An old alarm clock radio with flashing red numbers sits on the nightstand. Electricity went out a few weeks ago. He can’t figure out how to reset the time.

Music plays from a tinny speaker; overnight jazz on WKCR. He lights a cigarette and listens to Coltrane play Central Park West. The song reminds him of living in his Dodge when he first got to town; parking his car under streetlights, locking the door, reclining in the front seat, and sleeping with one eye open as vultures and vampires pass-by.

His Bronx room cost $700 a month, taking most of his SSI. He is forced to sell his food stamps at the bodega on the corner at Hunts Point. Two hundred in stamps gets you $120. The skinny vagabond figures cash in pocket is better. You can’t buy booze with a Snap card.

He sits on his bed listening as now the music has switched to Monk playing Round Midnight. He opens a warm beer and laughs. This is living, he says. No wife, no family, just books and WKCR. It’s all he ever wanted.