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Trenutno vreme je: 28. Mar 2024, 13:38:33
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
The Coat

   Harry loved his coat. He had gotten it toward the end of winter and it saved his life. The winters on the Bowery were tough under any conditions, but without a coat the winters were deadly, bodies picked up each morning, some frozen to the ground and having to be chipped loose. But Harrys coat became more than comfort, more than protection against the cold, even more than a life saver… it was his friend, his buddy… his only companion. He dearly loved his coat.
   It was long, reaching almost to his ankles,and heavy, and he could wrap it around himself almost twice and when he raised the collar he felt completely protected from the world. It was an Army surplus coat that he had gotten from the Salvation Army, one of the last ones they had. He loved it right away. But keeping a coat on skid row during the winter was not easy. He had to be alert. There was always some person, or group, ready to take it from you and they were willing to kill you for it.
   But now the weather was getting warmer and he could relax a little. He didnt get careless, but it would be progressively easier to protect his coat. He had seen men sell their coats when the weather warmed, for enough for a bottle of wine, but he would never be that foolish. Winter always returned. He had spent part of one winter with newspapers wrapped around his body trying desperately to keep out the cold, each day an eternity, but that was only a memory he kept alive during the heat of summer when keeping the coat seemed such a burden. Winter always returned.
   During the cold weather he often worked as a dishwasher at night. When he first got to the row a couple of old-timers tried to show him how to panhandle, how to size up a mark and know whether to lookim in the eye and tellim you need a drink, or try the painful look and old vet approach, and all the variations. And they warned him that the most important thing was to know who not to hit. They have a look in their eye and theyre liable to killya. You gotta stay clear ofem… And Harry would watch them panhandle, always staying south of Houston Street—the cops dont botherya down here, but north of Houstons bad news—but Harry just could not go up to a stranger and ask him for money. He even had a difficult time, finding it almost impossible, to ask for his money after a nights work. He had been that way all his life and had given up trying to change.
   He liked to work at night because it not only gave him a job, but a place to stay warm during the long, cold nights. It was easier to find a place that was safe during the day to drink his wine and sleep. When he worked he always hung his coat next to the sink and watched it the whole evening. No one was supposed to be back there, except him, but that was no guarantee that someone wouldnt suddenly rush in and try to grab his coat.
   Being alone was another reason he liked washing dishes. It was just him and the dishes, and his coat. Harry always had a difficult time being with people, having left school early because of the daily terror of being with so many people in one room and having to stand and talk when called on. He just spent more time by himself and less and less in school and eventually they left him alone and he drifted away, spending as much time as possible alone, longing always for companionship, never able to talk about his fear, no one, including Harry, understanding why he did what he did.
   The nights washing dishes went easy enough. He had his warmth, some food, his solitude, and he would take a drink from time to time, being sure no none saw him take the bottle from his pocket. Survival depended upon keeping certain things secret. And dishwashing jobs were always available. Its not the kind of job guys keep. Some place always needed a dishwasher.
   When he finished work he would get breakfast and his money, then buy a bottle of muscatel and find an abandoned building somewhere safe. The rest of the row was waking up and starting their day and he could nestle somewhere and not worry about people stumbling on him. He always went as far back in the deserted buildings as possible. There were gangs that roamed the Bowery who were worse then crazed dogs and you had to be careful you didnt let anyone think you had something they might want. He always put his bottle in the huge pocket of his coat and walked as aimlessly as possible. He didnt know how many men he had seen beaten, and killed, for a coat or a bottle of wine.
   You had to be careful on skid row. You had to be your own council… your own friend.
   He climbed over the rubble and garbage in an empty lot to an abandoned building and worked his way around battered walls and fallen beams to a distant corner in the shadows and sat, wrapped his coat around him, and opened his bottle. He took a long drink, almost half the bottle, then gulped air for a moment, then let out a long sigh… He looked at the bottle admiringly… affectionately, as he felt the wine warming his gut and flowing through his system… then took another quick drink… then another… then licked his lips as he put the top on the bottle and placed it carefully beside him. He took out his money and rolled it up, except for a dollar, and shoved it through a small hole in a pocket into the lining where it could not be found, then leaned back against the wall, wrapped his coat around him, cradled the bottle on his lap, holding it tightly, closed his eyes and smiled and wiggled as he felt the wine going through his body, feeling nice and warm and sending a glow through him right down to the tips of his toes.
   Fantasies used to come with the wine, but somewhere, sometime, they stopped, or maybe they just drifted away. There just did not seem to be any energy available to bring them back and no material for new ones. All hopes, fantasies, dreams, now centered on this one moment of Harry and his bottle nestling safely and warmly in the corner of an abandoned building…
   But there were memories that sometimes haunted him… or others that eased their way across his minds eye with gentle waves of pleasure…
   He was driving through the Appalachians once when he pulled off the road to watch a sunset. He watched the sun go out of sight, then the changing layers of colors turned from pink to red, from blue to purple, sitting alone, tears rolling from his eyes and down his cheeks as he was overwhelmed by the beauty of the incredible spectacle… sitting there still when there was only a faint hint of blue’gray in the distance as it got darker, and when the moons brightness started to bring light to the valley below and the sky softened into a thick dark velvet, twinkling stars slowly emerged and dotted the darkened sky, he was still there immersed and transfixed by the wonder of it, experiencing its beauty and miracle in some secret place deep within him…
   But much time had passed since he was last visited by that memory.
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Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
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Apple iPhone 6s
   He took another drink, recapped the bottle and looked around… He had everything he needed right now. A bottle… a place to park himself for a while… and his coat… his wonderful, beautiful coat. He kissed the collar, I love you coat, and chuckled. He took another drink and closed his eyes and felt the warmth, then looked at his coat. I can always depend on you. Youre my friend. My really true friend. My buddy. You’ll never let me down, right? And I’ll never let you down. I swear to you -raising his right hand in a solemn oath—I’ll never let you down. Unto the death I’ll never let you down. He lowered his hand and took another drink, then looked at something shining in the darkness. He stared hard, frowning, until he finally made out the form of a huge rat staring at him. A shock of disgust and fear sickened him and he closed his eyes and huddled deeper into his coat, then opened his eyes, but the rat was still there, his eyes looking like two beacons in the dark. He stared at the eyes, swallowing a mounting nausea, then forced himself to pick up a piece of debris and throw it at the rat, the rat quickly disappearing in the dark. He took another drink and relaxed. At least it was real. If it wasnt he couldnt have gotten rid of it so easily. He had had d.t.’s, but he never saw anything like rats. He knew some guys did and he didnt know how they survived imagining that rats were crawling all over them… he shook his head, Arghhh. He opened his bottle and threw the top away, took a long drink, then pulled his coat even tighter around him. He cant bother us, can he? He’d never be able to get me. My buddy would keep him away, wouldntya? Nothin, no one… no one, nothin. Right? Cant bother us. He snuggled deeper into the corner and his coat. He closed his eyes momentarily and listened to the wine singing through his body and smiled, then started singing, Nights are long since—he started giggling and nodding his head—I dream about you all thru—he started laughing -hehehehehehe—thru -hehehehehe—ishh… ishh… my Buddy… my Buddy—he started waving his hand in a small arc conducting himself—Watch the bounding ball—all through the -hehehehehehe… ishh… Nobody—hahaha—Nobod—ishhh -Bod—hahaha… he gulped and swallowed hard and shook his head—Nobody hehe—ishh… he took another drink, his off-key singing continuing in his head, a few mumbling words coming from his mouth, nobody but a buddy, hehehehe… continuing to stammer and giggle and nod his head, then emptied the bottle and tossed it as far away as possible, deep into the shadows of the rubble and listened to the tinkle of broken glass reverberate through his snug nest like the tinkling of sleigh bells as his head slowly lowered, his chin eventually resting on the lapel of his great coat, and drifting into sleep.
   He moved, jerked spastically and mumbled as he was slowly dragged back to consciousness. It was much darker in the building but he was long accustomed to waking up about this same time so he knew it must be late afternoon. He got to his feet and brushed off his coat then slowly, and carefully, made his way past and through the shattered walls out of the building.
   The shadows were long as he picked his way through the rubble of the lot, slipping and stumbling, rats squealing and skittering off as he staggered and inched his way to the street.
   The traffic was heavy this time of the evening and Harry huddled in his coat as he walked along the street, the people fulfilling his need for human companionship without being a threat. He had spent many, many years alone, and lonely, but they had not eliminated his need, and occasional desire, to be with people. As long as he was free to just be there on the street without having to be a part of them, he was alright.
   Soon he became aware of the need for a drink and he bought a bottle of muscatel, putting the bottle in his pocket before leaving the store. He rushed from the vicinity of the store and went to a deserted, safe area to take a drink. He rejoined the activity of the street, huddled deep in his coat against the cold, a feeling of triumph and love flowing through his body as he turned his back to the cold wind, aware of his bodys warmth.
   He decided he would work again tonight so he made the rounds of the joints and soon was standing in front of a couple of sinks. He took his coat off and hung it right by the sink where he could keep an eye on it.
   Spring passed easily enough. During the day if it got too hot in the sun he would go to the shady side of the street and though it was warm he was still able to wear his coat. A few times he was tempted to take off his coat and carry it, but he knew better. That was inviting trouble. It would be too easy for some guy to knock into him while his partner yanked the coat away from him and run down the street. No, he could not afford to take chances. No matter how hot it got, his coat was always valuable to winos. It could always be hocked for at least a jug.
   And anyway, there was always the relief of the evening, his coat being perfect for the springtime coolness. Then, as the spring rains passed, everything seemed to be a little easier. For a month or so he had a great apartment. He had found a huge packing crate and spent hours dragging and pushing it to the remains of an old building. It took a tremendous amount of will to not just leave it in the first room of the building, but to push and tug it around corners and back into the recesses of the building where it would not so easily be stumbled upon. He set it up in a corner and cleared some of the debris away from it, not too large an area, he did not want it obvious that someone was living there, he did not want to leave a trail, just enough so he could roll in and out of bed without stumbling over something. And he found an old calendar, maybe 5 or 6 years old, and hung it on a wall of the crate. He collected a few rags and the remains of a cushion and made himself the semblance of a chair.
   He spent as much time as possible in his apartment, loving the feeling of security and the smell of the wood, and if it was exceptionally warm, as it usually was in the summer, even at night, he would take off his coat and wrap it carefully in some old plastic sheets he had found and bury it under the rubble where it could not be seen, secure in the knowledge that no matter what happened his coat would be safe. Then he would lean back in his chair and drink and sing or talk softly to himself, or sometimes be silent and watch the various creatures that shared the abandoned buildings and lots with him, coming from deep under the buildings, from caverns of deserted cellars or basements, or perhaps deeper, from some unknown area beyond that created by man and his buildings, where darkness and moisture fostered and nurtured its strange inhabitants. He watched with fear and disgust trying, from time to time, to close his eyes and thus, eliminate them from his world, but he was more afraid of not knowing where they were, so he was forced, beyond will and desire, to watch them when they suddenly appeared, scuttled about, then froze still and looked, eyes reflecting light, eyes that seemed to get brighter and larger the longer he stared, so large and bright they appeared to leave the creatures head and float toward him… his body tense, becoming stiff, a panic and nausea knotting and constricting his gut and throat…
   until the creatures suddenly ran, jumped, or just disappeared into the unknown and fearsome world they had come from.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
   Sometimes he watched, fascinated, as they would slink through the shadows and rubble, unaware of his presence, intent upon not being seen by their prey or predators. One day, while there was still faint light finding its way into the inner recesses, he watched a huge tomcat slowly, stealthily, stealing up on something. He was battered, with a piece missing from an ear and large clots of fur torn from his body. He was obviously a fighter and survivor… no, more than that, he was a prevailer and Harry developed an instant affection for the cat. He watched him, not knowing what it was the cat saw, but it was obviously tracking something as he crawled along the ground, his belly rubbing the stones and rubble, moving a few feet… stopping… staring… nose twitching, tail beating. Harry followed the direction the cat seemed to be looking, fascinated and curious, and thought he saw some sort of movement… then was certain there was something back in the shadows. The cat continued crawling… then stopped, its tail beating rapidly, his entire rear portion wiggling… then he leaped and Harry saw the prey as it squealed and tried to escape. It was a huge rat and it continued to squeal as the cat hit it in mid air. The rat rolled over and got to its feet quickly and found itself cornered against an old sink. The cat slowly… cunningly… forced the rat back into the corner until it could no longer move and when it leaped the cat leaped too and grabbed it with his large paws and they both landed, hard, on a piece of steel, the rat squealing so loud it almost hurt Harrys ears. The rat managed to get out of the grasp of the cat but had nowhere to go and the cat continued inching closer and closer to the now bleeding rat. Harry continued to remain immobile and stare, barely breathing, trying to shut out the sight of the blood, yet glad the rat was bleeding and had to fight himself not to shout encouragement to the cat. The rat leaped again, and the cat caught him, and this time as they landed the cat sunk his teeth into the back of the neck of the rat and shook it violently, the squealing of the rat piercing the stillness, and shook the rat until there was a loud snap and the rat was instantly silent as it hung from the jaws of the cat. He shook it a few more times, then dropped it and looked at it for a moment… then pushed it with a paw… looked for another second or two… pushed it around for a few minutes as if it were a ball of yarn… Harry becoming very uncomfortable… then picked it up and carried it into the shadows, out of sight, but not out of hearing, the silence broken, from time to time, with the crunching of bones. Harry clamped his hands over his ears and pinched his eyes shut
   Eventually he allowed his face to relax and his eyes to slowly open… everything looked as before. Then he removed his hands from his ears… and sighed with relief at the silence. He took a long, long drink and sighed again and soon realized that his mind was back into an old habit of wondering about the violence of nature but pushed it from his mind with another long drink.
   The coat was hot in the summer, even in the shade, if you could find any, but he did not mind. He knew that another winter would be here before you knew it and he was going to survive that winter. His coat would guarantee that.
   He gave up his dishwashing in the summer and did a lot of junking. He got a push cart as early in the morning as possible and stayed away from the row and the gangs who might rip him off when he collected a load of paper, or after he got his money. And, when he was safely distant, he took off his coat and put it in the cart and covered it with paper.
   He concentrated on paper and cardbord. He had seen some other junkmen bring in sinks and pieces of furniture and haggle with the guy and eventually get a few dollars, but when he tried it the guy told him what he had wasnt worth anything and he just nodded and went out again for a load of paper. He knew the guy was going to keep it and sell it, but he just didnt know how to bargain with him the way the other guys did. So he stayed with cardboard and paper.
   He took it nice and easy, knowing he would get enough for what he needed. He always had a bottle of muscatel with him and would take a drink from time to time and go leisurely about his work. Usually he would stop in some greasy spoon and fill himself with beans and bread before going back to his apartment with a bottle of muscatel.
   Eventually he had to give up his apartment. One night he came back with a bottle and before he turned the last corner he could hear voices. He stopped. Listened… Sounded like a couple of guys, maybe more… could be three… but who knows? Their voices were muffled and indistinct and he could just barely make out what was happening. They were fighting over who was to get the next drink, or who got more than the other. He listened… not moving… the voices got louder and angrier and suddenly there was a thud and a gurgling scream, then another thud… and another… and he recognized the sound as someone being hit on the head with a rock or a pipe, or something similar. Then the thudding stopped and there was the sound of a falling body, and then silence… then the sound of someone drinking… Fear and disgust almost panicked him, but he forced himself to quietly leave. He stood in the evening air for a few moments, swallowing his nausea, wanting to get away from there as rapidly as possible, but feeling weak and sick. He took many deep breaths and closed his eyes from time to time, trying to push away the sound and the image. Soon he was able to take a drink, then work his way through the rubble to another building and find a corner to nest in and dissolve the incident in wine.
   Even with the heat summer was easy time. He slowly pushed his junk cart through the streets looking around, taking an occasional drink, watching kids run and play a thousand and one games, looking at the trees, bushes, shrubs, and flowers, feeling free and unencumbered with the sun and air on his face. In the evening he would go to whatever abandoned building he was using, and drink, sing and talk softly to himself until he lost consciousness.
   Then autumn turned the leaves and the breeze and he would pick up an occasional red leaf streaked with yellow. Now, with the cooler evenings his coat was always around him, keeping out the chill and keeping in the warmth, the tip of his nose cold, making him more aware of the friendliness and comfort of his companion… his soft singing and talking not so much to himself, but more to his buddy… his great coat.
   Then the leaves stopped turning colors and fell, the trees becoming bare and naked and exposed. He sought out the sunny side of the street, constantly awake to the chill in the air that meant another winter would soon be blowing its way through the Bowery. It brought him even closer to his coat, knowing that it would protect him from that wind and the cold that would soon make the entire row shiver and nightly leave in its wake the bodies of winos who had passed out in doorways and abandoned buildings, their bodies blue and rigid.
   But winter was yet to come and Harry picked his way through the rubble of a lot, happily aware of the sudden change in temperature as he walked from a sunny spot into a long shadow and then once more into the late sun. He heard voices and laughter and looked at a couple of older kids dancing around a wino staggering through the lot a short distance ahead of Harry. He saw one of the kids pouring something on the wino. Harry assumed it was water and shivered momentarily as he realized what it must feel like to the guy who was wet, but then one of the kids lit a match and tossed it at the bum and he suddenly exploded and was engulfed in flames and the kids ran away, laughing, as the wino screamed and tried to run but kept falling down. Harry reacted instantly and ran toward the bum, slipped out of his coat, quickly knocked the wino to the ground and wrapped the coat around him smothering the flames, the wino screaming in agony, Harry having to fight to keep his coat wrapped around him, but mercifully the guy soon passed out and Harry was able to suffocate the flames. He kept his coat wrapped around him to be certain the flames stayed out and to cushion his body against the sharp edges of the rubble.
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Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
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Apple iPhone 6s
   Others had seen what happened and soon the police and an ambulance were there. The attendants carefully rolled the wino out of Harrys coat. He was charred, but alive. They placed him in the ambulance and then asked Harry if he was alright. Any burns? Harry shook his head. Why dont you take a ride with us and we’ll check you out at the hospital. Harry shook his head, holding his coat close to him and staring at the ambulance. The attendant shrugged, You saved his life… for now anyway. Dont know if it’ll do much good though.
   The ambulance left and the police questioned Harry briefly. Harry clutched his coat to him, still in a state of shock. A couple of people told the police that they could describe the kids who did it, Probably the same kids whove been doin it to all the others.
   Yeah, they think its some kind of game.
   They call it burn a bum.
   Harry managed to work himself into the coat and stumble away from the small knot of people to the liquor store. It was when he shoved the bottle in his pocket that he noticed how much his hands had been burned. The sudden pain snapped him out of his shock and he became more alert as he went to his corner nest in the abandoned building. He looked at his coat and though it had a few black spots there was no real damage done. He hugged it to his breast as his body unfolded in the corner and almost cried with relief as he leaned against the wall. He continued to hug and kiss his coat, overwhelmed by the fact that it was alright, realizing that the flames could have destroyed his coat when he wrapped it around the wino. His relief was so great that he spent many, many minutes hugging and kissing his coat, telling it he was sorry if it got hurt but he had to do it, he couldnt just let the guy burn, and his coat reassured him that it was alright, it understood and agreed that Harry had done the right thing…
   Eventually the shock was completely drained from him and Harry put his coat on and wrapped it snuggly around him, but even the fact that his coat was safe could not stop the feeling of sadness that flowed through him. Harry took a drink and once more looked at his burned hands. They werent too bad. A little red with a couple of blisters. They were starting to hurt now. He took another long drink. Soon the wine would take away the pain. In the meantime he would hold a few cold stones in his hands to keep them cool…
   but the cold stones, and even the wine, couldnt seem to stop that terrible sadness that was taking control of his body and mind. He took another long drink trying to drown out the screams of the winos agony, but when they finally faded he could still hear the peoples voices, its some kindda game… its some kindda game, its some kindda game….
   He suddenly groaned and tears burst forth from his eyes and he folded his arms around his head as he sobbed from the depth of his being, O God… O God… he squeezed his arms tighter around his head hoping the pressure might in some miraculous way ease the sickness flowing through his body and the pain of his mind and soul… O God… why is life so fragile???? Why???? Why???? There was still a faint glow in the sky as he walked along the street, his hands deep in his pockets, talking softly to his coat, telling it how much he loved it and appreciated how warm it was keeping him and how he never had to be afraid of the winters because of it; and sometimes he would whistle for a few minutes, or even hum, and then continue talking to his coat and tell it how theyd get a bottle of muscatel and go back to that nice warm place they had fixed up last night and just drink and sleep, no worries no cares, ju—A couple of bums suddenly shoved him in a doorway and he knew they were after his coat. He swung out and screamed HELP!!!! HELP!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH-H H H H H H H H!!!!—Shut up ya son of a bitch—Harry continued flailing his arms, screaming, AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH-HHHHHHHH!!!!—Fa krists sake grabim—What the fuck ya think Im tryin to do—Hitim fa krists sake—and Harry continued to swing his arms and fight to get out the door, still screaming, hoping someone would come to help him, AAAAAAAAAAA-HHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!—and the three of them continued to fall over each other and bounce off the walls in the cramped hallway, Harry flailing and screaming as he lunged for the door, the bums trying to grab him and hit him with a piece of pipe one of them was holding, and Harry finally crashed through the thin door—AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH -just as the guy hit him on the head with the pipe and Harry staggered forward onto the street and the guy hit him again and Harry fell to his knees, his arms wrapped around himself so they couldnt get the coat off, and he was hit again and knocked flat on his face and was kicked, but still he kept his arms wrapped around himself in his semi-conscious state, muttering, no, no, no, as they tried to yank the coat off, and people passing by glanced at first and then looked and soon a few asked what the hell was going on and the guys looked around at the people, still tugging on the coat, and then a prowl car turned the corner and they let go of the coat and ran…
   The cops got out of the car and walked over to where Harry was lying on the sidewalk, blood seeping from his head, his arms wrapped around his body protecting his coat in a death grip. The cops looked down at him for a moment… Seems to be alive.
   Yeah… Guess we’d better put in a call.
   The other cop nodded and strolled back to the car and called an ambulance.
   A dozen or so people milled around Harry, asking what had happened, shaking their heads or relating what they had seen or surmised; some passersby stopped to join them or to look for a moment then move on, others slowing slightly and seeing it was just a bum hurried on their way.
   The doctors did what they could for him but Harry was not expected to live through the night, and at 4 a.m. his heart actually stopped beating, but an alert nurse pounded his chest, his heart responding with a feeble but constant beat. Every function of his body was monitored and checked with amazement, there being no known medical explanation for his still being alive.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
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Apple iPhone 6s
  The fourth day they started having hope that he would live. Not because there had been any improvement in his condition, everything was still the same, but simply because it somehow seemed inevitable. Then, about 4’30 a.m., his body started to convulse from alcoholic withdrawal. His condition got worse and worse rapidly, yet still he lived, something inside him refusing to give up.
   Treating the convulsions was in itself a simple matter but the treatment tended to aggravate his other condition, and so the hospital personnel had to maintain a delicate balance so they would not bring about his death from one condition while treating the other.
   Miraculously he survived the convulsions and the treatment, and after being in a coma for a week he regained consciousness for a brief period, his eyes barely focusing, but able to nod his head when asked if he could hear, then mumbled something about his coat before drifting once again into unconsciousness. From that moment on his recovery was slow, sometimes barely discernible, but steady.
   A week later he was able to talk and was visited by a clerk from the records office. She smiled and sat down next to the bed and explained that as he was unconscious, and had no identification when he was brought in, she had to ask him a few questions Alright? Do you feel up to it?
   He nodded. They didnt get my coat, did they?
   What? What coat?
   The one I was wearing. They tried to get my coat.
   Oh…. Im sure its down in the clothing room just like all the others.
   The information seemed to take a while to register, but eventually it did and he sighed inwardly… then nodded his head.
   Now then, I need a little information. It wont take long. Name?
   Harry. Harry Wright.
   Address?
   Harry spoke softly and slowly with obvious effort, The Bowery.
   The Bowery? Dont you have a permanent mailing address?
   He moved his hand in a negative motion. The Bowerys permanent. It aint movin.
   Nothing more specific?
   He moved his hand slightly.
   She smiled and shrugged. Age?
   40.
   In case of emergency who do you want notified?
   I dont really care… He smiled slightly, Gallo Brothers.
   Gallo Brothers?
   He smiled a little broader, Ernest and Julio.
   O???? Then she understood and smiled. The winemakers.
   Harry blinked his eyes.
   She was still smiling, Well, I guess we had better leave that blank. Occupation?
   He moved his jaw in a shrugging gesture… Dishwasher.
   Have you ever been a patient here before?
   I dont know.
   Dont know?
   He shook his head slightly… I dont know where I am.
   Oh… Bellevue.
   Nope. He winced as a pain pierced his head, then exhaled sharply, exhausted and tired.
   The clerk looked at her form, then at him, I think thats enough for now. You get some rest. She got up to leave.
   Do me a favor? See if my coats alright?
   She started to say something, then just smiled and nodded, Sure.
   Thanks. Harry closed his eyes and slept.
   When he awoke he asked the nurse if the clerk had called about his coat.
   Coat?
   She was going to check to see if its alright.
   She probably hasnt had time to yet. Im sure she’ll take care of it.
   Harry nodded within himself, unable to really think about it, not sure when he saw the clerk… not sure about anything actually. Every now and then there would be a slight glimmer of light, but it would be quickly absorbed by mist and he could not find the energy to really grasp a thought for any length of time and would just drift off into sleep.
   Through the following days whenever he was conscious Harry would wonder about his coat and if it was alright, if he was still wearing it when he got here and, if he was, what had happened to it after he got here. Everytime someone came near him he wanted to ask them about his coat, but couldnt seem to summon up the energy. Eventually he felt a couple of days must have passed since he spoke with the clerk, not absolutely certain because he spent so much time sleeping and was still confused about time, but whether it was or not the pressure was building to the point where he had no choice but to ask the nurse again if the clerk had called about his coat.
   She frowned agitatedly, What coat?
   My coat—Harry could feel himself starting to tremble -remember I asked -
   O that. No. Nobody has called about anything. But she said… can you call her?
   I dont have time to make calls about coats. I have all I can do right now.
   But I have to know. I dont know if—he started to get up, but a sudden pain took his breath away and he fell back on the bed.
   Pain in your head?
   He could hardly mutter.
   The nurse rushed from the room and quickly returned with a hypo and soon the pain subsided and Harry once more drifted off to sleep.
   Harry continued to ask about his coat, never being certain if he was asking many times in one day or once in many days, but when the pressure built to the point where he no longer had a choice, he asked, and when he was given an evasive answer he got so upset he usually had to be sedated and another note was made on his chart. Eventually the doctor asked about the notes on his chart and the nurses told him about Harrys preoccupation with his coat and the doctor wrote a request that Harry be interviewed by a psychiatrist, And for krists sake, in the meantime tell him the coats alright.
   When a nurse told Harry that his coat was alright he seemed to change instantly, tension draining from his body almost visibly, a hint of color returning to his cheeks. He could feel an endless sigh flow through his body as he drifted back to sleep.
   Harry was relaxed, but still a little groggy, when a young psychiatrist visited him one morning. Harry had not been shaved for 3 or 4 days, his head was swathed in bandages that were stained with blood and antiseptics, and he was still wired so his bodily functions could be monitored. The psychiatrist looked at him for a moment, You look depressed.
   Harry just blinked.
   How do you feel?
   Harry shrugged slightly, Okay.
   The psychiatrist made a few notes. You seem to be concerned about your clothing.
   My coat. I wanted to be sure it was alright.
   Were you wearing it when you were admitted?
   Harry looked at him for a moment, I dont know.
   The psychiatrist made more notes, then looked at Harry. I see. Do you often have lapses of memory?
   Harry looked at him, blinking, feeling more and more intimidated. He started sweating. I was unconscious.
   The psychiatrist peered at him for a moment, then made another note. Are you often so obsessive about your possessions?
   Harry stared, his head shaking slightly, trying earnestly to understand what it was the doctor wanted. He listened hard, and heard the words but he just could not seem to make any sense out of them. They did not seem to have anything to do with him… or anything he could think of. Harry did not know what he had done wrong. All Harry could do was look and twist his face into a frown…
   The psychiatrist stared at Harry then made more notes. Are you always so insecure about your clothing?
   Harry could feel himself wilting as the psychiatrist stared at him… Eventually he shook his head.
   Harrys sweating and trembling increased and he was no longer capable of even trying to understand what the psychiatrist was saying or what it was he wanted. He just stared, on the verge of tears, and shook his head.
   The psychiatrist made a final note about the patients hostile and uncooperative behavior and infantile regression, then snapped the metal binder on the chart shut, That will be all. He left.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
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Apple iPhone 6s
   Harry was still trembling an hour later when a nurse came into the room.
   Are you alright?
   Harry shook his head slightly.
   Youre so pale and sweaty—she touched his forehead—and clammy. Do you have any pain?
   He nodded.
   Harry continued to tremble many minutes after having been given a hypo, feeling cold and lost, wanting so much to run and hide and just cry… cry… He looked at the wires going from the various parts of his body to the machinery around the bed knowing that he could disconnect himself easy enough, but he would still be unable to move. He was trapped. He knew his legs would not support him if he tried to stand. And even if he could, he could never find his way to his coat and he could not go anywhere without his coat… not now… it would be suicide… and he did not want to die. Not that way. Not anyway, but especially not that way… just a hunk of frozen flesh…
   He shut his eyes and squeezed them together as hard as possible to shut out the image, then suddenly opened them so his senses could be enveloped by his surroundings and blot out the cold and the stares of the psychiatrist… He tried to change his position on the bed, but didnt have much freedom of movement. His eyes got heavy… sleepy… his body started to feel light… the tension slowly started dissolving as the opiate flowed through his body… he knew that soon he would fall asleep… his body got lighter and lighter…
   his eyes heavier and heavier…
   he could no longer think… was only vaguely aware of his body… still he felt like he was drowning in tears…
   Harry Wrights condition continued to improve and soon he was able to walk to the bathroom, at first with assistance, then alone. Another month and he was able to walk around whenever he wanted and spent some time in the t.v. room, when it wasnt too crowded, staying in the back of the room, but spending most of his time playing solitaire or looking at magazines. He was still too weak to do much of anything else and was content to rest and eat, feeling relaxed and secure now that he knew his coat was alright.
   He was unable to eat the Thanksgiving dinner, but he did participate energetically in the Christmas festivities, enjoying the food and the entertainments that various organizations presented and the little packages of candy they passed out. He also laughed at their jokes and smiled in recognition of their greetings and MEEEEEEEERY CHRISTMAS.
   Now that he was well enough to move around without any ill effects, the first thing he did in the morning was to look out the window and check the weather. The area around the hospital always had a gray, cold look, but he watched the people walking, knowing by the way they moved just how cold it was. He also checked the morning shift and listened to them. Everybody talked about the weather and on the really cold days they were still rubbing their hands together when they got to the ward and hunched their shoulders when they talked about the wind and snow. He watched and listened to the radiators letting out their hiss and smiled…
   Even when he got out he’d be warm. He had his coat. He had nothing to worry about, and he would wrap his bathrobe around him and pretend it was his coat and stand by the window and put his nose against the cold glass and feel the heat coming from the radiator…
   And, from time to time, he would sit, his hands in his bathrobe pockets, thinking about his buddy… and how it felt and looked… closing his eyes and seeing every inch of his coat, even the black spots from the fire, feeling its weight on his shoulders and the texture of the material against his cheeks and the almost bottomless pockets… and he experienced another warmth, the warmth of friendship… the warmth of affection.
   One morning he was looking at the paper when he recognized the area in a photo, an empty lot on the Bowery. There was a bulldozer in the lot and in front of it were 4 or 5 bodies, «… inhabitants of the Bowery who had frozen to death sometime in the past month and were just discovered. They had to be broken loose from the ground with a bulldozer.» Harry felt a wave of sickness and panic twist his insides, but then he slowly relaxed as he wrapped his bathrobe around him once again, closed his eyes and affectionately talked with his friend. His friend loved him and would never let that happen to him. He didnt have to worry about that.
   Harry had been in the hospital three months and with the return of health and strength came an increased feeling of nervousness. There was a vague tension within him, a gnawing anxiety that grew with each day. He gradually retreated further and further within himself, becoming less communicative and spending more time just sitting with his robe wrapped around him, occasionally going over to the window and staring out at the grayness. It had always been like this, ever since he could remember. The only thing that changed it was drinking. When he had enough to drink things around him seemed to change… they became friendlier, more comfortable and pleasant and he didnt feel threatened or sickened by what he saw. But the longer he went without drinking the darker things became, the more painful life became… everything around him became unbearable. It seemed like there was nothing but killing and hurt… always hurt… the kind of hurt that stays inside and just keeps growing and gnawing until it takes over everything in you… always hurt…
   That was why the Bowery was so ideal. In other places when everything got gray and ugly there was always a small part of him that would remember and remind him that it wasnt always like that, that he had actually looked around and liked what he saw… at times loved it… loved it with a depth of feeling and involvement, and all he could do was drink to try and re-kindle that feeling of love… of beauty… the conflict consuming him.
   But the more he drank the more impossible it became to stay, so he had to move on, always feeling the pain of a crying child or a straggly cat, occasionally being brought to tears by the beauty of a flower or a budding tree.
   But on the Bowery when he felt that all the beauty had been squeezed from the world and there was nothing but grayness and hurt, he could look around and know he was right because the world he saw was precisely that, and so there was no conflict. The ugliness was real and the wine painted over that and he could go his way, alone, washing dishes, junking, finding some place to nest alone and talk and sing softly to himself and his coat, and drink himself to a state of unconsciousness.
   Harrys feeling of anxiety and grief increased with the passing of each day, and so, though it was snowing and cold when they told him all his test results were fine and he would be discharged soon, he was relieved.
   Before he was discharged he was visited by the psychiatrist again. He asked Harry what he was going to do when released. More alert than before, he was still confused by the psychiatrist. It seemed that he just could not mean what he said and Harry was trying to understand what it was the psychiatrist wanted. Go home.
   The psychiatrist looked at the chart, Wheres that? They dont seem to have it on here.
   Harry frowned, The Bowery.
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Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
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Apple iPhone 6s
   The Bowery? Why would you go there?
   I live there.
   The psychiatrist made a note. But wouldnt you like to do something better with your life? Like get a good job and be a productive member of society?
   Harry shook his head, I work.
   The psychiatrist made another note. Washing dishes isnt much of a job.
   Harry just looked, trembling slightly inside.
   Now that you are free from alcohol you should be able to find a place to live with nicer surroundings.
   Harry shook his head, his confusion showing in his expression.
   The psychiatrist made a note. Would you like to go some place to rest and get some help in evaluating your—Harry was shaking his head—life and not go back to that old environment?
   Harry was still shaking his head, No… no, no nut house.
   Well now, thats not really—Harry continued shaking his head—the proper way to… the psychiatrist looked at Harry intently, disbelief in his expression and voice, Dont you want to better yourself?
   Harry stopped shaking his head and stared at the psychiatrist, almost wanting to explain to him that he had found the most comfortable life he had ever had and was going to stay there, but could summon up neither the necessary energy nor the desire. Now at least the psychiatrist was no longer a problem to Harry, the enigma was solved: he was jut another dogooder trying to get involved in someone elses life. Harry stopped frowning and even started to relax slightly…. Im fine.
   The psychiatrist looked at Harry, exasperated, then slammed the metal binder on the record shut and left.
   On the day of his discharge a ward attendant was sent to get Harrys clothing, and Harry started to pace. The tension in his body became more and more acute as he looked at the drab ugliness around him, then out the window at the snow and the trees bending in the wind. He felt the heat from the radiator, then touched his nose to the cold window….
   then turned and started pacing again.
   After half an hour he went to the nurses station and asked where his clothes were. He was told to relax, that the attendant would be back shortly. He started pacing again, his anxiety and tension becoming so intense he felt brittle, walking from one end of the floor to the other, from time to time looking out the window.
   Eventually the charge nurse decided to call and see where the attendant was, assuming he was goldbricking. When she spoke to the clerk in the clothing room she was told that the attendant was still there, that Mr. Wrights clothing could not be found but they were still looking. Well, you tell Walter to come back to the ward and when you find his clothing give us a call. Ward B3W.
   Harry caught bits of the tail end of the conversation, Whats that? Cant they find my coat?
   They seem to be having some difficulty Mr. Wright, but -
   The color instantly drained from Harrys face and his legs weakened, Ive got to have my coat. He leaned against the counter in the nurses station. I got to have my coat!
   Just relax Mr. Wright. Dont upset yourself.
   Harry was trembling and staring at them, Wheres the clothing room? I’ll find it. Where do they keep the -
   Mr. Wright—spoken authoratitively—you must relax or youll have a relapse and -
   Just tell me where the room is. I’ll find my coat. I’ll find it… Harry was clinging desperately to the counter, feeling weaker by the second, the room starting to spin, his vision blurring… he could no longer feel his feet or legs. He started to sag, semiconscious and sobbing almost incoherently as he relived his long fight to save his coat, feeling the death-like emptiness of separation from the most valuable thing in his life, a friend that was at least as valuable as his life itself…
   He pulled himself to his feet and pleaded with them to tell him where the clothes room was, I can find my coat… I know I can… I can find it anywhere… I -
   Mr. Wright please, you must con -
   Walter returned from the clothes room, dropping the clothes receipt on the counter, They cant find his clothes anywhere, Miss Wilson.
   Let me look, I can find it… and Harry continued to plead and tremble and cling desperately to the counter as a nurse tried to quiet him.
   Miss Wilson glanced at the papers quickly then asked Walter what name the clerk had looked under?
   Whatever names on there I guess.
   She showed him the admission sheet, He was a John Doe when he was admitted. See, theres also an I.D. number. Mr. Wright, what sort of clothing did you have?
   A big army coat. I can find it in a minute…
   Miss Wilson called the clothing room and told them what to look for, and what name and number.
   It seemed like forever to Harry as he remained suspended between life and death, the only thing proving to him that he was alive was the curious pain twisting and clawing within him, but in just a few minutes Walter was back with Harrys clothes. They had been sterilized, but they still looked and smelled funky and Walter carried them at arms length from him and wrinkled his nose. Harry grabbed his clothes and hugged them to him, almost crying, and rushed to the mens room to get dressed. He sat on a commode half laughing, half crying, hugging and cradling his coat, telling it how much he loved it and had been waiting for it and he would not have let them keep him away that he didnt have to worry that no matter what happened he would have found him… rocking back and forth, tears rolling down his cheeks, sobbing and laughing with relief…
   Harry started down the hospital steps when a gust of wind blew snow in his face and momentarily blinded him. He grabbed the hand rail, feeling the cold metal on his hand and the wind biting his face. He pulled his watch cap down around his ears and yanked the large collar of his great coat up around his head and nestled deep into his coat like a butterfly in a cocoon and smiled from deep inside himself. He could feel the cold on his nose and the warmth of his body. His coat was even warmer than he remembered. His lovely and wonderful coat.
   The wind stopped and he went down the stairs, holding the railing, the ground slippery and treacherous. When he reached the bottom he shoved his cold hands in his pockets and looked around. There were large snow banks on the sides of the street, its gray filth showing through the whiteness of the newly fallen snow. He started walking cautiously, over the patches of ice everywhere, feeling his body moving inside his coat, hearing the wind and feeling the snow and laughing at them.
   He walked carefully down the street to the first liquor store and bought a pint of muscatel. As soon as he got outside he took a drink, standing still long enough to experience it going down and through his body, knowing soon the drabness and ugliness would be tolerable. He put the bottle in his pocket and started walking toward the bus stop. Soon he would be back on the Bowery and he would find a nice deserted building to nest in and leisurely drink his wine, then softly talk and sing to himself and his coat.
   He stood with the wind at his back, cuddled in the warmth of his coat, his entire being happy and glowing. He rubbed his cheek against the collar, its roughness reassuring him. They were together. They could take anything together… do anything together… survive anything together… He loved his coat… and his coat loved him… and they were together. That was the important thing. No one… nothing could separate them. And as long as they were together theyd make it. Yeah… theyd make it…
   The bus came and he hopped aboard and Harry Wright headed home. He was warm… He was safe…
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Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
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The Musician

   Harold got out of bed at 7am, a few minutes before the alarm was set to sound, put on his slippers, his robe and went to the bathroom. He thought briefly of telling Virginia that he would not have soft boiled eggs for breakfast, but dismissed the thought almost before it formed. He brushed his teeth, then hung his robe on the hanger behind the door, put his pajamas in the hamper, then, after carefully adjusting the water temperature with minute turns of the valves, stepped into the shower stall. When he finished he rubbed himself briskly, put on his robe and shaved. He then combed and brushed his hair neatly into place, then dressed, except for his tie and jacket.
   When he got to the kitchen his sisters and his eggs were waiting, Virginia pouring his coffee, Helen, of course, feeding puss, her floor-length robe wrapped tightly around her thinness. Good morning Harold, have a good sleep?
   Yes Virginia, I did. How about you?
   She nodded, O fine, thank you.
   The radio was tuned to a news station and they all listened dutifully to the complete weather report and forecast. When it was over Helen sat down. Well, it sounds like its going to be a nice day.
   Harold was in the process of returning his cup to its saucer, Thats good to hear. How did you sleep, Helen?
   O, fair to middlin. You know, my back…
   Virginia and Harold nodded and Virginia looked at Harold. Yes I know. Maybe you should see Dr. Winslow? Virginia nodded and looked at Helen.
   Maybe I will if it doesnt let up soon.
   Harold listened to his toast crunching, transposing it into the beat of a metronome. When he finally swallowed he took another drink of coffee. Virginia smiled, What will you be playing tonight Harold?
   He looked at his sister for a moment, I thought maybe a Beethoven sonata.
   O, that would be splendid. Dont you agree, Helen?
   Helen thought for a moment, as was expected of her position of being the oldest. Yes I think so. Be sure to dust the piano, Virginia.
   O, of course, she smiled at both of them, Its the first thing I do each morning.
   Well, I must get to my African violets, and Helen stood and left the kitchen.
   And I must be getting to the office. Harold dabbed his lips with his napkin then went back to his rooms to finish dressing. The old house suited their needs admirably, each having a suite of rooms, Harolds upstairs, the ladies downstairs. And too, each had been born in the house and lived their lives there, Helen 71 years, Virginia 67 years, and Harold 53 years. A lifetime.
   Harold inspected his jacket for traces of lint, then finished dressing before going down stairs, stairs that at one time, many, many years past, he would run and jump down, or even slide down the banister once or twice maybe, until mother stopped him and from then properly decended the stairs. By the time he got back downstairs Helen had finished with the African violets and had picked up puss’s bowls. Cats are nice, but a house must be kept tidy. Harold put on his hat and though it was a clear and sunny day, with a forecast of temperatures in the seventies, Harold put on his raincoat just in case.
   Dont forget your briefcase, Harold, and Virginia handed it to him.
   I wouldnt, Virginia. He took the briefcase and pecked her on the cheek, then Helen, and left the house.
   He noted, without realizing, the cracks in the sidewalk, noting the difference between now and 5 years ago, 10 years ago, and now and many years ago. At one time they were counted with childish fascination, but that too passed as did the running up and down the stairs. Just as did the desire to be a concert pianist. Mother would not hear of that either…
   Dad had been dead for many years by then… or at least it seemed like many years, having been very young when dad passed away. Some things were precisely etched in the rock of his memory and others were vague… just vague…
   No, mother would not approve of that either. Playing the piano was not for a man, just as running up and down stairs or counting the cracks in the pavement was not for a boy. The law was for a man. Lawyers were men of substance. And after passing the bar mother allowed him a piano and he took lessons. She even listened to him later on. A little bit…
   He walked up the street noticing the bursting green of the trees and felt a smile floating through him. It took 7 minutes to walk to the subway station, a few seconds to buy a paper, and then down to the platform.
   When he got on the train he put his briefcase between his feet and read his paper. He was always nervous about the briefcase and worried that someone might trip over it. From time to time he could feel himself blush when he accidentally tapped someone with it. He had never wanted to carry a briefcase. He did not carry work home. He never had that much responsiblity. But he had to admit that mother was right, it did seem to create an air of prestige. But still, it was an annoyance at times.
   He nodded and smiled at his fellow employees and walked through the rooms to his office. He hung up his hat and coat and sat at his desk and looked at his calendar. It was Monday and he could call today. Not now. Later. And perhaps he would say a little more to her today, after all, there really was not a valid reason for only saying hello, how are you? and then, goodbye, have a nice day. Well, we’ll see what happens. For now, work. He took a file from the neat pile on the left corner of his desk and studiously went through each page, making notes, then evaluated the problem, made a few more notes, then reviewed everything again, briefly noting what he thought should be done, and then thought again for a few minutes, tapping the tips of his fingers together, reviewed his notes carefully and thoroughly, then dictated a detailed memo and letter, and when he finished he attached the dictation belt to the file and carefully placed it on top of the neat pile of folders on the right hand side of his desk, which was closest to the door so his secretary could get them more readily. He sat back for a moment, brushed a few bits of paper dust from his desk, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. He listened to it ringing, wetting his lips slightly, and after the second ring he adjusted himself in his chair, waiting expectantly for her voice. He listened for a second then said, Hello. He continued listening, smiling, nodding his head, moving his body ever so slightly as if listening to a piece of music. When he replaced the phone on the cradle he continued to smile and leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, hands in front of his face, tapping his finger tips together. Her voice was so lovely. He could still hear it floating to join all those final notes of arias…
   He remembered the first time he had heard Renata Tebaldi. He had not expected it. He had just turned on the radio and heard a voice that forced him to sit down, immediately, and listen and thrill to the exquisite tones, the incredible artistry… O, it was so exciting, just he alone in his rooms, making such a divine discovery. And then, shortly after that evening, he saw her sing Mimi. She was so gorgeous, her voice so sublime. Tremors of excitement still tingled within him when he remembered that evening. And though it was a bitter cold night he waited at the stage door for her and when she finally came out and greeted her group of admirers—no! worshippers—he almost swooned she was so devestatingly beautiful, everything about her shimmered… her black hair, her incredible mink coat, her skin, her jewelry and her eyes… O those eyes… he stared and stared and was so transfixed that he almost forgot to ask for her autograph… and the smile when she took the pen and program… O, what a rapturous smile….
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   He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, hands clasped, sighed almost inaudibly, then slowly opened his eyes and looked at the phone, leaning foreward slightly. Perhaps he would call again later and say a little more to her, just a few words perhaps. He brushed a few more pieces of paper dust from his desk and took the next file from the pile on the left.
   At noontime he finished making notes on the file he was reviewing and left for lunch. He looked out the window, first at the people in the street, then up at the cloudless sky, and decided to leave his coat in the office and just wear his suit jacket and hat.
   The restaurant was elegant and quiet and he smiled diffidently when he handed the check girl his hat. The Maitre'd bowed, Good afternoon Mr. Livingston. Im afraid your usual table is occupied, but I can give you another close by. Harold smiled, That will be fine. Harold sat and the waiter came over immediately, Good afternoon sir. Harold smiled and nodded properly. Will you have the special sir? Yes, I think I will have the duckling, thank you. And a tomato juice cocktail sir? Yes, please.
   Harold sipped his tomato juice and looked around surreptitiously, vaguely wondering what the drinks tasted like that were being served. He did not care for cocktails, but he thought he might, just might, have a martini sometime, but the thought was fleeting and tenuous.
   He enjoyed his lunch and briefly wondered how many different waiters had served him since he had been coming here???? My goodness, there really wouldnt be any way of knowing. Or Maitre'ds or hat check girls or washroom attendants or boot blacks or… he smiled and chuckled inwardly, or even how many ducklings. Maybe tomorrow he would try to… Hmmm, tomorrow… stuffed veal chops… Just might be able to, you know. Only been on the menu a few years. He brushed his lips lightly with the napkin one last time, then got up and left the restaurant.
   He stood just outside the door for a moment, then slowly edged into the lunch-hour crowd and walked to a nearby department store. He browsed quickly in the racks of ties then went to the lingerie department and walked slowly around the display cases looking at the many items on the countertops, in the cases, and especially on the manikins. A few times he brushed his hand against the sheer softness of the garments and allowed his body to give voice to a slight tingle of excitement. He continued strolling through the department for a few more minutes, then left and returned to his office.
   He worked on a few more files until about four oclock when he called again. There was that delicious feeling of anticipation as the second ring faded and he heard the click that meant that he would be hearing her voice: Hello, this is the recorded information line for the Stuyvesant Museum. If you are calling for other than General Information, please call—He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk—the new sculpture garden is now open during regular museum hours. In it are works by 19th and 20th century American and European artists. In the Willnymer Gallery there is a special showing of 14th and 15th century Japanese prints, now through the end of the month. The exhibition consists—he was smiling as he listened and gently brushed his cheek with the fingertips of his right hand, allowing her voice to flow through him in gentle, soothing currents that made his body feel unaccustomedly alive with an unknown energy—program of lectures, music and dance recitals are scheduled for the evenings. Tonight is a performance of traditional Indian dances related to Shiva. Tomorrow the Bartholemew Quartet will play the music of Handel, Beethoven, and Bartok, while on—His smile broadened, Yes, I think thats wonderful, and he felt a slight flush at hearing himself, and was silent again as he did not want to miss too much of her voice—for ticket information call the museum ticket office. Admission to the Dunbar Gallery is always free where fine paintings, sculptures, graphics—he nodded his head and closed his eyes as little dots of light flashed by and images flowed through his body. He was still brushing his cheek and smiling when he told her her voice was beautiful, then quickly silenced so he could listen—If you have missed any part of this recording—Her voice blended in with the music it created within him and he felt it as well as heard it and his body once again moved in time to it—Thank you for calling the Stuyvesant Museum and have a nice day. He did not hear the click, he was still experiencing the music…
   He replaced the phone and continued to keep his eyes closed until the music started to ebb, then he opened them and leaned back in his chair and sighed almost inaudibly as his minds eye watched the music drift away…
   then he looked at the phone, Have a nice day. He breathed deeply and took another file from the pile on the left side of his desk.
   At five oclock he closed the file he was working on, brushed the paper dust off his desk, put his pencils and pens in their proper place, and did the same with everything else, centering his calendar just so, and put the morning paper in his briefcase before leaving.
   He read the evening paper on the way home, and when he arrived he hung up his coat, put away his hat, and gave Virginia the morning paper. She loved to read the bridge game and work the crossword puzzle. Thank you, Harold.
   Youre quite welcome, Virginia, and he pecked her on the cheek. Then he pecked Helen. How did everything go today?
   Fine, Harold. How was your duckling?
   O, it was good.
   Not too salty?
   No, no, as a matter of fact it was just right.
   O, I am happy to hear that. You have to be careful with duckling, you know. Very greasy.
   Yes, I know. But it was rendered properly. He started upstairs to his rooms.
   Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Harold.
   Fine, Helen.
   We’re having a little change tonight.
   O?
   Yes. We're having peas and carrots with the lamb rather than cauliflower.
   O, good. Good, and he continued up the stairs. He hung up his jacket and turned on his phonograph and put on a recording of arias sung by Renata Tebaldi. As he listened he looked through his carefully filed collection of autographed pictures of opera stars and took out his favorite of her and glanced at it from time to time, hearing his Monday voice blending in an extraordinary way with Tebaldi… O, how he loved Monday nights. The music of her voice was still with him, and the exquisite magic of Tebaldi, both carressing him as he sat in his chair, all those glorious dreams of music flowing from his soul through his hands as the poets voice read lyrics that invited him to find the melody to clothe them, and he breathed deeply as the experience of those memories was once more reawakened, not to be re-imagined, as the images had long since been distilled and annihilated, but their memory was still there… the imagined joys were still there… the ecstasies were still there… hidden away in the warm folds of his brain where they could never be destroyed by any hand, and though the once brilliant images of concert halls and applause were now only flashes of light passing by his closed eyes, the experience, O, God, the tingle of the experience breathed itself eternally in his soul and he held Tebaldis picture in his hand, his attitude and all his being a prayer of thanks to her and the music and his Monday voice as he listened with his heart…
   At dinner each reviewed their day and they smiled and chatted pleasantly, each trying to make the others happy. Virginia was almost shaking with excitement as she related to Harold what had happened at the supermarket. It was just about the most frightening thing that has ever happened to me.
   Really? What was it?
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   She smiled at Helen, I have already told Helen, but I was checking the eggs—to make certain they werent cracked you know—Harold nodded—when all of a sudden there was the most terrible explosion—Helen started to giggle—it really was you know, Helen. I know dear, Im sorry. Harold smiled and looked at them, but said nothing. Well, there was this terribly dreadful explosion and I dropped the carton of eggs—in the case so no damage was done, thank goodness—but I was trembling so badly I could not move. Finally, after what seemed ages, a clerk came by and I asked him what had happened—I thought there were gangsters trying to rob the store—and he told me someone had dropped a seltzer bottle—Helen started giggling again and Harold smiled then chuckled and Virginia grinned, I know it seems silly now, but I was absolutely terrified. And then, to top it off, I forgot the eggs, and she started giggling too.
   After dinner they continued chatting as they drank coffee. Eventually Helen asked Harold if he was ready. Yes, I think so.
   Good.
   O good. The table was cleared and the dishes set to soak while they went to the parlor. Harold sat at the piano and rubbed his hands for a few minutes, played a few scales, then turned to his sisters, shall I play the Appassionata?
   O yes, do.
   That would be wonderful, Harold.
   He turned to the piano, straightened his back and looked at the keyboard for a moment, then started playing. With the first contact of his fingers with the keys he felt transformed and transported. It was not just that he was no longer Harold Livingston age 53, bachelor, lawyer, living with his two unmarried sisters; or that he transcended his daily life and was now a concert pianist. He transcended even that. He simply became a part of the music. But not a part of the music he played, but the music Beethoven wrote. Many times, through the many years, Harold tried to believe he was hearing something other than what he was playing, but his ear was too keen. There certainly was passion in his playing. And power. And the arpeggios were clear and distinct. He knew his playing was inspired and he had great respect for the music, but he also knew that there was a slight stiffness and imperfection of technique. But what he did not hear was of even greater importance than what he did, for he did not hear the brilliance of imagination, that rush of genius that made for greatness which was the only flaw that practice could not erase… not now. But Harold had long since stopped hearing the notes coming from the piano and listened instead to the music that came from his heart, the music that was in the soul of the notes. This is what Harold heard as he watched his fingers moving across the keyboard, and what flowed through his being…
   When he finished he sat still for a moment, still experiencing the music, then smiled and turned and looked at his applauding sisters who were thrilled beyond words, having heard the greatest rendition of the Appassionata ever performed. He stood and bowed and walked over to his sisters. Thank you. Thank you.
   O it was marvellous, Harold, simply marvellous.
   O yes, it was the finest I have ever heard.
   I'll go make some hot chocolate for us to have with our cake. O, how I love Monday nights.
   Before retiring Harold played the Sviatoslav Richter recording of the Appassionata, his eyes closed, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, hands in front of his face, fingertips touching slightly. He heard the music… From time to time he smiled and nodded his head in approval, feeling a sensation of wholeness as the music within him matched the music without. When the music stopped he continued sitting for many minutes with his eyes closed until the flashing lights vanished. He got up and put the record carefully in its jacket. Virginia is quite right about Monday, though it is not just the night that is wonderful.
   He undressed and hung everything in its proper place, put on his pajamas and robe and went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then rinsed his mouth. He looked in the mirror, then turned off the light and went back to his bedroom. He lay on his back for a few moments feeling the silence, then thought that perhaps he would not have boiled eggs for breakfast… but he did not have to make that decision now. He turned on his side, closed his eyes, and slept.
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