Outside my door, I know the corridor is filled with the second contingent. Wet towel’s tucked under the door to stop the teargas. My mattress is outside, blocking the landing. Folks packed in like sitting sardines, arms locked and waiting. Police’s got to drag them out one by one. Then finally, there’s us. The last thirty tenants, each one sitting in our rooms, waiting. That’s the plan.

What am I thinking? That they never get this far. That this time, like the other times, they give up and go away. Drive their cars with lights and guns and clubs away. Trot their horses back to Golden Gate Park. Go home to their families and children. Go home to TV and dinner. Let me stay here and live the few more years I got to live.