In 1970, we had an apartment in the in the basement of a low-rent building on Woodward Ave, Detroit's main street, owned by an older doctor and managed by his wife.

K. S. occupied a neigboring apartment in the basement.

In 1972 when we got married, we moved up to a 2nd floor apartment, which had French doors and once had been fairly elegant.

K.S. stayed in the basement. He was a German-Jewish immigrant, an aspiring filmmaker. He was born before WWII, and I believe he had suffered in Germany. One of his arms was disfigured. He struggled with alcoholism -- he told us that one day he lay down on Woodward in the middle of traffic and felt like he was in a movie. This was extreme behavior, but was not extraordinary for that time and place.

K.S. was fairly interesting, and I believed that he was neurotic, or that he was troubled.

I did not see him every day. Sometimes I would wonder if he was still around.

One night I heard him coming around the landing, up the steps, to our apartment door, muttering something. I remember opening the door. And when I saw him, he said, "Your wife is in love with me," and started pushing his way into the apartment. He seemed delusional.

I instinctively pushed him down the stairs. He stumbled, caught himself on the landing, and left. For a moment, I was afraid that I had hurt him.