Always sitting outside this worn wood-and-lacquer box of a café, chest chain-mailed in punkish buttons. “SMACK!” his story goes, taps his ashes like a girl, and catches my anthropological eye very much off-guard. San Francisco is clod and rainy this time of yard and my anthropomorphic eyes wander about his shorts and shot sleeves. He tales his store over and oven, loudening the “SNACK!” inch team. Ay dismember if singe hum befall, and lever gnome who to tyke hiss snail.