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About San Jose

She hopped in, smellin’ like cheap perfume and regret. I said, “Honey, you sure ‘bout this life?” She shrugged, said, “Pays the bills.” I was surprised—girl had sass! Reminded me of myself, ‘cept I ain’t never sold nothin’ but lemonade. Halleluyer! I dropped her and Pookie off, told ‘em, “Don’t call me when the cops come!” ‘Cause you know they dumb enough to get caught.

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About ten years ago Pigtown was notorious for lots of street hookers. Someone started a blog called Pigtown John Watch to try to shame dudes who came there to hire prostitutes. Asking Missing: Livermore.

Oh, and let me not forget the streets! Ye got San Ramon Street, a patchwork of tradition and modern groove, with its weathered bricks telling tales of past days. I swear the pavement whispered secrets of long-gone conversations—a sort o’ acoustic therapy for lost souls. Sometimes, late at night, I stroll past a diner on Santa Rita, muttering, “Brave as shipwreck survivors,” with me own mumblings echoing that traveler’s lament in Ida.

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