In 1956 I lived in a Greenwich Village fifth-floor walk-up.
Cold water, cockroaches, a gas ring for cooking, and a 1930s Kelvinator with the coil on top that barely kept the milk from turning.
But it was two thousand square feet, the previous tenants having taken our walls between the apartments.
Windows stretched up to the twelve-foot ceilings and looked out over the treetops of Carmine street.
The radiators kept the place shirtsleeve-toasty all winter long.
I was a painter who disdained day jobs.
To make rent, we’d get some demijohns of Dago red and throw a basket party.
