“I’m going to have a Boston crème,” Tween 1 announced.

“But you’re in Philadelphia . . . NOT Boston!” Tween 2 replied.

The laugh track came from their parents, who were wearing his-and-hers blue T-shirts. His read: “Abigail Adams was here.” Hers said: “John Adams was here.” The words were embossed on their heaving chests in red, white, and blue. The thought of getting felt up by Abigail and John Adams was more disgusting than imagining your grandparents doing it. No mas café.

Outside DD, a particularly kind heroin addict, who didn’t stare at my hair, was serving as doorman that day. Maybe she didn’t stare because her eyes were rolling to the back of her head. According to the Philadelphia Chronicle, Philly was the new Seattle. The heroin here was cheaper and purer than anywhere else in the country. This impressive fact translated into a pack of addicts swarming around the courthouse, begging for money. Some of their best work went down at the Dunkin’ Donuts, where throngs of emaciated skeletons would fight over who got to open and close the door for a dime. The blond girl, who couldn’t have been older than fifteen, kindly opened the door. I gave her my coffee cash and proceeded on my merry way. Aside from the fact that I could have sworn I spotted her liver, lungs, and pelvic bone through her thin skin, it was a rather pleasant exchange, especially considering how feverish I felt when I turned and spotted the courthouse.

The words “JUSTICE FOR AL” that wrapped around the top of the building didn’t help. Considering the corner of junkies and my own dim fate, “Al” was indeed the only one getting any justice.

“Good morning, missy!!” With my myriad ailments, I’d barely noticed Duane, the tight-polyester-panted man who stood in front of the courthouse every morning, smiling and waving uncontrollably.

“Good morning to you, too,” I replied, smiling. It was important to pacify Duane. After September 11, the powers that be decided to add him as the first line of defense against terrorism. Everyone in Philly was obsessed with being the next target. The fear was that the Liberty Bell would be taken out. With all the beautiful old churches and museums in Philadelphia, I couldn’t figure out why the bell got so many accolades. Replacing that thing with a tree, a memorial, a trash can wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But I kept that to myself. It would have been grossly unpatriotic to speak of it. And everyone knew what became of grossly unpatriotic brown people—Guantánamo.

In any event, Duane didn’t seem like the obvious choice for a top counterterrorism mission. The guy was so busy checking out every woman’s legs that he’d probably let me bring in a nuke, provided I was wearing a skirt.