Bill had never heard the word gay used in conversation before but he knew what it meant. He bristled. “I’m no queer.”

Stuart smiled. “Whatever, Billy. You’re in Frisco now. No one here cares if you make it with boys or girls.”

Bill barked, “I said I’m not a queer.”

Stuart’s smile faded and he looked sad.

“Okay man, have it your way, but listen to me, the place you want to go is Polk Street. That’s where the gays are. Just be careful, okay?” And then, before Bill could react, the other boy leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. “You’re cute, Billy. Hope I see you around.”

Stuart disappeared into the crowd. Bill had never been kissed by another boy. He looked around wildly to see if people had been watching but if they had, they didn’t care. He gathered his things and moved on.

Polk Street, Polk Street. Bill committed the name to memory as he stood on the sidewalk beneath a web of low-lying electrical wires over streetcars ferrying passengers up and down an immense boulevard just as they did in the Rice-a-Roni commercials. He peered up a street called Powell and saw in the distance a cable car chugging up a steep incline and heard in his head: And the little cable cars climb halfway to the stars. For a moment, his anxiety fell away and he was charmed. If only, he thought, it wasn’t so frigging cold.

The envelope his mother had given him had two hundred dollars in it. He spent fifty on the bus fare, another ten on food – potato chips, candy bars and Cokes – leaving him with one hundred and forty dollars. He left fifty in the suitcase he stowed in a locker at the bus station. The remaining ninety was his stake, to pay for food and a place to stay. He saw a little diner on a narrow street off Powell and ducked into it as evening began to settle in the sky and the streets lamps flickered on.

The diner was furnished with ratty booths and tables on a grimy tiled floor no amount of mopping would ever get clean. Beneath harsh florescent lights, the air was thick with grease and cigarette smoke and curses from the cooks in the kitchen behind the counter. A Chinaman brought him a fly-specked menu from which he ordered a hamburger, fries and a Coke. As he had wandered around the city, he had pondered how to find Polk Street. He was afraid to ask anyone because it would expose him as a queer but he didn’t care what the Chinaman thought so, when he returned with Bill’s food, Bill said, “My friend lives on Polk Street. Do you know where that is?”

“Polk? When you leave, take a left and keep walking until you see City Hall. Polk Street runs in front of it. You want anything else?”