she said, "You know, you managed to still not tell me your name."
I looked at her for a moment. An old man shuffled between us, nodding and waving to sleeping friends. I thought about the Music of Jungles. Was this woman insane, I wondered. I'd been dreaming so long myself, it hardly seemed to matter. I told her my real name. She hardly reacted at all which, to tell you the truth, bothered me more than it should have. She picked up a bulky purse-sized object from the floor and slung it over her shoulder, looped her arm in mine, and led me into the street.
"This is a digital recorder," she said, indicating the purse-thing. "I go to Marin and Oakland whenever I can, fewer people means I get cleaner recordings. I prefer binaural to stereo for the kind of work I'm doing. It has more natural feel."
"Teach me to use it?" I asked.
"Sure. I think you can handle it."
"Why do I feel like I just passed an audition?"
"Maybe because you just did."
In the quivering light of the mercury vapor lamps, the activity of the Chinatown looters was almost indistinguishable from the sleeping ballet of children and merchants.
2 RTEXTR*ch
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