he will wait no more and that he must try to escape this very morning. He has written down the appropriate numbers in his notebook to help him remember. There. Just above a drawing of an elliptical zeppelin: 11-3-5 . At approximately 11:35 a.m., when Jeff, the tall, bearded orderly, props open the glass security doors to deliver the rolling metal racks of preheated lunch, Henry, only eleven days away from being completely invisible, will quietly sneak past, wheeling himself to the first bank of elevators as quickly as he can. Arriving at the ground floor, he will hurry through the front lobby with a dignity and confidence he has very nearly forgotten, proudly wheeling himself outside, where he will hail himself a cab, and then, speeding toward the airport, he will disappear once and for all.
To Whom It May Concern,
You had a sense of humor which you kept to yourself. You were afraid of other people’s laughter.
At the moment, Henry looks up and sees the clock above the television set: 11:33. He nods, gathering what little courage he has left, wheeling himself as quickly as he can toward the glass security doors. In the next moment, Jeff, pushing a large silver cart stacked high with tray after tray of prepared food, whistles past, running his plastic security card through the electronic card reader, swinging the heavy doors wide, propping them open with the small plastic doorstop. Sitting there, just before the glass divider, unnoticeable to almost everyone, Henry wheels himself forward, hitting his elbow against the doorframe, his bony fingers grasping the rubber wheels with all his might. Holding his breath, he wheels past Jeff and the racks of food, then forces the glass door closed behind him, trapping Jeff on the other side of the locked door. He pushes himself toward the elevators, his heart beating like a tin drum in his chest. Without thinking, already terrified and exhausted, Henry presses both elevator buttons, up and down, glancing over his shoulder, hissing to himself as he waits for the heavy elevator doors to slide open. Finally, the elevator on the right gives an electric ding! and Henry’s heart begins to beat wildly, rebelling out of cowardice, out of fear, out of panic. His hands suddenly feel too tired, too weak. He gives himself one final shove, catching a wheel on the metal threshold, almost tumbling out of his wheelchair. He begins to hit all of the glowing yellow buttons, finally managing to get the elevator doors closed just as Jeff begins to bang on the glass.
When, unbelievably, the elevator has finished descending and the heavy doors open on the ground floor, Henry lets out a small sigh of joy. He wheels himself as fast as he can past the waiting families, the off-duty nurses standing beside the coffee urn quietly chatting, the enormous security guard busy reading a newspaper, then all the way across the lobby, swinging wide through the front doors, rolling outside onto the sidewalk beside the busy street. Traffic! What is this? the sound of traffic having been something Henry had forgotten to even begin to forget. A taxicab pulls up and the bearded driver helps Henry into the backseat, folding up the wheelchair, forcing it into the taxi’s trunk. Henry can hear the buzz and static of the cabbie’s CB, the odd snatches of voices like the thoughts and sounds of memories he has yet to dismiss, so that when the cabbie asks, “Where to, pops?” when he turns around from behind the steering wheel and glances at his passenger in the rearview mirror, Henry gives the response he has already planned, speaking six of the eleven words he intends to use today, his voice hesitant, gravelly, predictably weak, as unsure as it was when he was a boy, when his words first began to fail him. “O’Hare. I’m going on a trip.”
Additional Remarks of a Historical Significance
A CLOUD HAS APPEARED WHERE IT SHOULD NOT BE. There it floats, quite mysteriously, as if having fallen from the open vastness
To Whom It May Concern,
You had a sense of humor which you kept to yourself. You were afraid of other people’s laughter.
At the moment, Henry looks up and sees the clock above the television set: 11:33. He nods, gathering what little courage he has left, wheeling himself as quickly as he can toward the glass security doors. In the next moment, Jeff, pushing a large silver cart stacked high with tray after tray of prepared food, whistles past, running his plastic security card through the electronic card reader, swinging the heavy doors wide, propping them open with the small plastic doorstop. Sitting there, just before the glass divider, unnoticeable to almost everyone, Henry wheels himself forward, hitting his elbow against the doorframe, his bony fingers grasping the rubber wheels with all his might. Holding his breath, he wheels past Jeff and the racks of food, then forces the glass door closed behind him, trapping Jeff on the other side of the locked door. He pushes himself toward the elevators, his heart beating like a tin drum in his chest. Without thinking, already terrified and exhausted, Henry presses both elevator buttons, up and down, glancing over his shoulder, hissing to himself as he waits for the heavy elevator doors to slide open. Finally, the elevator on the right gives an electric ding! and Henry’s heart begins to beat wildly, rebelling out of cowardice, out of fear, out of panic. His hands suddenly feel too tired, too weak. He gives himself one final shove, catching a wheel on the metal threshold, almost tumbling out of his wheelchair. He begins to hit all of the glowing yellow buttons, finally managing to get the elevator doors closed just as Jeff begins to bang on the glass.
When, unbelievably, the elevator has finished descending and the heavy doors open on the ground floor, Henry lets out a small sigh of joy. He wheels himself as fast as he can past the waiting families, the off-duty nurses standing beside the coffee urn quietly chatting, the enormous security guard busy reading a newspaper, then all the way across the lobby, swinging wide through the front doors, rolling outside onto the sidewalk beside the busy street. Traffic! What is this? the sound of traffic having been something Henry had forgotten to even begin to forget. A taxicab pulls up and the bearded driver helps Henry into the backseat, folding up the wheelchair, forcing it into the taxi’s trunk. Henry can hear the buzz and static of the cabbie’s CB, the odd snatches of voices like the thoughts and sounds of memories he has yet to dismiss, so that when the cabbie asks, “Where to, pops?” when he turns around from behind the steering wheel and glances at his passenger in the rearview mirror, Henry gives the response he has already planned, speaking six of the eleven words he intends to use today, his voice hesitant, gravelly, predictably weak, as unsure as it was when he was a boy, when his words first began to fail him. “O’Hare. I’m going on a trip.”
Additional Remarks of a Historical Significance
A CLOUD HAS APPEARED WHERE IT SHOULD NOT BE. There it floats, quite mysteriously, as if having fallen from the open vastness
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