“The driver was holding open the rear door. He was young and blond, a boy in his prime.”

“Chivalry: It's the little boy that kisses my hand, the young man who holds the door open for me, and the old man who tips his hat to me. None of it is a reflection of me, but a reflection of them.”

“The rear door was black, the driver's side door was red, and the hood was sunshine-yellow. If Henry Ford and Picasso had gone out on a bender, that car was what the hangover would have looked like.”

“At the rear of the bus, the driver wrenched a big chunk of smoking metal out of the engine compartment. The bus shuddered, and the engine roared back to life. The passengers cheered. Darn right!" yelled the driver. He slapped the bus with his hat. "Everybody get back on board!”

“He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the boy. He simply woke, looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on.”

“He had the radio turned to some Spanish-language station at a volume that reminded me of the holding tank at Riker's Island - and for an added touch of authenticity he screamed 'Maricon!' and waved his fist out the open window at another driver who had the audacity to attempt to share the road with us.”