I'm downtown, on C. street, standing on the sidewalk. Across the way is the used book store; the parking lot is behind me. Laura walks up with an old friend of hers, Katy. They talk for a while. Earl and Hannah talk for a while. Suddenly I realize that I'm very wet. I'm dripping with water. So I bid my friends farewell and walk down the street.  All of C street and what used to be the bookstore's parking lot is a huge market. I'm actually on C Street, and all that is being sold on this street are tortillas. Piles and piles of them. Everywhere on the ground are big piles of tortillas with Mexican vendors offering them. The strange thing about this street is that I seem to be the only consumer in the entire tortilla market, and nobody is offering me any. I come to the end of the street and see what looks like a huge, black composting bin. Opposite sides of this bocks have these circular apertures with plastic flaps, like recycling bins. Except it's big enough for a person to go into. Curiously, I inspect the label.  "Drying Machine."  Underneath this was a description of how it worked. It massaged your entire body with towels until it was dry. Then it spit you out the other end. You had to take off your clothes, though, and either rent a locker for them, or just leave them on the sidewalk and hope nobody stole them. If you had a wetsuit, you could leave it on. (!) I noticed a bunch of ads underneath:  "Surfers can't get enough of it! Jews love it! Wet people need it! Try THE DRYING MACHINE (tm) TODAY!!!!!!" I didn't want to leave my clothes on the sidewalk, so I didn't try it. ("Jews love it!"???)