I probably would have enjoyed the dinner, had I not been eating in a Greenwich, Connecticut jail cell.  The take-out from the Italian restaurant across the street from the police station may have been the best meal I had in weeks, after spending my summer with Vick, whose kitchen cabinets contained no more than Frosted Flakes, Marlboro Reds, and grain alcohol.  Vick liked excitement.  He needed it, to be precise.  He'd wake me from my sleep to announce we were taking a road trip, and next thing I would know, we were speeding down I95 toward  Florida at two in … Continue reading →