Night Train 18
Morning. Pershing Square. The Violin Lady, that squatty little gargoyle, her birdseed eyes darting like pinwheels, mutters obscenities into her beard as she feeds her pigeons. An old man sitting on a bench, staring at his hands, waiting for a miracle—or for the second coming of Christ. A few sleeping derelicts, covered with filthy rags and damp newspapers, as if the sewer had erupted during the night and vomited its leavings—these shipwrecked human beings—on the grass. Just across the street,... Sign in to see full entry.