Longtime Californ'

We were talking with the men on Portsmouth Square in Chinatown. It was in June, the beginning of the summer, and the square was sunny and crowded, it never seemed as crowded after that. At first we just stood around and looked. There were different kinds of men. Some always stood apart from the groups. There were the very tall men who leaned against the railing of the park, their deep-brimmed hats pushed back on their heads, they were restless, they would shift positions, we would catch their deep eyes and be embarassed or wonder what they were like. The other loners were small and lithe. They dressed shabbily, like wandering tramps we once saw in Japan, not like American tramps, they wore khaki pants, khaki shirts that hung loosely at the waist, they were always on the move. They were proud, and we sensed an angry pride as Chinese. We were standing by the garbage can once in the beginning, taking notes on what was in the trash can here in the square: Chinatown newspaper, the comic section of the Sunday Chronicle, brown paper bags, beer cans, an Old Fashioned rootbeer can with two striped plastic straws, the trash was disappointingly American. One of the men in khaki, a slim man in sneakers, a dirty blue baseball cap, walked back and forth circling around us and the can. “Hey,” he grabbed Brett's writing arm. “What are you doing here? Just what are you doing here?”