anything.
—He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck.
—I.D.?
—John Doe. No wallet. I think someone’s checking with the building manager to get a positive I.D. At least we know where to send the bill.
What are the chances they’ll let me borrow a pencil and a sketch pad? I’d settle for a hypodermic and a clean sheet and draw in my own blood if I could start right now. Every second counts. Man, are they taking their time.
—Bellevue?
—Any family to admit him?
—Nah. He’s a loner. This’ll have to be involuntary.
—You gonna sign for it?
—Go ahead.
—I’ll shoot you for it.
Then they actually shoot for it, the fucks. The Indian doctor loses and I can tell he’s pissed about it. I don’t want him changing my sheets.
They look back at me but my eyes are closed. Saw that coming.
—Fucking broken people. I’ll make the call.
—Let’s get him out today. We need the bed.
They leave to go make some other important medical decisions and perhaps roshambo in the event of a disagreement on a diagnosis.
So this is it. Fuck Bellevue.
I force myself to sit up. Don’t see my clothes anywhere. I pull the needles and tubes out of my arms and hop out of bed as fast as a guy who was dead for forty minutes can move. Which is not very fast.
Coma guy has some clothes hanging in his cubby. Cheap fucking place can’t even put doors on the closets. He’s a little shorter than me, and his shirt smells like old man sweat but they’re close enough. There are no shoes. I don’t care. I just need to get home without being arrested.
I have work to do.
36
(Hmm.)
Say what you will about the careless manner in which the old boy conducts his life, but there can be little doubt that our man is nothing less than dedicated to his newfound artistic vision. A conservative estimate would put the number of drawings he has output since his last death at sixty-five. Granted, not all of them are Louvre-worthy. I remind you these are the product of a man whose most recent previous work consisted of a compilation of marginalia featuring respected business colleagues fellating one another amidst innumerable scatological references dashed off in the sidelines of what should have been professional, detailed notes. Hardly a collection to set off a bidding war among the Rothschilds.
But this.
This assemblage of captured memories our man has generated is nothing short of impressive. The perspective is memorable. The style is distinct. The passion is undeniable. This is the work of a man driven by a vision that is positively insistent.
Or it is vain lunacy. Who’s to say?
37
I keep going.
More drawings.
The door.
The laundry room.
The yelling.
I’m sitting at my kitchen counter aware that my lower back is aching but unwilling to stretch until I get these last details right.
The pounding.
The hinges.
The pleading.
The tears.
The anger in my father’s voice.
The heat.
How do I draw heat?
I don’t draw myself because I don’t know what I looked like. I am the missing puzzle piece, but I’m also the least important one. I have no idea what I was at this time in my life. Or anytime before it. There are no pictures of me that young. Or there were but they’re gone now. Probably at some point someone loved me enough to take my picture, but, to my knowledge, no proof exists to support this theory. My father’s personal effects from jail were minimal and did not include photos of either of his children. Seemingly, a result of his overwhelming guilt.
If pictures of us were kept around the house, I wouldn’t know. I never went back after my mother died. Never took anything personal from the place. Not a picture. Not a toy. Not a teddy bear. Someone must have taken my clothes for me or maybe they bought me new ones.
I assume my family’s apartment was left to rot with no one to pay the mortgage. How long did the place sit empty before it was cleared out, pictures and all, and auctioned off to a stranger? Who
—He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck.
—I.D.?
—John Doe. No wallet. I think someone’s checking with the building manager to get a positive I.D. At least we know where to send the bill.
What are the chances they’ll let me borrow a pencil and a sketch pad? I’d settle for a hypodermic and a clean sheet and draw in my own blood if I could start right now. Every second counts. Man, are they taking their time.
—Bellevue?
—Any family to admit him?
—Nah. He’s a loner. This’ll have to be involuntary.
—You gonna sign for it?
—Go ahead.
—I’ll shoot you for it.
Then they actually shoot for it, the fucks. The Indian doctor loses and I can tell he’s pissed about it. I don’t want him changing my sheets.
They look back at me but my eyes are closed. Saw that coming.
—Fucking broken people. I’ll make the call.
—Let’s get him out today. We need the bed.
They leave to go make some other important medical decisions and perhaps roshambo in the event of a disagreement on a diagnosis.
So this is it. Fuck Bellevue.
I force myself to sit up. Don’t see my clothes anywhere. I pull the needles and tubes out of my arms and hop out of bed as fast as a guy who was dead for forty minutes can move. Which is not very fast.
Coma guy has some clothes hanging in his cubby. Cheap fucking place can’t even put doors on the closets. He’s a little shorter than me, and his shirt smells like old man sweat but they’re close enough. There are no shoes. I don’t care. I just need to get home without being arrested.
I have work to do.
36
(Hmm.)
Say what you will about the careless manner in which the old boy conducts his life, but there can be little doubt that our man is nothing less than dedicated to his newfound artistic vision. A conservative estimate would put the number of drawings he has output since his last death at sixty-five. Granted, not all of them are Louvre-worthy. I remind you these are the product of a man whose most recent previous work consisted of a compilation of marginalia featuring respected business colleagues fellating one another amidst innumerable scatological references dashed off in the sidelines of what should have been professional, detailed notes. Hardly a collection to set off a bidding war among the Rothschilds.
But this.
This assemblage of captured memories our man has generated is nothing short of impressive. The perspective is memorable. The style is distinct. The passion is undeniable. This is the work of a man driven by a vision that is positively insistent.
Or it is vain lunacy. Who’s to say?
37
I keep going.
More drawings.
The door.
The laundry room.
The yelling.
I’m sitting at my kitchen counter aware that my lower back is aching but unwilling to stretch until I get these last details right.
The pounding.
The hinges.
The pleading.
The tears.
The anger in my father’s voice.
The heat.
How do I draw heat?
I don’t draw myself because I don’t know what I looked like. I am the missing puzzle piece, but I’m also the least important one. I have no idea what I was at this time in my life. Or anytime before it. There are no pictures of me that young. Or there were but they’re gone now. Probably at some point someone loved me enough to take my picture, but, to my knowledge, no proof exists to support this theory. My father’s personal effects from jail were minimal and did not include photos of either of his children. Seemingly, a result of his overwhelming guilt.
If pictures of us were kept around the house, I wouldn’t know. I never went back after my mother died. Never took anything personal from the place. Not a picture. Not a toy. Not a teddy bear. Someone must have taken my clothes for me or maybe they bought me new ones.
I assume my family’s apartment was left to rot with no one to pay the mortgage. How long did the place sit empty before it was cleared out, pictures and all, and auctioned off to a stranger? Who
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