What Henry Robinson did in San Francisco on his visits was to pop down to Fisherman's Wharf and to watch a Giants game. There's nothing wrong in that, only there are many more dimensions to the city that he could have explored.
Our narrator Henry is a mailman. It's an interesting approach to the storytelling. Henry announces himself from the off, which has the effect of putting some distance between the reader and the events and adding an extra character to consider as he recounts his tale.
A couple of 'beatniks' have moved into a house on Henry's round. From the off, he's judgemental. The man has a beard, the woman just has something about her he's not keen on, the name on the mailbox hasn't been changed, the children run amok and their trailer hasn't been emptied. His suspicions about them are deepened when the name on the mailbox remains unchanged and the unpacking hasn't been completed as the week closes. Seeing the inside of their chaotic home magnifies his focus, as does the realisation that the man neither works or appears interested in taking a job.
A number of theories about the family swirl around this small town, none of them kind or insightful, merely the negative speculations saved for blow-ins and those living outside of the narrow boundaries of the town's expectations.
It's interesting that as things progress, the judgements of Henry become less than important as he replaces the family as the object of scrutiny.
When the dynamics in the house alter, Henry offers advice:
'She's no good, boy. I could tell that the minute I saw her. Why don't you forget her? Why don't you go to work and forget her? What have you got against work? It was work, day and night, work that gave me oblivion when I was in your shoes and there was a war on where I was...'
It's another glimpse. A snapshot of Henry's frailty. He's been judged now, except it's tough for everybody, isn't it? Always has been. And suddenly an entire cast of unsympathetic characters needs to be cut a little slack.
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