About 1 p.m., Campos runs into his brother, Guadalupe, 52, pushing his own cart from the opposite direction. The older brother tosses a large bag of baked snacks called churros or "duros" to Campos and takes a Coke to drink under the hot sun between barren-looking warehouses.
"My cart fell on the street," Campos tells his brother.
"Well, buy a new one!" he responds with a laugh. "Man, it's bad right now, brother. So much walking for $5. Phew!"
They part ways. Campos listens to Mexican music on his radio and struggles to keep a beach umbrella mounted on his cart from falling to the side as he walks between eerily quiet warehouses and abandoned railroad tracks.
He made the cart himself from discarded pieces of wood and painted it light blue. But the front wheels are too small and get caught in cracks.
Campos stops at a beer-truck repair shop and sells a few items. A few months ago, one of the mechanics, Tony Rodriguez, noticed that Campos was having trouble with his back wheels and replaced them with wheels from a dolly.
The vendor had offered Rodriguez a drink, something to eat, anything.
"He said, 'No, paisano. If we can, let's give each other a hand,' " Campos recalls.
Now, the mechanics vow to make him a new cart of metal.
There are other acts of generosity on this hot afternoon. A Salvadoran garment worker gives Campos two gallons of hot water for his corn container, and three women at a children's clothing warehouse, among his most loyal customers, buy chips and shave ice.
One of the women says Campos' arrival is a much-anticipated event. Sometimes, it is even announced over the public-address system.
"The raspado man is here!" says Christina Macias.
Around 3, Campos pushes his cart to Gless Street, near Dolores Mission School, and waits for the bell to ring. Beside him is vendor Daisy Vivar, 58, who has worked this corner for nearly 20 years. An ice cream truck is parked behind her. A man with a pushcart selling Popsicles thinks better of the scene and keeps going.
One of the vendors, Crescencio Bueno, 74, lectures Campos for selling his chips for $1 a bag instead of $1.25. Bueno says he won't make a profit that way. Campos nods politely, explaining later that if he raises the price, the chips won't sell.
