I chewed up a fortnight in New York at a friend’s apartment on the thirty-sixth floor overlooking Central Park. In two weeks I almost never left the building, except sometimes very late at night, for parties.

Carlos, my host, travels constantly, for his work. He has a spacious home he is never in, and a car he never uses stashed at a garage.

A housekeeper and a couple other house guests came and went, but I was mostly left to myself. Delivery men materialized at the front door, all day long, bearing foods, and clean clothes, and whatever else.

Carlos and I have a frayed history of friendship that was tight, in its heyday. Unfortunately, we met with a falling-out a couple of years ago, and have not spoken much since. This was an opportunity to reacquaint.

And I might have stayed longer than two weeks except a guest room opened up in a large house in Westchester, and I bolted. To facilitate the move I borrowed

Carlos’ car. In true sociopath fashion I justified my actions, with “I need it,” and “Carlos will never know.”

Seeing as I did not ask permission, technically I suppose you could say I stole it. Obviously, I had no intentions of keeping the machine, not forever. But a few days passed while I wallowed in Westchester, with the car in the driveway.

Early in the morning on my third day Carlos phoned. I saw his name on the caller ID. It was far too early for good news, so I knew I was in trouble. I ignored the call and went back to sleep. No need to deal with being scolded any sooner than absolutely necessary.

Later, after a shot of whiskey-spiked coffee, for pluck, I returned the auto. Carlos was mightily rightfully pissed.

On the train back to the suburbs, I left old Carlos a message, I said, “seeing as I was nice enough to bring back your car, you could at least come visit.”

Carlos has not returned the call.