Scene: Thorndike basement. I am padding down the hall barefoot, as is my wont, in commemoration of the days when my mother used to give me detention for doing the same on my high school campus and Frank, the old Lakota maintenance guy, used to shout, "Put some shoes on, hippie!" at me.

From the opposite end of the hall, a man is stumping crookedly along in that knock-kneed way that indicates some disease whose name I don't know. I drop my eyes, unusure as usual about the social requirements of passing someone you don't know.

Him: That's a luxury I can never have.

Me: (taken completely off-guard) Awwwww! I'm sorry!

Him: it's all right. (unintelligible.)