Out on the street I’d run into him sometimes. He’d always give me money, which was awkward, but I was out there panhandling, so I never said no. We’d sit on a bus stop bench and talk. CD’s read more than I have by now. He’s twenty-two. I’m thirty-two but people always figure I’m a lot older. I feel around sixteen. I’ve been drunk since then, so a lot has passed me by. I missed Watergate, thank God. I still talk like a hippy, say things like “groovy” and “what a trip.”