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San Francisco whose/home Stavrogin's behavior with his wife's sister was not admirable. Michael O'Neill was not in the arena yet, but he was in a pretty tough gym work- ing out on his writers soul. But Stavrogin didn't really give a whole great big damm about his structure, rather he liked his flare, his guitar playing. The old folke songs that had made his wife Annie even more sick of Pittsburgh and its poverty program. Who did they think they were identifing with something obviously larger than themselves.) Anyway, Stavrogin thought that she thought that. And then there was O'Neill's lady, as he called her. Judith and her son Sheen. The bastard of a sea Captain. Left Judith with the infant of surprise to sleep in the Grand Central Station. Along way from Sunset Cliffs San Diego for this long nosed black haired beauty who Stavrogin loved with the feelings in his belly yet a blank cloth like glaze across his eyes. But O'Neill had taken care of Judith and Sheen, he had fought for her, even though he was a cheep son of a bitch when it came to apartments and ground meat. But Stavrogin was like that too. Not about the meat, but definately about the apartments. Or should we say flats, because they sure were. All the same Stavrogin and Michael had been good on the lower North Side Manchester Pittsburgh Allegheny River area, and better yet on the Hill District, where in nineteen sixty five the poverty was God Damn romantic even if you were Black and didn't believe it at meal time.