In San Francisco, three weeks after Mayor London Breed declared a state of emergency to fight the “nasty streets” downtown, Artie Gilbert walked up Market Street into the Tenderloin. It was dawn, and the open-air drug markets were dispersing. Gilbert, a former member of the Crips who spent twenty-six years in prison, said, “This is like walking into paradise.” A man in a bus shelter was hunched over, smoking fentanyl with a plastic straw.
“San Francisco is segregated. This is a containment zone,” Clark-Johnson said. He stopped at a building whose entrance, at night, is crowded with people shooting fentanyl. “Now, during the day, residents can leave their building, exit and enter,” he explained. A man named Cornbread came up and asked for money. “I only got two dollars,” Clark-Johnson told him. “You want some food?” They went into a coffee shop, and Cornbread got a hot chocolate, because there was no cappuccino.
Outside the village, people camp on the sidewalk. “Good morning!” Gilbert said. He passed a man under a red blanket. “We wouldn’t bother this guest till a little later, after the sun comes up,” he said. “We might come back and say, ‘Need a coffee, need a bagel?’ We don’t really like calling the police on the guests.”
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