The wonderful world of Bohan

In the wonderful world of Bohan, there were no winners. Nevertheless, Frank tried. He reviewed the phone bill carefully each month and found that Columbia was billing the Institute for lines we no longer used. He highlighted those charges and disputed them. It was a stakeout, a war of attrition. Frank was ready. He had his nosh in the mornings - a danish to bolster him. He had a crack staff to aid and abet. "Don't walk to talk," he told us. "The meek shall inherit the earth, but not in New York City." When I proposed an overly ambitious idea, he said, "Don't be daft," or "Let's not get carried away."

He ate breakfast and lunch off a Christmas-print plastic tray. Perhaps this was a habit his wife taught him. All the women in his family loved to clean: they straightened the tassles on the rug, and if he were drinking a glass of water, they would whisk it away as he was setting it down on the table between sips. He said he had grown up on Pathmark orange juice, canned and frozen. As a kid he had a paper route on Ocean Avenue between Foster and Avenue H. He had some elevator buildings and some walk-ups. He said he often crossed between buildings via the roofs, but sometimes the doors were locked and he had to go all the way back downstairs.

"Did I tell you this," he asked. "Well, hear it again," he said. He asked his twins how their SATs went; they answered, "We were the cutest girls there." He said they worked one summer at LaGuardia, screening luggage; he said he never recovered his faith in airport security after that.