I like to look out my window at the men who frequent the porn shop down below me, on the first floor. The ones who come in cars go in and out the back door; I don't see them. But the ones on foot, they come in the front. There is a whole row of doors on the front, and no windows: as you walk by there's a door, a wall, a door, a wall, a door, a wall, a door. Only one of the doors is real, only one will open. Sometimes they will step back, ashamed of where they are and what they are doing, and look at the whole front of Kitty's East, to find the real door. It's really not that easy to pick out. Most of them are poor looking, lonely figures with timid movements, each with his backpack or some other bag in which to secret away his pornography. I saw one just today, a spectacled man with dark blond hair, hair you look at and say, "I wouldn't call it brown--I wouldn't call it blond--I don't know what to call it." He went in the right door his first try, then ten minutes later walked back out. A car pulled up and the man inside said something to him. He cautiously approached then held a cigarette lighter for a brief moment in the passenger side window. "Can I get you something?" I heard the driver say. The timid man called at him, "No!" as he went walking away. "Come on," said the driver, "get in the car!" The man yelled no at him again and kept walking. "Fuck you, white boy!" said the man in the car just before he pulled on down Colfax.