Lester staggers into the café. It’s crowded and stinks of patchouli and clove. He sees two chainsmoking punkettes hanging out at a Formica table. CBGB’s types, but with California suntans. The kind of women, Lester thinks, who sit cross-legged on the floor and won’t fuck you but are perfectly willing to describe in detail their highly complex postexistential weltanschauung. Tall and skinny and crazy-looking and bad news. Exactly his type, really. Lester sits down at their table and gives them his big rubber grin.