#Back smith metal scribe cracked#
He stopped outside one building’s battered street door a tarnished cheap brass plate over its cracked upper lights read “408.” Knowing that the doorbell was broken, and that one might ring for minutes on end without the bell sounding in an apartment above, he pushed against the street door, whose latch was also broken. Despite the raggedness of his clothing and his unkempt hair and beard, he clutched a folded role of papers and magazines under his arm, holding his elbows tight against his body in the cold. He continued eastward along 10th, and, although the mumbling continued, and the facial tics and twitches which gave pause to those approaching, he scanned the faces of the narrow apartment buildings, searching out the street numbers. He mumbled incoherently under his breath from under lowered brows, and pedestrians gave him a wide berth as they passed on the sidewalk that ran along the north boundary of Tompkins Square Park-on that cold night, there were no protesters or junkies in there: even the most avaricious of the drug touts appeared to have taken shelter from the wind. In the biting damp of a New York winter, his fists were jammed into the inadequate warmth of a torn olive drab army surplus fatigue jacket, and he kept his head down to shield his face against the the cold gritty wind that blew from the East River. The young man named Robert Green, with long tangled hair and a scraggly stringy beard, staggered erratically east on 10th Street in lower Manhattan, heading toward Avenue A.
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