He turned south down Columbus Avenue until it turned into Montgomery, walked through the Financial District, then down onto Market Street. Not sure where to go, the stranger turned back toward the Pacific. He thought about returning all the way to the ocean, but that would take more time than he’d allotted himself. He took out his guidebook and thumbed through its worn pages. Everything he looked at seemed gray and lifeless to him now. The trip to North Beach had been a bad idea. The walk through SoMa hadn’t been much better. He understood how an animal, when in a trap, might gnaw its own leg off, but gnawing your leg off when things were going well, when you were prospering, that the stranger didn’t understand at all. He knew that despair was a sin, and while that’s not quite what he felt, part of him felt empty and even foolish. He threw the guidebook into a trash can and simply wandered along Market Street, no purpose or destination in mind.

He came to another vacant lot. Unlike the first one, this was paved. A dozen large, immaculate buses sat in rows. On the side of each bus in big block letters was LIQUID INDUSTRIES, DISRUPTING THE DISRUPTION. At the edge of the parking lot was a ragged circle of men and women. They had drums and, while they were playing with a tremendous amount of gusto and volume, they didn’t quite seem to have the concept of rhythm down yet. Several policemen stood in a semicircle nearby eyeing the drummers. The stranger walked over to them.

“Excuse me, but what’s happening here? Is this a religious ceremony?” he said.

One of the cops gave the stranger a look like he was considering arresting him just for being there. “It’s a drum circle. Hippies protesting fuck-all.”

“I’m not familiar with them. What are the tenets of ‘fuck-all’?”

“Are you being a wise-ass?” the cop asked, reaching for his nightclub.

“No, sir. It’s just that I’m new here and want to make sure that I understand the situation.”

“Listen,” said the cop. “Business has been good to this town. It brought in a lot of money, even if it also brought a lot of douche bags. These lowlifes don’t like the corporate buses, so they do this all day. It’s giving me a goddamn migraine.”

“Me, too,” said a couple of the other police.

“So, the people who own the buses and are driving the local economy are people you don’t like.”

“Rich assholes.”

“And the people protesting the businesspeople are also people you don’t like.”

“Hippie assholes.”

“Is there anyone around here who isn’t an asshole?”

“What?” said the policeman, reaching for his club again.