twenty-oneIt was Sunday night, and George Zumpo sat on a threadbare sofa in the orange-carpeted living room guzzling cheap, red wine. He’d been treated like a hero ever since he’d carried the unconscious Joey Wooten down Natoma and laid him on their three a.m. bare concrete floor. They’d given him lodging and fed him, much as one would a pet gerbil. They’d given him his own toothbrush. They’d bought him pre-owned jeans at Goodwill and even a fine, good as new Giants sweatshirt, which was orange with black lettering and caused him to virtually disappear when he lay inside his greasy orange sleeping bag on the thin orange carpet. He slept under the spotless, aluminum ping-pong table. He showered everyday, even though the water sometimes turned unbearably cold without warning. He had even got
