twoIn this same December of 1975 it just so happened that Christmas fell on a Thursday, and on Wednesday, in the financial district of the City, the Christmas parties started at noon—the bourgeoisie at Tadich Grill, the Ritz Poodle Dog, John’s Steak House; the proletariat having to settle for the Royal Exchange, Schroeders, and Harrington’s, where the party had already spilled out the doors and onto Front Street.
“They’re not going to make you work on Friday are they?”
“God no. And even the people who have to work aren’t actually going to work. Know what I mean?”
On the corner of California and Davis, warmed by a thin winter sun two young women in Mrs. Claus costumes—short red dresses with white trim, Santa style hats, and dark glasses—passed out sample packs of cigarettes. A brass quar
