When he sits there lately, playing pin the fork on the meal, the witness thinks of himself as embarrassingly crude, a sick child. It's been a while since DeKalb Ave and his days at the knitting factory. It's been a while since he has played Spite and Malice with his love. He eats his meals displaying a sour countenance, as if he is being denied something. Sure. He wiles away the day now, staring in the direction of the TV - on some days keeping the same channel on for hours - all day. Lately he is simply a commuter, between bed and couch, couch and bathroom. It has been a while since he was a subscriber to Reader's Digest. It's been a while since he was able to perform those monotonous tasks, his daily regimens he performed dutifully: sweeping curbside sand in the spring, arranging the municipalities winter gift into small piles to be collected at his own pace over the course of a week, sawing twigs with the pipe saw, caring for the garbage disposal, fetching bottles out of the woods while wearing those old rubbers with the latches. It's been a while since he could see out of both eyes. It's been a while since he prepared his own tea or prepared his morning meal himself. It took a while to realize that he had to be helped with many things. When it was said, " Man, you look like you are eating your last meal before you go off to the chair! " " Whaddaya want me to do? Sing? "