He sweeps the bar. I wipe the tables. Then grab the padlocks, lock the doors and think, how did I end up here? We walk around the street market at 3 a.m., under the hum of lampposts, thinking about what to do next. We share a flask of whisky.
Did I just see something slither to the shadow? Trip to the ice machine, all that is frozen in time like that cockroach, just kidding. I need to get my peripheral vision checked. I'm sure I just saw something flee to the darkness under the stairs.
John is going away. To a rehab nuthouse -- his words. One year in exile with a bunch of drunks. Ordered by psychiatrists. The doors are locked night and day. But he's figured out a way to get supplies delivered.
The "Tenderloin National Forest" is likely one of the world's smallest "forests" -- it's just 23 feet wide by 136 feet deep -- but it is a refuge in one of the most densely-packed neighborhoods in the heart of San Francisco.