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About San Jose

I’d saunter up, all awkward, like, “Hey, uh, you workin’?” She’d laugh—*laugh*!—right in my face. “What’s a preacher want with me?” she’d say, and I’d be pissed, like, “Don’t stereotype me, lady!” But also kinda happy ‘cause she’s sharp—sharper than me, probs. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes were called “soiled doves”—ain’t that poetic? She’s a dove, I’m a dork, perfect match.

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There’s the lovely, albeit sometimes piss-ugly, Merriweather Park. It’s a tiny green thing, you know, with a dodgy little fountain that mists a bit too much on a hot day. I once had a client break down there about the crushing passage of time—like, “It’s all just a perfunctory rehearsal for death, innit?”—and I had to say, “That’s life, my friend.”

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