I now spend my nights at the bayside warehouse, drinking beer and monitoring the police scanner. I have ventured into the perimeter of the underground economy. My new employer trades in illegal firearms and narcotics and engages in human trafficking. Ships dock and depart, leaving behind mysterious crates I forklift into the warehouse. Trucks arrive and load or unload. I chat with the drivers as I drink and they smoke, looking out across the Bay at lights of Oakland and Alameda. I head up to the Chinatown office at dawn, preferring to hand in my paperwork in-person--as I know there are always some lovely ladies lost and lounging in the stiff chairs. Sometimes I'll walk hand-in-hand with a strange woman beneath the neighborhood fire escapes. And she'll let me kiss her and rub her back as we search for an open bakery with freshly brewed coffee. And the sun doesn't always break the fog--and I think to myself that life is good.