too late. The entire front facade of the building was in almost total darkness. The warehouse across the street looked as black as the sea at night under a moonless, starless sky. Where moments earlier I’d seen the lighted apartment, the man with the gun, now there was nothing to be seen. Nothing at all. Piers slowly removed the opera glasses from his eyes.
“Hmmmmm,” he said.
Chapter Nineteen
T he next day, at the crack of noon, Ratso and I seemed to be the only souls stirring about the loft. The cat was still asleep on my bed, having had a rather active night chasing cockroaches and, as Ratso didn’t waste a second to tell me, depositing a fresh Nixon on his backpack. McGovern was in a coma on the couch. Piers and Brennan had gone early in the morning to that place where people say they go when they have that thing that they call a job.
“I can’t believe that fucking cat took another dump on my backpack,” said Ratso, as he kicked the espresso machine into gear.
“Pinch yourself,” I said.
“I tell you, that fucking cat is anti-Semitic.”
“That’s not true, Ratso. Don’t personalize the incident. The cat’s not anti-Semitic. She’s antieverything.”
“Maybe the cat’s not antieverything. Maybe she’s merely projecting your attitudes toward the rest of us.”
“That’s also possible,” I said.
“Well, get over it. Dr. Skinnipipi wants you to stay put and, speaking on behalf of all of the Village Irregulars, we intend to make sure that that’s what happens.”
“Fuck Dr. Skinnipipi and the bedpan he rode in on.”
“Now there’s a mature attitude. No wonder Brennan calls you the Jewish Patient.”
“Fuck Brennan and the tripod he rode in on. Do we have anything for breakfast besides leftover take-out cartons of squid and pickled vegetables from Big Wong’s?”
“Of course! I did some shopping yesterday. Borrowed your credit card. Hope you don’t mind. I’ve got some fresh bagels.”
“The bagels are decaying.”
“The only thing that’s decaying is McGovern’s mind. Have you noticed his apparent selective hearing? Sometimes he can hear things fine and sometimes he can’t hear shit. It’s got to be some kind of pathological trigger mechanism, either conscious or unconscious. It’s one of the most irritating and sick things I’ve ever seen.”
“Say again? What? Your dick’s caught in the espresso machine?”
“Don’t start,” said Ratso. “He’s sleeping on the couch over there. He might hear you.”
“He can’t hear anything!” I said in a louder voice. “Except when he wants to!”
“Shhhh. Don’t wake him up. It’s a pleasant, peaceful morning. I’ll toast a few bagels and we’ll have some espresso. It’ll be just like old times.”
It was a nice Ratsolike sentiment, actually. “Just like old times.” It was, however, a sentiment that, in all good faith, I could not really share. There was an elephant in the room, you see. And I wasn’t merely referring to McGovern. The fact is, I was pretty sure that Piers had already spoken to Ratso and if he hadn’t, he would soon. All of them seemed to be reinforcing each other against me. They were probably all in it together. Dr. Skinnipipi, the cops, and my supposed friends. This was not good old-fashioned New York paranoia on my part. It was a concerted campaign to discredit me, disbelieve me, and disrespect me. It was better, of course, than being dismembered, which was no doubt what could be currently happening to the woman across the street.
The dynamic occurring in the loft was nothing new in the world. Once people begin to think of you as a patient you cease to be thought of as a person. But just because I wasn’t a person any longer did not mean that I wasn’t a human being. I could see the subtle changes in the behavior of my erstwhile friends. The hesitancy. The dismissiveness. The questioning glances shot back and forth to one another when they thought I wasn’t looking. Yes, I was
“Hmmmmm,” he said.
Chapter Nineteen
T he next day, at the crack of noon, Ratso and I seemed to be the only souls stirring about the loft. The cat was still asleep on my bed, having had a rather active night chasing cockroaches and, as Ratso didn’t waste a second to tell me, depositing a fresh Nixon on his backpack. McGovern was in a coma on the couch. Piers and Brennan had gone early in the morning to that place where people say they go when they have that thing that they call a job.
“I can’t believe that fucking cat took another dump on my backpack,” said Ratso, as he kicked the espresso machine into gear.
“Pinch yourself,” I said.
“I tell you, that fucking cat is anti-Semitic.”
“That’s not true, Ratso. Don’t personalize the incident. The cat’s not anti-Semitic. She’s antieverything.”
“Maybe the cat’s not antieverything. Maybe she’s merely projecting your attitudes toward the rest of us.”
“That’s also possible,” I said.
“Well, get over it. Dr. Skinnipipi wants you to stay put and, speaking on behalf of all of the Village Irregulars, we intend to make sure that that’s what happens.”
“Fuck Dr. Skinnipipi and the bedpan he rode in on.”
“Now there’s a mature attitude. No wonder Brennan calls you the Jewish Patient.”
“Fuck Brennan and the tripod he rode in on. Do we have anything for breakfast besides leftover take-out cartons of squid and pickled vegetables from Big Wong’s?”
“Of course! I did some shopping yesterday. Borrowed your credit card. Hope you don’t mind. I’ve got some fresh bagels.”
“The bagels are decaying.”
“The only thing that’s decaying is McGovern’s mind. Have you noticed his apparent selective hearing? Sometimes he can hear things fine and sometimes he can’t hear shit. It’s got to be some kind of pathological trigger mechanism, either conscious or unconscious. It’s one of the most irritating and sick things I’ve ever seen.”
“Say again? What? Your dick’s caught in the espresso machine?”
“Don’t start,” said Ratso. “He’s sleeping on the couch over there. He might hear you.”
“He can’t hear anything!” I said in a louder voice. “Except when he wants to!”
“Shhhh. Don’t wake him up. It’s a pleasant, peaceful morning. I’ll toast a few bagels and we’ll have some espresso. It’ll be just like old times.”
It was a nice Ratsolike sentiment, actually. “Just like old times.” It was, however, a sentiment that, in all good faith, I could not really share. There was an elephant in the room, you see. And I wasn’t merely referring to McGovern. The fact is, I was pretty sure that Piers had already spoken to Ratso and if he hadn’t, he would soon. All of them seemed to be reinforcing each other against me. They were probably all in it together. Dr. Skinnipipi, the cops, and my supposed friends. This was not good old-fashioned New York paranoia on my part. It was a concerted campaign to discredit me, disbelieve me, and disrespect me. It was better, of course, than being dismembered, which was no doubt what could be currently happening to the woman across the street.
The dynamic occurring in the loft was nothing new in the world. Once people begin to think of you as a patient you cease to be thought of as a person. But just because I wasn’t a person any longer did not mean that I wasn’t a human being. I could see the subtle changes in the behavior of my erstwhile friends. The hesitancy. The dismissiveness. The questioning glances shot back and forth to one another when they thought I wasn’t looking. Yes, I was
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