I hop on my bike and cruise south down the Valencia Street corridor. I turn left at Caesar Chavez by Greg’s apartment and head east under the highway into industrial San Francisco. I turn right on to rutted Toland Street past trucks and building supply stores.
I tour Scrap for the first time, a warehouse jumble of broken tile, ribbon, test tubes, rubber stamps, and vinyl sheets. I survey this store for my art projects.
Perusing shelves of carpet samples, tired fabric bolts, buttons, and rulers, I realize I don’t need much. My parents already tend a cluttered home so I resist acquisition. Instead of scraps, I rather buy a few nice things and use them up than collect old signs, thread spools, and x-ray holders.