It was five o’clock in the morning. The sky was clear. I got up and danced around, slapping my arms and thighs and belly to warm up. Deliberately neglecting to put on any clothes, I opened my door. The musty hall was dark and warm. I stepped out and slammed the door. Clomped down the stairs with my thighs and buttocks clapping merrily together. The front door doused me with chill as I opened it. The shock made me reconsider, but, turning, ready to run back up to my room, I saw the old woman at her door peering out at me, lifting and dropping the water-thick lenses of her glasses, trying to get me in focus. Too late, I thought, and ran out.

A sudden exhilaration, the foreign feel of the cold air on my body, set me leaping, galloping, and leaping again. An old chuckle, the secret life of my lungs, started up once more. The light, so soft, lavender in the shadows and gold on the rooftops, was intoxicating. My legs, mottled and pale, moved beneath me. The pavement stung and burned. The grit bit my large, tender feet, caught in the pads of my toes. I had planned to run and it was fun. Running is one of the signs of aberration in adults. It connotes fear, urgency, guilt. Only in special shoes and coordinated exercise suits is running acceptable.

My plan was to throw a brick through the window of the DoNut Shop and get myself arrested. The shop was on the corner. There was no brick. In my experience, there is very rarely a brick when you need one. I ran on, keeping my eyes peeled. A huge double-trailered truck roared by. I had to pee.

There are no public restrooms in Boston. Restaurants offer a small sink in an open recess as a token washroom, but no toilets, never. Bostonians don’t need toilets.

I was also out of breath. I slowed down, grinning now, because it didn’t matter just this once that there are no toilets in Boston. I chose a large automobile, dark gray, fastidiously clean inside, with only one pearly silk cushion properly fluffed in a corner of the back seat. It was parked on the through street, but it belonged to one of the rich, quiet hill streets. I climbed nimbly (all my movements seemed supple that morning) up onto the hood, and stepped over to the point where the sloping glass of the windshield met the metal. I squatted and urinated, watching carefully so I could lift my feet or shift my toes if the vaporous stream came too near them. I stayed there until the drips had stopped. More trucks and cars passing. A few faces turned toward me and then disappeared. I was waiting for a particular car.