When he was nine and in Brooklyn he remembers looking at the grass that pushed up between the sidewalk. The sidewalks were the color of oatmeal and littered with cigarette butts, brown broken glass from beer bottles, and translucent blue candywrappers. He was surrounded by the sound of traffic and Sharkey who was wearing a greasy armless trenchcoat saying mysweetlifemysweetlifemysweetlife to himself in a clear speaking voice. Sharkey ate every cricket he could catch. He was holding a bottle of sugary wine. The street light glowed softly into the gray air. Jay stared up at Sharkey but then stooped down to feel the wiry grass between the sidewalk squares. Jay could smell gasoline, Italian sausages, and Sharkey's sugar wine pee. He wondered what kept Sharkey's arms warm in the winter. He wondered why Sharkey's life was sweet.