The old man sits on a bench off the Bowery, glazed eyes staring into a void, sipping on a tall can of Bud enclosed in a brown paper bag. "Twelve dollars and 50 cents," he mutters. "Twelve dollars and 50 cents." It is the sum total of one man's life -- the amount he says he has been trying to borrow from his family in Detroit to ensure his burial in potter's field, and to escape from the death beyond death: "They send you to medical school and cut you up into little pieces -- that's not for me. No sir."
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