Finally, William Windsor appears in the foyer. His face is flushed and he's visibly winded from the walk over, from his apartment a few blocks away. He enters to an ovation of silence and disbelief. A tiny Navajo woman pushes herself up from her stool to get a glimpse, and two men in tight corduroy shorts have forgotten to light their cigarettes. The lull continues for about five seconds before a lanky 50-something asks aloud:
"What. In. The. Hell?"
"Hey, man," Windsor says, placing his "binky" on the counter before extending a hand.
He wears a pink bonnet over his golden locks, a pink polka-dotted dress that barely conceals his diaper, white bobby socks with lace trim, and those patent leather shoes. He sets a rag doll down gently next to his pacifier on the bar.
"Sorry I'm late," he tells me. "Gas prices these days, you know?"
