By Tom Friend

Sunday, October 19, 2008

AN FRANCISCO -- She waits for the city bus, in high-tops. Cars whiz by, and she shuts her 17-year-old eyes, imagining her dream ride: a beat-up, oil-leaking dark blue van. She fingers the locket she's wearing, the one with Tat's big head on it, and she starts imitating him under her breath. Man, you better get to that gym and do what you do. Maaaaan, you trippin'. You better get there and shoot your free throws, all 100 of 'em. And, maaaaan, you better not miss too many, dude.

She's interrupted by the screeching brakes of the Muni bus, a bus that will take her down Sunnydale Avenue, down Third Street, down to where Tat literally used to paint the town. He grew up there as a badass and died close to there as a good-ass. From the bus, she can see graffiti on the walls, soiled diapers on the curbs and thugs on the corner, and she knows Tat would've fixed all of it -- or at least tried to -- and he would've found time to bring her to the gym, or the park, to shoot her free throws. Her 100 free throws.

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