To say that this past year had been a bad one would be to insult all the other bad years of Levidow’s long life. As he was apt to tell anyone who would listen, every day fresh misery poured on his head. Fruit spoiled on his way home from the market. Cars splashed mud and slush on him, even on the sunniest of afternoons. At the corner of 95th and Amsterdam in broad daylight he was beaten and robbed in full view of scores of passersby, none of whom bore witness to the crime. Levidow’s hearing began to short out on him, as though a radio inside his head was on the fritz. His feet ached from morning till night.
“Why?” he screamed at the ceiling. “Haven’t you done enough to me, you momzer?” The only answer was a vacuum cleaner in the apartment above his, which immediately exploded into a full-lunged scream.
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