Troll can always be found on the western most end of St. Mark's Place, weaving his fishing cup in and out of passersby like the best city taxi and is often left with no more than a backwards glance and a smile. We talked seated on the pavement on which he sleeps.
Gathered around were just, at first, a few of his friends. And then more came along- some in their early teens, others in their thirties- until by the time we were through Troll was surrounded by his family of two dozen which he mastered like a ring-leader in a circus.
He has the confidence one expects from a middle class teenager, not a youth battered
by a life on the streets. His eyes scanned the passing crowd, never connecting with my own, as he spoke about his life, at times serious and at times taking on exaggerated voices like a Robin Williams and offered the sort of performance the streets encourage for one scrounging enough for their next meal.
