“Excuse me, sir,” an old man smelling of bacon and (perhaps) haddock, “but you wouldn’t happen to have some spare change, would you?”      He’d stumbled toward me from an alley alongside the Cricket store. His beard was the color of dishwater, and some sort of grease kept it matted down in patches like worn carpet. “No, man. Sorry. Who carries change anymore?” I tried looking him in the eyes —