What’s the sketchiest walk you can imagine?
Could it perhaps be a roughly two-mile stretch from SoMa to Hayes Valley, much of it routed through Mid-Market?
That’s what Sam Padilla, an AI startup co-founder and ex-Googler based out of Austin, Texas, felt when he traversed this route at 10 p.m. last week. In a tweet that went massively viral (nearly 43 million views and 21,000 “likes”), he proclaimed that his walk was “easily” the sketchiest stroll he had ever done.
“I grew up in Brazil and Colombia. I’ve walked real sketchy shit before. Doesn’t even compare,” Padilla wrote. “Felt like a scene straight out of The Walking Dead.”
As you might imagine, the tweet got plenty of credulous replies from a variety of Doom Loop dramatists and out-of-town critics, all bemoaning the Great Fall of San Francisco®. But as a city kid who has navigated plenty of “real sketchy shit” in my life, I couldn’t help but groan a bit.
At the same time, I had to acknowledge Padilla’s take — the guy was clearly shaken, after all. So, in good faith, I decided to replicate his walk at night. Graciously, Padilla even sent me a map of his path, as documented on the exercise app Strava.
The task: Start at Howard and Second streets and travel west on Mission for four blocks. Turn north on Fifth Street, then take a left on Market to head west again until I hit Hayes Valley.
10:10 p.m.
Everything’s quiet on Mission Street. Traffic on the street is sparse, and the sidewalks are clean. A few people are bedding down for the night in nooks along darkened building facades. I hear one man muttering to nobody in particular — “Did you see that guy in the back? He keeps saying stuff…” — until I pass by and say good evening.
“Oh. Hello!” he replies. The wrinkles around his blue-grey eyes crease as he smiles.
There’s a guy taking a piss near some trash bins on Annie Street. Farther along Mission, I see a young man with a thousand-yard stare, rocking gently side to side while sitting outside Empire Pizza.
10:18 p.m.
“My name is Craig Butler. B-U-T-L-E-R. Here, take a look at my ID, blud…”
Craig starts digging into his back pocket.
“Oh, it’s all good,” I try to interject.
“No, no, I’m just tryin’ to show you who I am!” he retorts.
Sometimes, a person just gives off OG Bay Area energy. So it is with Craig, whom I find at a bus stop dripped out in a red-and-black Niners cap, a red-and-black Backwoods hoodie, and red-and-black Nike Dunks.
Over the course of the next 15 minutes, the 56-year-old anoints me with tall tale after tall tale. He’s apparently gotten a grand in cash from visiting Yankees slugger Aaron Judge and his third-base coach for escorting them to Macy’s. He was once in a commercial with O.J. Simpson. He even claims to have guided Mark Zuckerberg to a local rub-’n’-tug massage joint and was tipped $200 for his efforts.
“And I’mma do something with the money, ‘cuz look: I dress nice. I smell nice. Smell my neck!” he says, leaning close.
Craig tells me he grew up on Potrero Hill, but now lives at the Jefferson Hotel in the Tenderloin. Every day, Craig commutes down to SoMa to people-watch and turn on his inimitable, if forward, charm. He’s selling a stack of Street Sheets, the newspaper that focuses on unhoused issues. Craig is also hustling to get cash from friendly passersby, although he is firm on boundaries: “I ain’t trying to take something people don’t want to give,” he says with a nod of the head.
As for the “sketchiest walk” part?
“I’m just bein’ real with you. They do got gangs out here, although…” — he glances around — “...I don’t be talkin’ about that. Maybe this tech fella just had a bad night. But this is my city. Go around telling people you know C. Butler. You’ll be safe.”
At some point, he convinces me that it’ll be worth my time if we go to McDonald’s for a snack. He tells me a dozen more stories on the five-minute walk, including a scheme for us to get rich together on a gaming app. I get him a burger and a shake, and some fries for myself, before exchanging numbers and parting ways.
“Ey, I love you, blud! Be good!” he yells as I walk back into the night.
10:40 p.m.
I’m back on Mission, and it’s still quiet. A man sleeps outside of the bar Executive Order, snoring fitfully. I turn up Fifth Street and notice an altercation brewing at the plaza next to the San Francisco Mint building. Two guys are fixing their pull-cart in the dark, but another man seems to be hovering. At least until one of the duo gets in his face. There’s no fight after all. I keep walking.
10:45 p.m.
Finally, I’m on Market and spotting the blocks that likely worried Padilla — big groups of people, spilling out over the width of the sidewalk. Among them are people selling wares on the sidewalk, like Rome, a thirtysomething who’s shilling denim and beauty supplies. I tell him that Padilla suggested Mid-Market is worse than conditions in Brazil.
“Ah, hell nah, man. Brazil is worse than this,” he says while raising an eyebrow. “And it’s always been like this. I’m just out here trying to make some money. But I don’t think it’s scary. It’s crowded and people are doing drugs and shit, but it’s not like someone’s going to pull a gun or a knife on you.”
The biggest swell is a block west, near Seventh, where dozens of people are chatting, trading, and smoking various kinds of dope. The sidewalk is soundtracked by the hiss of butane torches. There’s a chubby dog getting lots of pets. A few people are folded over, well consumed by an opiate high.
I meet Willa and Kevin, who have posted up on a quieter corner of the sidewalk for the night. I ask them why everyone is out on this particular block. Willa runs a hand through her cropped black hair, shrugs, and observes that they used to hang at the Civic Center across the street. At least until police showed up.
“Everyone just moved when they cracked down on the other corner. I do get that it can be kinda intimidating to walk past this,” Willa says. “Fent makes people do erratic things. It’s not like other opioids. So I can see why some react nervously to that.”
10:53 p.m.
UN Plaza is dead. A park ranger sits in her SUV, with bright lights flooding the sidewalk for no reason. “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid drones loudly from speakers overhead. This is the most frightened I’ve been all night.
In desperate search of normal human behavior, I turn the corner toward Plaza Snacks & Deli. The sidewalk is slammed with people, all participating in some kind of commerce. Men in balaclavas stand around next to elderly Chinese aunts and uncles. I see dime bags and cash trading hands. Somebody offers me a Revlon hair curler for a really good price. I’m a little offended that nobody has tried to sell me drugs yet.
11 p.m.
“Jesus Christ, look at that big boy!”
I point to a rat the size of my forearm as it scuttles across the sidewalk. A guy in a lime-green balaclava laughs in response. “Ey, it’s not like the New York ones, at least.”
11:05 p.m.
I’m nearing the end of my journey, but I notice my path is completely blocked by a crew of people hanging out at Market and Van Ness. They’ve taken over the stairs of the Muni station.
I announce my presence as I approach. “Sorry, folks — mind if I squeeze through here?”
A young man with ginger hair and acne scars apologizes immediately, then dons his backpack and nudges his dog, a white-and-black pittie in a service vest, to make room. “Our bad! We’re the ones blocking the sidewalk,” he says.
A minute later, I’m at the edge of Hayes Valley. I think about what Padilla wrote on Twitter: “It just hit me. San Francisco is the epitome of a tech dystopia.”
I might agree with that, but I’m not sure it’s because of the people I met tonight. Of course San Francisco is a dystopia: By definition, it means a society rife with suffering and injustice. The sketchiness of the walk has everything to do with bearing witness to that suffering, even if people cope and survive despite it all anyway.
But did I ever feel in danger? No. Is that a function of being a cis man who grew up in cities? Partly. Was Craig convincing me to upgrade his meal with large fries and a large shake the closest I got to being robbed? Yes.
