please, don’t poop there again.