Stephen Dixon: All Gone

Soon after that the buzzer rings and I say into the intercom “Susie?” and a voice says “It’s Mrs. Wright from the first floor front. If you had to throw your flowerpot through the window, I’d think you’d at least have the decency to come down and sweep it up.”

One day I’m just not in my right mind. That’s about the best way I can put it. I might have felt pretty bad other days but this day on the subway I’m really feeling things aren’t right in my head and I’m definitely not in my right mind. That’s closer. I’ll begin when and where. I’m heading uptown. The express. IND. Months ago. Heading to my girlfriend’s house. Not a girl, a woman. Her daughter’s the girl. I got my valise for the weekend. My rough work clothes, my good clothes and the clothes I got on. Also some shorts and sneakers in the valise so I can run once a day the two days I’ll be there. I’m going to help on her house. Fix up the basement with her. Plaster the floor, point up the brick walls as she says. What do I know from pointing? On the phone the night before she told me. Got a call from her. Big surprise: “Come up, all is forgiven, I love you very much. You must hate me by now the way I go back and forth in my emotions with you, but now I know how wrong I was and that you’re the man for me. Leonore misses you too.” Leonore’s her daughter. I call her Lee. So does her dad. “All right,” I said, “all is forgiven, and probably forgotten. I love you very much too, so when should I come up?”

“Right now if it was possible. But you won’t take off unless you’re really sick, so come up tomorrow after work.”

“All right. I’ll catch the 6:10 bus.”

“Just take the subway to the bus station and I’ll drive down and pick you up there.”

“Why bother? I’ll take the bus from the bus station and be in your cute little town by seven.”

That’s what it is. Cute. She too. Her daughter also. Their house, the town, the main street and surrounding countryside, all cute. “Till then, sweetheart,” and I said “Same here,” but felt a little as if I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing going up there. I’d thought it was over between us. Glad it’s not. All right, I’ll go. I want to be with her. I love them both. So I go to sleep, to work the next day and half past five I’m on the A train that’s to take me to the bus station at George Washington Bridge. But on the subway I suddenly feel peculiar. I don’t know what it is or where from. People looking at me strangely, maybe me at them too. The newspapers. Talk of war, other countries’ wars, sex, murder, scandals, gossip, all kinds of statistics and reports. People reading. Magazines too. The subway ads seem strange and horrible to me too. Everyone seems exhausted. Everything seems stupid and inhuman, like none of us should or don’t belong. Like I especially don’t belong. Subway rocking side to side. Screeching noises of passing trains and our train and whistles too. People pushing, some don’t. Getting off, on. I’m standing. Need a seat. None. Crowded. I’m feeling crowded in by everyone and it seems everything and I almost want to scream. I hold one back. I’m feeling scared. The subway. Where’s it going? Uptown the passing local stations say. Where am I going? Rochelle’s, or I’m not so sure. I’m sweating: back, neck and face. I wish I was there already where I’m going. Rochelle’s, but I don’t know if I belong there now. With her. Here. Anywhere in the world in fact. I have to get off. Maybe it’s some different kind of flu. I better wait till the train stops. It stops. I run upstairs. It’s not the bus-station stop. That one I know where everyone from the front cars jam themselves in to get on the bus-station stairs. I have to call someone. I get the wrong number.

“No Rochelle here. What number you want?”

“I forget.”

“Did you know what number when you dialed?”

“I’m not too sure.”

“No wonder you got the wrong number. Please don’t call again?”

“How can I if I don’t know your number?”

“Right.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling too good right now, honestly. I was calling a friend for help.” But he’s hung up. I go through my wallet. I can’t find her number. I always had it memorized. I know the area code is 914. Once I wrote her number down. When I first met her. On a library card. Now I remember. That I wrote it down. But that library card expired. I got a new one last year. Didn’t put her number on the new one because I remembered it by then. Whose? Rochelle’s? Rochelle Parker. 122 West Milner Street, Piermont, New York. I dial Information. I give Information Rochelle’s name, address and town. She tells me to dial out-of-town Information and gives me the number. I do. I get her number. I get Rochelle. “Rochelle, something crazy has happened. I suddenly feel all mixed up and so out of it you wouldn’t believe it and I don’t know why. Please come and get me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just told you. My head. I feel crazy.”

“You do sound a little crazy. You aren’t joking? You’re not calling from town?”

“I’m on 168th Street. Please come. I’m not kidding.”

“I will.”

I give her the address. I’m sitting on the cover of a garbage can when she comes. My valise I must have left on the train. I don’t care. Work clothes, good clothes, as long as I got some clothes on. I get in the car and she drives. She says “What’s wrong?” “Rochelle,” I say, hugging her at a stoplight, wanting to be held. She takes me to her home, puts me to bed. I stay there for two days. Lee’s away with her dad and his new wife. Rochelle feeds me broth, tea and toast, says it’s probably only a very bad Asian-type flu I have which sometimes does weird things to the mind. “That’s what I think too,” but by Sunday she says “Maybe we’re both wrong.” She takes me to her G.P. He examines and talks to me and recommends a special public health hospital in the county. He calls and they say for me to come by later that afternoon. Just before we leave for the hospital, Lee and her dad drive up to the house.

“You going so soon?”

“Afraid I have to.”

“But you never go till Monday morning. And Dad got me two new card decks so you and I can play Spit.”

“I’ll explain later,” Rochelle says to them both.

The two admitting doctors ask me what I think is wrong. I tell them I don’t know, it’s tough to explain, I’m sure it started on the subway, but I don’t feel as if I can go on with my life the way it is, at one point I thought it was just the world in general, the whole world, I don’t know how other people are able to face it, but right now I can’t. I feel terrible, not suicidal, just scared, confused, closed in, claustrophobic, strange feelings about everything in my head that make me sweat something awful and my body shake right down to my legs which I’ve never had anything quite like before. They say they understand. I say “You do?” Would I put myself in here for two to four weeks, maybe more, but a minimum of ten days? I look at Rochelle. She says “I think it’s the best thing you can do.” We kiss and she leaves. They give me drugs, a complete physical exam, a room to share with a very quiet man, want me to see a therapist twice a day just to speak. I tell her it suddenly came on me on the subway. She says it suddenly didn’t and has probably been coming on for years, maybe since early childhood. “My childhood was great, so don’t give me that.” “You must have thought and still think your childhood was great and no doubt many parts of it were, but let’s talk about it some more tomorrow, okay?”

We talk about my dead parents and older brother, who died in a bathtub. I say I loved all three very much. She says I may have loved them and very much but also could have feared them very much too. “Not true,” I say, “as they never did anything like even raise a pinky finger to me to make me feel afraid.” “Maybe you’re right,” she says, “or maybe you’ve forgotten or don’t want to think about it and haven’t wanted to for twenty or so years, but let’s talk about it some more this evening, okay?”