card to the Russian Baths on East 10th Street. Opening time was 8Am. The steam room crew began to heat the river boulders at 6am. The two-ton stones glowed red by 7:20. Crazy Santa Claus was in the dry steam room at 7:21. He was a rich junkie, who was the last family member of an 18th century fortune. Heroin had not ruined his sense of entitlement.

As a permanent member I could have entered the Baths at that bastardly hour, except my alarm clock was set for the opening. At 8:10 I exited from my apartment two doors down from the entrance with a towel over my shoulder and strolled east at the Wall Street workers strutted west.

I was a routine every day of the year and Ivapors fuming from his flesh. Last night he had dined with clients. Entertaining customers was tough on the body

"Huh?" Manny at age 80 hears 10% of a normal person. I don't let him answer the phone.

"Richie needs some OJ." I used to be Richie Boy's co-pilot. Nowadays I went home just as his customers wanted to have fun.

"And a bacon and egg sandwich. Don't forget the cheese."

"You got it." I knew how he felt, because I had deja-vued too many mornings in the past. The rest of the day passed as fast as a train being dragged across a swamp by oxen. None of us made a sale and Manny decided to close early for once.

"Thank, Dad." Richie Boy was very grateful. He had a busy tomorrow. "Two