He was a misshapen thing, bulking a black blotch in the night at
the entrance of the dark alleyway-like some lurking creature in its
lair. He neither stood, nor kneeled, nor sat-no single word would
describe his posture-he combined all three in a sort of repulsive,
formless heap. The Flopper moved. He came out from the alleyway
onto the pavement, into the lurid lights of the Bowery, flopping
along knee to toe on one leg, dragging the other leg behind him-and
the leg he dragged was limp and wobbled from the knee. One hand
sought the pavement to balance himself and aid in locomotion; the
other arm, the right, was twisted out from his body in the shape of
an inverted V, the palm of his hand, with half curled, contorted
fingers, almost touching his chin, as his head sagged at a stiff,
set angle into his right shoulder. Hair straggled from the brim of
a nondescript felt hat into his eyes, and curled, dirty and
unshorn, around his ears and the nape of his neck. His face was
covered with a stubble of four days' growth, his body with rags-a
coat; a shirt, the button long since gone at the neck; and trousers
gaping in wide rents at the knees, and torn at the ankles where
they flapped around miss-mated socks and shoes.
General
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