“The amount of money publishers were willing to pay him for subsequent books became less and less until, when Stewart knew him, he was reduced to living in a tiny New York apartment creating several meals out of a few pieces of chicken. In 1992 he earned $25,000 from his writing. Helping out in a New York City soup kitchen, Wilcox was complimented on the empathy he had shown its patrons and replied: “I’m only a check or two from being in the line myself.”
