Bill stood on the sidewalk, suitcase in hand, outside the Greyhound terminal. Behind him, the loudspeaker announced arrivals and departures. San Francisco was shockingly cold after the long ride through the torrid summer of a half-dozen states. His body ached from the cramped seat and he was still dazed by his sudden transformation from son and brother to banished pervert. More than once on the journey, sudden tears like an unexpected storm scalded his face. He was wept out and exhausted and felt more dead than alive as he stood on the dirty sidewalk and tried to get his bearings in the frigid, foggy city.

He had not been the only young person on the bus. There had been a German couple, blond and high spirited, traveling the country on the ninety-nine-dollar special summer fare. A young soldier got on the bus in Cedar Rapids and rode as far as Reno. A long-haired boy who smelled of male musk and patchouli oil boarded at Salt Lake City and flashed a warm smile as he made his way past Bill. They approached him at rest stops, recognizing him as a member of the tribe of the young, but he deflected them with his single-word answers to their questions and his air of misery. Only the hippie boy persisted—his name, he said, was Stuart. Bill sensed from him a special, particular interest that both attracted and repelled him. He’s like me, Bill thought when Stuart, standing beside him at a trough urinal at a rest stop in Nevada, casually glanced at Bill’s dick and smiled. Bill had fled, but not before looking down quickly as Stuart shook the last drops of piss from own long, thin dick. After that, Bill avoided him.

The bus terminal occupied an entire block on Seventh Street between two busy thoroughfares, Mission Street behind him and Market Street ahead of him. An imposing skyline rose beyond Market Street while, behind Mission, he saw only flat roofs and warehouses. He tried to remember what he knew of this city but all that came to him was a jumble of images from the car chase scene in Bullitt and the chorus of the Scott McKenzie song—If you’re going to San Francisco be sure you wear flowers in your hair.

“Hey, man, this your first time in Frisco?”

Bill spun around to encounter Stuart’s smiling face.

“Yeah,” Bill said.

“That’s cool. You have a place to crash?”

Too tired to lie, Bill said, “No.”

“You know anyone here?” Stuart asked.

“No,” Bill said.

In a kind voice, Stuart said, “All on your own?”

“Yeah,” Bill said, roughly.

Stuart touched his shoulder lightly and said, “I have some friends in the Haight. You could stay with us.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Stuart shrugged. “I can tell you’re cool. What’s your name?”

“Bill.”

“You’re gay too, right?”