At 5 a.m. on a small corner of a famous city unceasingly buzzing with activity, all is quiet except for the sound of a closing door, and the occasional train overhead. By streetlight, you can see an intimation of a man dressed in black with a head of thick black hair. He locks the doors of the Bushwick Public House, the bar that sits on the corner of Myrtle and Central Avenue. He walks around a corner and out of sight. There is silence but only for a moment.

In 1932, my forebear Billy wandered into the enchanting lobby of a hotel best known for hosting notable writers, journalists and actors at its famous round table. Although owner and hotel manager, Frank Case, knew that Billy had no literary reputation or journalistic experience to speak of, he let him reside at the Algonquin. From this moment, a tradition was born, and there has been one of our kind in residence ever since.