On Sunday early afternoons along San Francisco’s south of Market behind the Emporium, the bars open early enough to let in all the Saturday night drunks. That is the only sign of cognizant life until you get to the little corner shoe store, where boxes of poorly made girls footwear line a long table. My father came here armed with $20 and orders from my mother to find my next pair of school shoes, and he held my hand steady as I peered on tip toes to see rows of shiny black shoes, all with goldish buckles.