There are a couple of sandwich board men, one young, one old, who stand on opposite sides of Market Street, one in front of the Emporium Capwells, the other in front of BOA. Their sandwich boards begin with a long Biblical quote, beginning with “Alas, Babylon,” and going on into a tirade in which degradation and whoredom figure prominently. These men never seem to walk, or speak. They just stand, occasionally turning so that passersby will get the full benefit of their message — front and back. I don’t know what church these men are affiliated with, if any. The City seems full of lonely souls struggling to just get by and desperate to make themselves and their messages heard.

(Note: At that time I envisioned both these men — one younger and bearded, the other older and chean-shaven — as “lonely souls” living in poverty in some bleak residential hotel nearby. Six years later, after Tim and I had separated, I moved to St. Francis Place, at the time an upscale apartment complex on Third and Folsom, with hot-tubs, a pool, etc. A week after moving there, I encountered the bearded sandwich board man emerging from his own apartment with his board, plainly on his way to “work”. He lived just down the hall from me.

We spoke briefly. He said he was a Swedenborgian.)