Vol. XLIX, No. 8
August 2025
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THE NOE VALLEY VOICE Words Among Friends and Neighbors
• Abel Grebenik • A Perfect Afternoon “Do you think pigeons care about each other?” asked the four-year-old boy as he sat with his father on the outer rim of the Town Square. It was a typical Sunday at the square—red chairs and strollers scattered in odd directions, and a disheveled man strumming his guitar about twenty feet away. Adults and children milled about, and one little girl with her hair in pigtails chased a trotting pigeon until it finally had enough and flew away. The boy watched with great interest as he and his father shared a Noe bagel sandwich at a metal table. Next to a coffee from Bernie’s, the white wrapping paper lay unfolded like a tiny bistro cloth—though on a June Sunday in San Francisco, it was only moments from being blown away. He consumed the beige wad in his hand in true four-year-old fashion: a messy, distracted bite, his small brown eyes squinting at everything except the food he held. “Two more bites,” said his father, sensing his son’s eagerness to abandon the sandwich on top of the table. “The pigeons!” the boy insisted, now pointing with the hand that held a single napkin. “No, I don’t think they care about us,” the father replied mindlessly, taking another bite of his own sandwich. “But we care about them, don’t we, Dada?” The boy mumbled as he chewed. Just then, a large cream-colored moth appeared from the oak tree above. Dozens of diurnal moths swirled overhead—drawn to this particular tree for some reason—but this one seemed especially interested in the boy. On any other day, he might have swatted at the moth like a frisky house cat, but today he was suspicious of its motives. With both hands, he pulled his sandwich protectively toward his armpit and glared at the insect as it drifted slowly back into the tree. The father reached for his coffee but, misjudging its placement, knocked it over. The contents spilled across the table. “Shoot,” he grunted as milky-brown beads streamed to the ground, narrowly avoiding both himself and his son. “Shoot,” he repeated, placing his only napkin futilely in the center of the puddle. Surprisingly, the boy had little reaction. He simply tossed his own napkin onto the table and watched as the brown liquid consumed it.
It’s time again for the creatives living with and around us to take over the pages of the Noe Valley Voice. We do this twice a year— in August and January. Music and visual art are available in Noe Valley, but we intend to promote writing in all its forms. The following pages feature stories and poetry that we hope will engage and stimulate you. ¿Dónde Estå el Raton de Biblióteca? Our resident bookworm Karol Barske has the month off from crafting the More Books to Read page and Calendar. Mazook is also exempt from reporting the Rumors Behind the News, as are our other reporters and photographers. Supreme Boss editor Sally Smith is chilling in her Diamond Heights abode. All will return rested and ready with our September edition. Thank you for reading and supporting our efforts. We want to hear from you. Your participation is always welcome at noevalleyvoice.com.
Bougainvillea Brightens Elizabeth Street.
It’s okay, Dada.” He said waving his wrist to the sky. “With our napkins together, we can clean up any mess!” The man looked at his son and slowly smiled—wider than he had all day. Ignoring the spill, he paused, and for a moment, it was as if he were taking it all in for the first time. The distant guitar, the summer breeze on his skin. He reached out and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. “That’s right, buddy,” he replied.
Abel Grebenik is a dedicated local psychotherapist specializing in parent and child behavior. Recently, he has recently embraced creative writing as a new hobby.
In Fine Voice A special thanks to the poets, fiction writers and essayists who have contributed to this issue. Our biannual edition features some of our most literate neighbors. We’re sure you’ll appreciate it.
Photo by Jack Tipple
• Jack Mellender • FRIENDSHIP A half a century ago a San Francisco summer guy with wind-blown locks made quite a show: beneath his grin whimsic'ly wry love beads o'er Nehru jacket green, bell-bottoms tie-died particolor and sandals of a crimson sheen festooned each with a silver dollar. While panhandling at Cole and Haight he hailed a dour ex-Navy clerk, a poet, lately Yeoman's-mate, whom savings bonds had freed from work,who laid on him a little change. Their talk revealed the street guy painted, so both were art-types, should arrange to share the bard's pad – get acquainted. The rhymer bought the artist glasses. His posters caught a rock band's eye. Two cast-off groupies, hippie lasses in granny dresses happened by. One soon became the painter's lover, her friend the poet's confidante his sorrow's cause would soon discover, why melancholy him did haunt.... His father's job'd required he travel, whose loneliness led him to drink. His wife, though, failed to unravel effect and cause. When, to the brink of separation they'd been drawn, in dreams he'd say a lover's name,
then three months afterward be gone. He'd move them near, but all the same remained his firm's mere foot-lose pawn. Dad's last trip home, to his son's shame, his mother's own drink-fueled rage had badges knocking at their door. He signed as sailor, when of age, to many another stormy shore. He'd read this hippie some stanza, who'd clapped when it reminded her of Ginsberg – or of Sancho Panza. His memories began to blur of frequent moves from school to school, and parents' bitter drunken fights, of shipmates' tales blasé and cool recounting ribald tropic nights with Honolulu hookers wild they'd meet 'neath some Hotel street light. Her sympathetic smiles beguiled his broken spirits into flight.
Poet Jack Mellender: College instructorwith grad degree cancelled out by rap sheet for fighting with cops in ancient antiwar riot, Berkeley. Wanted to teach, now just makes up poems. Someday get good?