Time is running out and I need to take my place. I shower but do not shave. A cockroach travels the hairline fractured, glazed steel bucket bathroom sink and, on the other side of the glass brick shower window, a returned mother pigeon wages a battle against the Sun for setting before she"s completed her courtyard work.
I dress in a sleeveless, blue flannel shirt that pays tribute to my delts and biceps, and tight-fitting worn-through 501s. I lace my combat boots, first the right, then the left, and grab my crumpled leather motorcycle jacket from the seventies-style parquet floor. Instinctively, I search for cash in my front pocket, and my wallet at my back hip, and the keys to my apartment.
I secure the apartment door, follow the cognac-colored vestibule stairwell, and count the penny w
