“costello”

from jim gavin’s story “costello” in the new yorker:

on each rooftop a row of turbine vents. spinning silver flowers. costello sails over the bright and hostile neighborhoods of north long beach, scene of his wasted youth. during the plague, everything falling apart, he hid out there again, a grown man, pretending he still had a job. nineball at two in the afternoon. a vacation in hell. smoke and mirrors for two months. putting everything on the credit card. she said he looked gray, his skin was gray, and when he told her, finally, a moment of pure relief, she was there, touching his gray hand, bringing his color back.