To Elisabeth MacHale, Greenwich Village was an advertisement for one grand, Bohemian party. Every bar, restaurant, and store seemed to promise music, theater, and artistic fellowship, if only she had the money to attend. The asphalt of the streets, in contrast to this bonhomie, was hard and rough through the paper-thin soles of her sneakers. Her tendons felt like elastic on the verge of snapping. She squinted up at the sun through the traffic of hovering cars. She wanted nothing more than to ...