Gray sweatshirt, hidden face, a windy corner on a blasted street...Long Island Railroad, the stop bewteen Flatbush and East New York. A large, old-model car, something rangey, with bad suspension. The windows are down, exhaust filtering through the passenger compartment. It's winter, dirty snow, with miles of girder rivets looming above--a kind of cathedral, bent and rusted, burned out storefronts on either side--a no-man's land, one way into oblivion, grates and corrugated iron, pulled down to the curb, covering whatever's left...
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