Two years ago, sometime in the spring, I stepped outside my apartment in San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district to find the block plastered with gone-missing posters for a small black cat named Sergeant Pepper. The cat belonged to the Red Victorian, an intentional community and “experimental hostel” around the corner. During the Summer of Love, in 1967, the Red Vic had been a flower-child flophouse; in 2017, its tenants subleased the front of the building to a vintage shop called Sunchild's Parlour, which trafficked in fringed suede and psychedelic synthetics and often flung open its doors to attract tourists. Maybe it was through those doors that Sergeant Pepper had escaped.
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