David is standing out in front of theater when we arrive, in conversation with an older man in a sweater and slacks. The neutral tones are a contrast to David's usual: black pants, black button-up shirt, and black jacket. The printer's uniform. He sees us and smiles under the upturned corner of his mustache. I introduce Cory; David introduces Robert So-and-So, who is the man in charge of reservations at Chez Panisse: "He's a good man to know, if you need a seat upstairs." I do not know it yet, but this will be the first of many Berkeley notables that stop to offer David salutations outside of the Zellerbach. They all shake hands and make small talk under the trees while I pick up will-call tickets.

It's sunny on campus and disco music is emanating from somewhere outside of the auditorim, presumably affiliated with the football game. TRAFFIC FINES DOUBLED road signs warned all the way down Telegraph. Orange cones and strange city regulation scare out-of-towners into driving exceptionally badly, and the undergraduates are gleeful with beer and hope. I pick up the tickets from the will-call desk and take great pleasure in treating two of my favorite gentlemen to the matinee of Ionesco's Le Rhinoceros. The troupe from Theatre de la Ville has come all the way from Paris. We sat transfixed through an amazing orchestration of such a large cast and masterful set design.

After the performance I sense myself filling the silences: both Cory and David are coping with certain amounts of heartbreak from various sources. My mouth prattles and laughs gaily, a comment for everything, and I feel like a parrot or a puppet or an automaton. Here we have a lively young woman! For her next trick, she'll smile, twinkle, and pull happiness out of the afternoon air. How's that for a rabbit from a hat? We attempt burgers at Kip's, but the game crowd is too rowdy, so we settle on Cafe Mediterranee. David is a wealth of observation; he falls down the rabbit hole of his own knowledge and we follow in a dazed way, dulled by milky espressos and the languor of late afternoon.

Weaving through the jewelry vendors, Cal fans, and crust punks on telegraph, we are mostly quiet except for the thread of David's voice, intoning musings on Shakespeare performances he's seen. Cory walks ahead; his hips sway slightly, like a little boy who bends his knees too late and then swings a bit to accommodate for the length of his feet. We part ways with David over the plaques that separate the UC campus from the City of Berkeley. "This is where it all began," David says. It's the 60s again, Cory and I walk West towards the setting sun and our bike, and David walks home to his apartment above the shop, the events of the Free Speech movement playing out behind his eyes...