A tall, muscular, black man approached Patrick. ‘Excuse me, Sir. I saw you looking at the map. Do you need directions?’ the man offered. ‘Thank.... I’m looking for the 9 train. I’m not from around here. Tuesday night I head back to Montreal.’ Patrick replied. The other man’s face lit up. ‘The subway station for the 9 is right there. Hey, let me show you around tonight. I’ve lived in Manhattan my whole life. It’s been 34 years now. I can take you to this great Jazz club I know.’ Patrick was. I’d lain in that damn bed for a week never getting any sleep as someone was taking my temperature and blood pressure and poking and prodding me every two hours, so I’d had a lot of time to think and my mind slowly drifted back over the years. At home I still had a lot of time to think as the doctor had forbade me to do much of anything, especially if a sharp instrument was involved, including my trusty razor. He told me that my blood was now too thin and any cut would be very serious. His final. More

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