The old man who normally sits on the stoop at the building I run past, on my way to Central Park, no longer sits. He’s used to be there all the time, at all times of the day (and sometimes night).
I see that next to the stoop is a sign that that’s been screwed to the railing that reads: No Smoking. When he used to sit on the stoop, he smoked. I want him to show up some day on that stoop, with his pack of Marlboro’s. I don’t know that he’ll break the ordinance. But I hope he does.