CHAPTER ONE: We're All Psychic
When I was around seven years old I lived in a garden apartment with my mother in Islip, a town on the south shore of Long Island about fifty miles from New York City. I was a normal kid in every way. I fished for catfish at a local lake. I read comic books. I played baseball every chance I got, just one of many young Mets fans who wished he was Tom Seaver. And I also loved to watch a neighbor who I only knew as "Tony" work on his car, a candy-apple red GTO he kept in showroom condition. Tony used one kind of polish for the bodywork, chrome polish for the chrome sections, a toothbrush and...