It is Christmastime 2016 and I am driving my eighty-nine year old grandfather over the Kosciusko Bridge into Greenpoint, Brooklyn. As I look over at him peering out of the windshield, I can see two spools of film playing in his head. One in vibrant color in which he could give perfect recall of all the events that had happened in his every-day life . . . and another . . . one in sepia tone, of him in pinstriped suits and fedoras, and driving his...