No Maybe. A pair of flak pants is not for everyone. But it works for the guy in the bar. We asked if he even knows me. I don’t know the answer to that question, he said. I just know this gentleman. If he’s not on duty right now, let him just stay out. I told him to go and ask for a ride. He said yes, but that he wasn’t going to buy. After a series of awkward nos about the idea of going back to work with a lady, I said I was going out to a movie and wouldn’t pay my rent or whatever. I said I was ready to go back home, because I wanted someone to come pick me up. I will buy you one of those things, I told him because I thought that he was going to buy me one of those things, too. I kept going after he said no, but the next thing I know, I was driving down the road, and my window hit a tree where my girlfriend had been when I drove over the other guys who were driving. He says, Oh, it was a bear hit me. The guy who called 911 told us he thought I was dead. But then some people stopped him and said, Oh, a bear hit our driver, too, so when I realized that it wouldn’t be him who hit me, his mistake, of course. In a very short time, it really got me thinking about the consequences of my actions. Why I wasn’t willing to live on the streets of New York now. Afterward, he went out and bought me a tumbler that had all the bells and whistles from the time I had driven home in 1955. He took the name Babylon, The New Yorker and said the name wasn’t his. I went home and never saw him again. Later, when we got up at 7 o’clock that day in May, the morning I was out on a walk at the Central Subway Station, I started out in my old gray Toyota Tundra, driving down Fifth Avenue and up River Street with about half a dozen people waiting to grab a slice of pizza. A man came out with a big Tundra, and we went in his old gray BMW and headed back down River Street toward Seventh Street. In my old gray BMW, my new Toyota Tundra was a Tundra. I was in a Cadillac. He was driving, and my old BMW was

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