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Frisco

  I didn't get back to the Yard until almost three in the morning. But no matter the time of day, night, or morning, Evan was right there waiting for me to throw him the keys.
  After he opened the gate and I got backed into a door, Evan and I slid into our ritual — sitting in the seats eating whatever it is I'm able to find that late.
  I'd stopped at Happy Donuts after I came off the bridge and got us a couple of sandwiches and some split pea soup. Evan went straight for the soup, I knew he would, and only ate the sandwich by dunking it in the soup container.
  And, also part of our ritual, after my usual and sincere encouragement, Evan soon fell into that night's story — about being down on Market Street earlier in the day and being scolded by some "young piece a toast" for using the term Frisco.
  Apparently, the guy attempted to lecture Evan on the proper terminology regarding referencing the city of San Francisco — Evan, born and raised in the city, being lectured by a guy who eventually admitted he'd moved here from Davenport, Iowa, by way of one of the Iowa universities, four or five years ago — that's actually kind of funny.
 "...Yeah, and he had the nerve to stand there and tell me, like he's some kind of English professor or something, and even if he was, who the hell cares what some corn-fed, stick-skinny, college fool has to say about my city anyway? But he's goin' on and on about how Frisco idn't the right way, and . . . Ah, shit, it's been Frisco all my life, and I be damned if some sharp suit, farmer's boy gonna tell me how to talk about a city I spent every one of my 62 and half years in. . . .