Once I requested his age, the man in the passenger seat of my Toyota—who had shoved apart my unplugged GPS and Levon Helm CD to sit down- answered that he was 107 years outdated. Was this an exaggeration? Maybe-he didn’t look a day over ninety. But his only son lived out west, he informed me. So the centenarian lived alone in the home he’d at all times lived in, a dwelling that predated vehicles, parking tickets and air-conditioning—all ubiquitous options of this steamy August afternoon in the city. Our time together was quick—an interaction that spanned six city blocks—and when I dropped the aged gentleman off he thanked me kindly, lisping barely over his in poor health-becoming dentures.
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