Bald and bespectacled, my father would never have been mistaken for Wyatt Earp. But I’ll always remember a small act of heroism he performed one night in the lawless Wild West that was 1980s New York City.
We went out to dinner, then took a taxi home. As the cab turned left at a light, making a u-turn toward our apartment building, we saw something strange transpiring on the corner.
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