AM radio guy is preaching as I cross the Richmond bridge and the steel construction cracks his voice like sun cracks the paint but the message is – wait till marriage.
“You sisters are jacked up. You think you have to let him just to have a relationship. Uh uh. You don’t let him touch the package, let alone be eatin’ chips out of it.”
The Richmond Bridge is an epic, small islands with sheer cliffs and no occupants but trees pass below you, San Quentin Prison is built on the shore, rotting piers finger out into the bay and empty oak hills roll on into the distance.
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