Alfonzo studied the young activists. They had that mix of admirable bravery and arrogant conviction. Though their fur was greasy and they wore scuzzy art gear—one wore an Anti-Cimex band T-shirt, and another had a Battle of Mice patch on her bag—they had control and poise. Their jewelry looked heavy and well crafted. It took some amount of stability to commit to looking so artfully disheveled.

How derelict had his own youth been? How many East Village squat shows had he braved as a dumb kid? He recalled a particular Gorilla Biscuits show and shuddered. He’d survived an adolescence in the bad New York, only to see it become a harmless shell with hard-core trappings. In his adulthood, he’d devoted so much time to decoding what this city had been and was becoming. How many books on subcultures had Alfonzo read? How many had he skimmed? And how many books hadn’t he read but pretended to have so that he could impress some other dodo grad student at a party? He knew more about what these activist kids were signifying than they did. He should be teaching. But instead—instead of having a place in the conversation—he was a bureaucrat in a cardigan. He was a pusher of papers, due back in the basement. He was a random with an unheard mind. He was an expert. Of what, he was no longer sure. He had feet in different realms. He did nothing well. His career had faltered because of school; his writing had slowed because of work. A half intellectual, half worker was an underwhelming chimera. His father was right, he was a snob. Alfonzo disappointed more than he illuminated. He didn’t breathe fire; he just coughed up cigarette butts.

His dissertation was a secret he was telling the future about the present, but no one was listening.

“Did you hear about the Battery Tunnel?”

“Yeah I knew some rattos down there. I think Templeton was living there.”

“That’s wild.”

“Did they lose all their stuff in the flood?”

“I think so. There’s a fundraiser concert.”

“You going?”

Alfonzo had been staring without realizing, analyzing without thinking.

“Can I help you?” the raccoon barked.

Alfonzo jumped. They were talking to him.

“Pardon?”

“It’s rude to gawk.”

He apologized. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Well, it might be a good time to get present.”

“Right. You’re right.” He shook his head and bounced across the street to avoid conflict.

The group filed into a café, casting critical glances over their shoulders as they went.

Alfonzo needed to talk to Mitchell.

12.