It’s ultimately pointless anyway.

James shakes his head, sending the snowflakes flying, and time jolts forward. The next thing I know, we’re sliding down Broadway. Careening into curbs and piles of snow. Pushing ourselves off parked cars, holding onto the door, and each other, and our coats. James’s scarf wraps around my neck like the last Dr. Who, and James is laughing, laughing, laughing, and I realize I’ve never heard him laugh quite like that before.

Then we slam into a fire hydrant. We’re fine, but the door is banged up. So we shake ourselves off, haul it to the sidewalk, and leave it for someone else to salvage.

We walk crosstown. The trip takes three times as long as normal because of the snow and because James insisted on wearing boots with metal heels instead of anything remotely practical. By the time we get to his apartment, we’re both shaking with cold. James jimmies the lock on the front door while I stand guard. Last week, someone was stabbed in the tiny lobby.

You sure there’s room for me? I ask, wheezing like a pack-a-day smoker as we hike up five floors of stairs.

In front of me, James shrugs. There’s always room for you, Michael, you know that. Besides, he says, slowing down so much I almost run into him, we’re one person down. Steven is in the hospital.

Oh no. What happened?

We reach the top floor, James pulls open the door, and we huddle inside. He stops again before he says, Pneumonia, I think. His sister came and cleared out his stuff.

I wait for some bit of random information, the dosage of a common antibiotic shot or Steven’s third cousin’s middle name, but James is quiet, staring at the couch.

I stop short of asking whether they’d cleaned the cushions. It doesn’t matter. Not like I’m going to make it home in this weather.

James’s roommates:

There’s Rob, who almost got arrested with James at a rally to save some Broadway theaters from being torn down last year. There’s Ted, who is a painter. James thinks Ted’s father owns the apartment, but isn’t sure since Ted doesn’t talk much and James sends his rent check to some P.O. box in the Bronx. Then there’s Steven, who does lighting or something and travels a lot and has the couch in the front room.

Had, I guess.

Most of the guys who have lived here are older, somewhere in their mid to late twenties, with jobs as waiters or cashiers they never talk about, and dreams of being actors or musicians that obsess them.

When I’m here and they’re talking about art and meaning and rehearsals and their big breaks, I want to be one of them.

Only later do the doubts creep in. Only later do I remember the late notices from the electric company stuck to the fridge door and the drunks passed out in the doorway.

Only later do I wonder what’s really going on with Steven.