About the book: a year / There are still two good weeks until June, but it’s already hot in New York. Drunks and homeless people again appeared on the sidewalks, crowding in small corners and entrances of houses in winter. Some are lying right on the hoods of parked cars. They drink and smoke weed, telling each other nice things that only they understand. In front of a construction fence on Seventh Avenue, a ten-dollar prostitute fans herself with a sheet of tar paper. She's probably too decrepit to be used, and in any case, she certainly can't do fifty-fifty with the captain. I'm getting down to her level. She comes up, smiles broadly at me and coos: “Good evening, honey!” So we have a big game?