“Uncle Clem was an avant-garde artist in the ’60’s,” Alvin reminded his wife Hortense. “You know, the kind that hung in Greenwich Village coffee houses with Andy Warhol and Timothy Leary, drinking espresso and reading beat poetry.”
“Do you think he’ll even remember you?” she asked. “After all, it’s been over forty years.”
Following the directions their G.P.S. gave them, they eventually arrived at a most unusual apartment building.
“Oh Honey!” she blurted out. “My relatives may be squares but at least they have stoops that lead up to their houses’ entrances. This guy must be quite a hoot.”