His flaxen hair laid stiff and dormant, a testament to his younger, wilder days where the “in” thing was keeping oneself unkempt, the way a lackadaisical hobo might. Ed Pierre fought the feeling hard, the feeling deep within, and he channeled his basest animal urges into positive thoughts; his upcoming weekend with Claire, the birth of Charlie, the way his feet sound walking on packets of salted ice, the pavement littered with the stuff. Grabbing his chest, Ed leaned against the stony slab of some grayish, granite titan that disguised itself as 1001 Figaro, a settlement of yuppies, up-and-comers, and just overall fiends. This place, the bane of his existence, was in fact the means of his existence—he lived to serve it, as if at any moment, lest the God’s demean the daily sacrifices of stale leftovers and cardboard cut-out lunches were not enough, it would rise from the depths of the avenue and swallow everyone and everything whole. Wishful thinking, Ed mused, the pain growing larger, more fierce.