Every afternoon, I walk a few miles: it’s about the only exercise I get, in a life otherwise filled with sloth & lassitude.

My route varies – the thought of trudging along the same path, day in day out, wearing a rut in the earth & in my soul, is deeply distressing to me. But most days, I find myself on Armory Avenue, westbound from Prospect Avenue.

With the country club on my left, and a row of million-dollar houses on my right, I climb the hill toward McKinley Avenue, harshing the collective mellow of the rich folks with my middle-class scruffiness.

And I smile to myself.