It’s one pm on Monday. The reverbs from Dave’s guitar are thumping through the walls of our apartment, sound waves riding on the drafts window to window – from the living room all the way across the kitchen then through my bedroom and out into the alley on the warm, breezy, sunless afternoon.

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.