The bells of Saint Sebastian the Martyr are ringing. Pulling up to the light, I roll down the car window and lean instinctively toward that sound. Then it strikes me: We don’t roll things down anymore. We push buttons. And as I twist my neck out the passenger-side window, I find that what accounts for the consistent, resonant tone of the bells is an enormous loudspeaker in the belfry, the kind that could double as an air raid siren. There are no bells. As I drive away, the sound warps, and I feel like I’m falling backward.

At the end of it all he says, “And I want a pack of condoms.”

The woman behind the counter says, “Almonds?”

“Condoms.” He has to say it loud.

“Which ones?”

“The red ones.”

“Trojans or Lifestyles?”

“Just the red ones.”

“Lifestyles?”

“Fine.”

I keep my eyes forward, but he knows I’m listening. I can’t help laughing. The stacked decks of Trident gum, the aluminum key chains stamped California!, the coils of bright lottery tickets we buy with the hope of scratching our way to a better place.