kind of just happen. Betty.  Ciotka’s. The alley. New York City.  Bad lighting, narrow stairwells, windows that open up to the walls of other buildings protected with heavy metal grates. Pumpkin's apartment across from the Port Authority Bus Station was hot and cold at the same time, the heat pipes bang and rattle, the fridge smelled musty and of old stale food. There were worn through spots on the faded yellow linoleum dotted with equally faded orange flowers.  Pumpkin spends all day on the sofa that has an old blanket thrown over it as a cover. The sofa was once maroon and now is kind of red pink in places. The ashtrays are full. The place is a dump and it’s great. The two of them are doing their best to go through the beer in the Coleman. And of course, here I am, alone trying to figure out...

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