Nathan is screaming, clapping, and laughing. The thirty year-old’s wheelchair is tilted on it’s hind quarters, the crowd in front of him scrambling to get out of the way – women spilling their drinks, bumping into slot machines, alcohol splashing onto the carpet.

Shorty is about five and a half feet tall, an ear-to-ear smile on his round face, a diamond stud in his left ear, a Yankees hat turned backward sitting crookedly atop the thin stocking cap on his head. He wears sweat pants, a cell phone and a pager each in its own leather case strapped to his waistband.

Gary sat with his back against the cold bricks of a corner building, his rear on the sidewalk, traffic buzzing by at the intersection of Lexington and 86th Street. As pedestrians walked past, Gary leaned forward, pulling his left pant leg up to reveal an open sore an inch and a half in diameter, layers of pink and red flesh open and exposed nearly down to the bone.