Years ago I worked in a secondhand book shop in a so-called marginal neighborhood in San Francisco. Polk Street at one time was the hub of gay life in the city, but after the Castro ascended to queer prominence the once-vibrant Polk Gulch area hit hard times. The gay bars along there are a hoot, it's like it's still 1972. The rent boys and runaways huddling in storefronts possess a trashy allure. I'd walk by and catch a glimpse of some prematurely ruined but comely young man and entertain a three-block fantasy of taking him in and sheltering him from the harsh realities of the street, give him a simulation of domestic tranquility, only to have him strip my apartment and steal my credit cards.

Anyway, the store was close to City Hall, and during the daylight hours it was perfectly safe, if a little seedy. The trendy Phoenix Hotel was right around the corner, and occasionally celebrities came in to look around. I helped Thurston Moore with his esoteric wants, and John Waters, a few others. I forget the uninteresting ones. My friend who works at St. Mark's Bookshop in New York sees more famous people in a week than I did in a year. Who cares really.

After dark the neighborhood got a little sketchy. I was usually on a closing shift, sitting at the front counter near the door, pricing new arrivals. It was usually painfully slow right near closing. Once or twice a night there'd be some kind of interaction with one or more of the local colorful characters, i.e. bums, shoplifters, and lunatics. So I was bored but also tense that last hour or so. One time I saw this guy weaving toward the store from across the street, not looking too together. I steeled myself for the usual confrontation. No, I can't help you out buddy. No, you can't stay here and chat with me. He sort of serpentined toward the door and stepped halfway in. There was a slight pause as he held his hands in front of him, palms open like he was holding an imaginary object, looking down at them as he apparently measured a precise distance between them. When he was satisfied with the two-foot gap between his hands, he looked up and said, "Hey brother, you got a box for about this many gooseberries?"

As it happened, I did, having just emptied a carton of Will and Ariel Durants. I gave it to him, he thanked me, and off he went.