Eyewitness

A drug deal's just gone down in the far left corner. 

The junkies have left their needles against the far wall, piled into an old car with black tires and no hubcaps--a bad sign if there ever was one--and screamed out of the parking lot.

You can hear their laugh track; they'e sort of laughing at you and they're sort of unaware of your existence.

You're just walking home from the opera on a late Sunday afternoon, finding your way from Point A to Point B as they say, on Golden Gate Avenue across from the Phillip Burton Federal Building & U.S. Courthouse.

Once again putting yourself in a situation where any kind of advice is welcome, you continue walking, quietly thinking about what just happened, what might have happened, what didn't happen.