The Street-Corner Einstein
I first met the Professor in a cardboard palace under the Manhattan Bridge. He smelled like old newspapers and cheap gin, and he spent most of his time arguing with a pigeon he called 'Newton.' To the cops, he was just another street-dweller. To me, a twelve-year-old with nowhere to go and a hunger for something I couldn't name, he was the only real person in New York. "Look at this, Leo!" he'd...
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