A Bathing Suit in the Hot Tub In spite of everything, I always went back to Gregory. I didn’t like the abuse, but I always felt that I learned something talking to him. He seemed completely himself. Everyone else was so happy to hide from you, and maybe if you lived long enough you’d discover something about who they really were, but not Gregorio Nunzio. He would get you there faster than a bus. He would always tell you what the ball game was, though you could never tell how far he’d go in his frankness. Gregory had a terrible habit. A disgusting habit. Maybe it stemmed from the days when he had his nose pressed up against the glass, the street urchin of Little Italy, or from his life after prison, feeling that he had to be bad because he was bad. Whenever we went for a walk down Pearl Street, Gregory would stop in front of a fancy restaurant, especially one with a window that looked out onto the sidewalk, where you could see the people enjoying their dinners and they could look out onto the street.
