God, those days—I had nothing to do in the afternoons so I always went over to Francie’s apartment—she was enlightened, you know, and plus she had these amazing Saltines.
The walls in that place looked like spread batter, like the whole place was a cake about to be baked, oozing nowhere. She had this plaid couch, facing the little TV table, across from the kitchenette and the window, that she always sat on. I’d come in and say “How's things, Francie?” and she’d say “What things” and I’d know that meant it was time to hit the fridge.
And God, did she have a fridge. I tell you, the woman was a genius.