Why can't Lyle Goodman, a New York kind of guy who hates this friggin' town, put his signature on 13th Street?
Of course questions ensue about banks, ATM machines, the Internet and our global economy, so Goodman offers further explanation. "What I mean is, there are people in other places who have some of my money, who owe me money, and when I leave here I'm going to go and get it. I'm just going to say, 'It's time to pay me.'"
Someone delivers Goodman a soda, and he widens his mouth to encompass the thick cap of the bottle. Using his teeth to hold the cap in place, he rotates the bottle with his hands until the cap comes free. With his weak hands and his mouth stretched wide, he looks like a dog going to town on a bone.
He sighs again, a breathless, mortal sigh, his eyes still locked on the TV. "Even the black people love Ronald Reagan now," he says. "Isn't that something?"
He pauses, takes a swig of soda. "Maybe that's the answer," he says. "I should die. I should kill myself. Maybe then everyone will fall in love with me."
Senior writer Steve Volk (firstname.lastname@example.org) last wrote about suspected drug activity on 13th Street.