A tall, Scandinavian-looking man with red hair and a mustache runs an electric shaver over his chin, smiling. He hands a Native American his tobacco-rolling kit, and wonders aloud how he'll make it until his next paycheck on Thursday. The two go on to debate the relative merits of Labor Ready and the Millionair Club. Labor Ready takes a beating. Another guy brushes his teeth rapidly, spits foam into the sink, and rushes out.
Men mill around, yawning, tucking in their shirts.
In one of the stalls, a kid so young it breaks your heart is shooting up. His friends wait for him to finish with a static, narcotic patience. Together, they'll circle the streets and then return to this very same bathroom to fix again. They don't have anywhere else to go. In fact, this is exactly what I heard a roughed-up black woman in a torn parka yell at a Market security guard when he tried to usher her away from the landing outside the restrooms.