They get off the bus every day. Kids. Boys and girls from everywhere. South. Midwest. Small towns. Cities. All of them thinking that New York has something for them. A last bastion of hope. A home for misfit toys.

And they walk out onto 8th Avenue and have no idea of where to go or what to do. They just linger with backpacks over shoulders staring at lights, people, beggars, hookers, clowns, porno-shops, taxi cabs, and food carts with signs that say Knish for $6. They wonder what a knish is. He laughed.

How long have you been on the streets? the reporter asked. I assume you hustle. Right? How long?

Frank smiled. I’ve been out here for seven years. And yes. I’ve been hustling this whole time.

Street hustle?

Yeah. It’s coming to an end. Average age for a male hustler is sixteen to twenty-three. After that, the old queens don’t want you. You’re old bait that needs to be cut.

I’m talking all kinds of men, Frank lit a cigarette. All of them older. Priests, pedophiles, professionals, doctors, lawyers, cops, cunts, grocery clerks, your fathers from Long Island or Connecticut. They come in all shapes and sizes.

You want another cup of coffee?

That sounds good. The reporter motioned for the waitress to come with the coffee pot. Frank lit up another cigarette. He blew the white smoke into the air. I like sitting out here with you. This sidewalk café. No one ever thinks that a guy like me would like this, but I do. Civilized. 

No. I’m getting old for this profession, Frank told him.

Do you ever wonder what will become of you?

No. I don’t like to think about it. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray. When does the story come out?

Not sure. I’ve got to interview a few more people.

I could introduce you to a whole new lifestyle, Frank said. Filled with hustlers, hookers, pimps, crackheads, junkies, sick, sick people. Some day, real rain is gonna come and wash all the scum off the streets.

They both laughed.