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“Look at him swing that freaking arm!” Blessed by the heavens, our town had its own human metronome by whom we set the tempo of our days. Fuzzy and disheveled, The Arm loped along warren and thoroughfare alike, always a clutch of worn paperbacks in left hand as if in counterbalance to the exaggerated arc traced by his right. At once determined and slapstick, The Arm’s unusual stride came to strike us as something born of physical necessity. Hypnotized by the swinging arm, we failed at first to notice how its forward momentum pulled The Arm’s lame right foot into the next step–a brave and ingenious compensation.