A strategy employed to maximize his time and effort, within limits. On each trip to the liquor store he brought back as many boxes as he could carry without anyone getting suspicious of his strength, for packing the few articles of clothing he'd accumulated, the few personal possessions, and his library of more than ten thousand volumes. It was hot. The other kind of vampires don't sweat, he'd noticed in his rare encounters with them. But Feigelman, the only Jewish vampire ever, sweat like a, (pardon my choice of words,) pig. Tie pulled down, in 1968 when few other men still wore them after work, Feigelman's white shirt, sleeves rolled up on hairy forearms, was black from sweat. He stopped on the third landing to look out a grimy window, onto an alley crisscrossed with clotheslines, everything hanging limp in the heat. "How many places have I lived in?" he asked himself, continuing down. Squeezing up against the wall so that damp Mrs. Switkes from the top floor could pass, clutching her two shopping bags. "A fine day," she said, testily. "A very fine day," he muttered back. "First Europe. Now America. Another move every decade or two at most," Feigelman sighed. "Can't stay put too long. People wonder, 'Why doesn't he look any older?' Older! I'd give two hundred years of looks and every ounce of my unnatural power, to live for more than two decades in one place."