The wrinkles around Nev’s eyes made him look smart and distinguished. Better than on television. The kind of older man referred to as a fox. Did he look a bit like an older, redder Benedict Cumberbatch? He did, I thought; he did. In the seat next to him was a tote that had fallen onto its side to reveal what he was consuming these days: The New Jim Crow; a recent issue of The Atlantic; a slim book of poetry that, by some miracle, had just cracked the New York Times’ best sellers list.
