In fact he survived nearly a month after that lethal storm surge. He’d been in bad shape when he retired, because of injuries he’d suffered on the job, and since he was too damn bull-headed to get proper treatment, let alone physical therapy, I’m sure his health had declined further over the years. Reports indicated that for three excruciating weeks after the storm he had camped out in his ramshackle home in New Dorp Beach without electricity, a charged cell phone, or any kind of heat, foraging for whatever food he could find. Apparently he became isolated toward the end. I still don’t know why he ever moved out of his spacious, rent-controlled Manhattan apartment—or how he wound up down there, in the middle of nowhere. No one I knew kept in touch, let alone visited him. Still, you couldn’t feel sorry for him. I’m sure he wanted it that way. Even his immediate neighbors seem to have avoided him. His body was finally discovered when a FEMA housing inspector, after repeated attempts to check for damage, peeked below his window shade, past the can filled with empty liquor bottles, and saw his legs splayed out on the filthy kitchen floor.
