were wearing had a light green fuzz growing across the back. You remember it because it was pretty. You had a sharp pain in your right forearm. You made your way across the park to where you knew Tommy would be waiting. You noticed you were getting a lot of attention from people who had, like you, spent the night in the park. There was something wrong with the way you looked. You remember someone saying to you, “In the first month you get stabbed; in the second month you’ll stab someone.” You had the feeling that somehow you were entering one of those months when people pay their last respects. Tommy grabbed you by your good arm and hurried you towards Robson. He was excited aboutsomething that had happened. At the best of times you can’t understand him and this morning he’s so stimulated by something that you can only grunt back at him in the language you share. You know that you have been barking at people lately. In fact, that’s why you got thrown out of the Columbia Hotel. “Do you know you’ve been barking at people in the lobby?” You shrug miserably at this kind of question.
No, I’m afraid I didn’t know.
You notice people staring at you while Tommy pantomimes a little war scene. You smile and feel something warm drip off your chin. You cup your hand against your face and watch it fill with fresh blood. Oh dear. Sometimes you can’t help notice how sick you’re becoming. You look over your shoulder, but nobody’s looking. They have stopped staring. Tommy drags you into a public washroom. You throw up in the sink. It’s a dry heave, productive only in the spray of blood it forces out of your face. You look up into the mirror. You have two black eyes, cut deeply, and a missing eyebrow. Your bottom lip has fallen free of your mouth and is lying in the fresh blood on your chin.
You can’t pretend that you don’t feel very sorry for this man and his self-portrait. He has completely lost the ability to take care of himself. He will die soon, and the fact that that is merely all he ever wanted doesn’t make you feel any less protective of him now. You remember looking in the mirror and feeling awe: the self-portrait is complete. You think that you have found the face that can finally say goodbye.
That’s when Tommy slipped, unconscious, to thefloor. You stepped over his body to find him a coffee. When you returned a few minutes later an ambulance was pulled up on the grassy hill that sloped down to the men’s washroom. Two attendants were putting Tommy’s body in the back of the vehicle. You attempted to stop them, dropping the coffees and yelling what you can’t say for certain now wasn’t barking. You tried to tell them that he was fine, that he just needed coffee, that he’d be OK . You tried to tell them that you needed him. As the ambulance drove off you felt an idea throbbing in your forearm. You’ll meet him at the emergency. You’ll tell them about your arm. They’ll let you in.
No one at the hospital had seen or heard of Tommy. You waited for three hours to see a doctor. Every time a door opened or a gurney banged through swinging glass you’d look up for your friend. One of the effects of the wait that you hadn’t counted on was that you were beginning a fairly complicated process of withdrawal. Your legs began to hurt. Your arm began to shake.
When the doctor finally takes you in she searches the holes and bruises in your head. It’s not your head, however, that you want her to look at. It’s your arm and you hold it up. She holds it gently and lays cool fingers on your wrist. She disappears, and soon a technician appears to take you to X-ray. It takes him a few runs to get a good shot. Your arm is jumping around. You feel miserable about this because you like working with people. He is impatient — with himself you think — and when he gets a satisfactory picture he puts a hand on your shoulder, including you in the success.
“Well, there’s three hairline fractures
No, I’m afraid I didn’t know.
You notice people staring at you while Tommy pantomimes a little war scene. You smile and feel something warm drip off your chin. You cup your hand against your face and watch it fill with fresh blood. Oh dear. Sometimes you can’t help notice how sick you’re becoming. You look over your shoulder, but nobody’s looking. They have stopped staring. Tommy drags you into a public washroom. You throw up in the sink. It’s a dry heave, productive only in the spray of blood it forces out of your face. You look up into the mirror. You have two black eyes, cut deeply, and a missing eyebrow. Your bottom lip has fallen free of your mouth and is lying in the fresh blood on your chin.
You can’t pretend that you don’t feel very sorry for this man and his self-portrait. He has completely lost the ability to take care of himself. He will die soon, and the fact that that is merely all he ever wanted doesn’t make you feel any less protective of him now. You remember looking in the mirror and feeling awe: the self-portrait is complete. You think that you have found the face that can finally say goodbye.
That’s when Tommy slipped, unconscious, to thefloor. You stepped over his body to find him a coffee. When you returned a few minutes later an ambulance was pulled up on the grassy hill that sloped down to the men’s washroom. Two attendants were putting Tommy’s body in the back of the vehicle. You attempted to stop them, dropping the coffees and yelling what you can’t say for certain now wasn’t barking. You tried to tell them that he was fine, that he just needed coffee, that he’d be OK . You tried to tell them that you needed him. As the ambulance drove off you felt an idea throbbing in your forearm. You’ll meet him at the emergency. You’ll tell them about your arm. They’ll let you in.
No one at the hospital had seen or heard of Tommy. You waited for three hours to see a doctor. Every time a door opened or a gurney banged through swinging glass you’d look up for your friend. One of the effects of the wait that you hadn’t counted on was that you were beginning a fairly complicated process of withdrawal. Your legs began to hurt. Your arm began to shake.
When the doctor finally takes you in she searches the holes and bruises in your head. It’s not your head, however, that you want her to look at. It’s your arm and you hold it up. She holds it gently and lays cool fingers on your wrist. She disappears, and soon a technician appears to take you to X-ray. It takes him a few runs to get a good shot. Your arm is jumping around. You feel miserable about this because you like working with people. He is impatient — with himself you think — and when he gets a satisfactory picture he puts a hand on your shoulder, including you in the success.
“Well, there’s three hairline fractures
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