We were hanging out on the loading dock Thursday p.m., George and Mars and Anna and Phoebe and Chris and Tom and Schmio and Maud, and the moon was round and bright in the sky. Later a baby came by, and a punk rock kid on a plastic tricycle, and a fairy ballerina with a red ribbon and sparkle shoes, it was that kind of night.

It was the kind of night where the party spills out onto the street, because—even though inside is where the bottles of wine and trays of fancy nibblings are—the night air, delicious and crisp and inviting, is irresistible. And after the fundraising auction’s over and the paying crowd’s gone, we’re still hanging out, picking at the last bits of cheese and bread and hard green apples. Eventually, we’re sitting on the big wooden table, half-lying even, and we’ve said good-bye maybe four times, and we’re still there.



Afterhours, our end of Watts Street is a beauty. Windows glow warm into the dark, and you can’t see the used condoms lying wrinkled in the road.