Caleb's Store

        It was on one of those streets women keep away from after three o’clock.  Just a few blocks from our apartment but seeming much further, and our apartment wasn’t exactly on Russian Hill.  Two black-windowed bars, a tobacco and friends supplier, something which called itself a café but brandished a ‘No Minors’ sign on the door, an empty site which once tried to be coffeehouse, two other shamelessly vacant fronts, and an ugly store called ‘Liu’s Records and Strings.’  The exterior of this nasty little shop was covered with assorted gang names and imperfect words written in bulging script, rather like the ‘bubble letters’ beloved by junior high girls except that these had eaten too much and were, therefore, nearly or entirely illegible.  The windows were dingy to the point of sin, and from the inside covered with pink fabric.  I say ‘fabric’ because every self-respecting curtain would require formal apology if compared to anything as greasy, pilled, give-you-a-rash-by-its-very-sight scrap of garbage as whatever hung in that window.  The viewing space left between this outrage to the textile world was minuscule  and through it could be seen bins of vinyls, a few fire-licked guitars, and posters of every rocker who turned stomachs between 60- and 75.  Yet my friend always wanted to stroll by this shop.  “It says ‘strings,’” he’d say.  “That means ‘violins.’”  Each time we detoured down that hideous, pin-breadth street I tried to push him through the door.  But he backed away like a timid child.
“I’ve nothing to buy.”
“A shoulder rest.”

        “I’ve never used one.”

“Every other violinist does.”

“I wouldn’t know how.”

“Some new rosin, then.”

He shook his head.  “I have plenty.  Maybe another time.”