October 9, 1990 |
There are certain, perfect days that come to San Francisco in early autumn. This was one. No wind, no fog, just a buttery sunshine pouring over the neighborhoods. You could sit on the grass, eat your lunch from a sack, and watch the AIDS people hobble by. There are so many in San Francisco. During lunch hour, a young man emerged from the stoop of his Victorian. A stubble of beard covered his face, and already his arms and legs had gone thin.