This man is a gypsy.
He conned the system for over forty years.
He lives on the fringes, underground.
He survives through loopholes.
Using scholarships, dumpsters, government assistance, health clinics, press privileges, lottery and discount access, libraries and online downloads, he found ways to do everything for free, to go everywhere for free, to fly from Greece to Ecuador, and most points in between, to get everything for free, or almost free, for free, free.
Most people try to make money, to buy the things they don't have time to create, because they are busy making money.
He prefers his system.
He posed as a film critic, an author, a university instructor, a newspaper editor, an artist, a missionary, a husband and a father.
He even posed as a gypsy, a do-nothing bohemian.
He is none of these things.
He has no future.
He's a field lily, a purple surprise lily.
New York is dead, a ghost world.
The corner grocery store on Bank Street is gone.
The sex-drenched piers have been paved over for baby strollers.
St. Marks Place is buried in tourist t-shirt stores.
CBGB has been replaced by designer jeans.
Kiev is a Korean restaurant now.
The pool table at The Bar on 2nd Avenue has disappeared.
The Bar itself has disappeared.
He has no place left to hide.
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