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Coffee House Press was located on 2nd Avenue in Minneapolis, near the warehouse district, on the third floor, upstairs from Nate's Men’s Clothing. On the same floor was a Pit bull, replete with spiked collar, who belonged to the drug dealers down the hall. She ran wiggling all over, to me with a big smile on her face every time I called “DAIsy!!!” They scowled at me every time this took place, which was every time I saw Daisy; it really ruined their tough guy persona.

One day, Michael, our Assistant editor came in, wide eyed, from the hallway with his hands wrapped around what looked like an olive-green basketball. It was a ball of bills that he’d found in the bathroom, stuffed into the garbage can. We assumed it came from Daisy’s place.

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