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Mikey and I walked through Washington Square Park, a kind of obstacle course of drug dealers who offer their wares in a monotone: “Grass . . . Quaaludes . . . loose joints . . . Tuinals . . . cocaine . . .”

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I have this terrible fear of hurting Ronna. It scares me, her feelings for me. I do love her, but this afternoon, I was in Washington Square Park, reliving 1969, and looking at boys.

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I saw only one person whom I was attracted to: a beautiful kid, about 18 or 19, slim, with curly dark hair, who was wearing a yellow Le Petit Prince T-shirt and cutoff jeans with sneakers and no socks.

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In Washington Square you could have sworn it was summer. There were jugglers and musicians – guitarists, trumpeters and drummers – and peddlers and freaks and elderly people on benches and Frisbee players and older gay men.

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In a Gallup poll from August 2013, only 2% of Americans said that “Poverty/Hunger/Homelessness” was one of “the most important problems facing this country today.”

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I quit smoking and now I have no idea what to do with myself in public.

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I went to the Village and sat around in Washington Square. Next to me was this good-looking hippie 16-year-old kid. A dirty old man tried to proposition us both. He asked me if the kid was my lover (an interesting idea). Anyway, we lied our heads off to him.

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I get closer and feathers float in the air like we’re all trapped inside a giant snow globe. I light another cigarette, and some girl harps to me that “This is a non-smoking park.” I loosen my tie and look over at this lunatic. “That’s fine,” I say, “Because the park isn’t smoking, I am.” I think everybody here is on drugs.