My face was hurting from trying not to laugh. The character focused on me, “You like girls? I got a great place with girls.” Zim said, “Are they virgins?” Guy was like, “Some, yeah.” Then out of the blue, the character asked, “You guys don’t have any weapons on you, knives or anything?” Zim and I got all blank-faced. So this was what was going down. No girls. Something else.

We entered this apparently empty building, and followed the guy up a short stairway. At the landing, we encountered two thugs waiting in the shadows to pounce. Zim didn’t hestitate, he just lowered his head, butted the chest of the first one, grabbed him around and flipped him. Punches flew. I fell backwards down the stairs, which must have been when I cut my forehead. A lot of shouting and cursing, like we were the ones who had done something wrong. Zim grabbed me by the collar and dragged me out the door. Probably saved my life. We tried to flag a police cruiser, but the cops had no interest in two knuckleheads on a dark street. We had to hike all the way up to the Roosevelt ER. Since I was bleeding all over the floor, they took me right in.

We spent the rest of the night hoisting free drinks while recounting the story of our battle and my wound. I woke up at six a.m. on the floor of my bathroom, my house keys in my hand.

Five messages from Katie on the answering machine. I guess we’re back together.

October 18, 2006

Found John in the day room parked in his wheelchair. Another six people were scattered around the room, also in wheelchairs, oriented toward a widescreen TV upon which a chattering fat lady baked a batch of Christmas cookies. A pumpkin sat on the windowsill. A festive touch, like a bouquet thrown on a grave.

I wheeled John into a corner. He squinted at me, I said, “John, it’s me, Richard.”

He said, “Big deal. You wanna medal?” He looked away.

I said, “You know who I am.”

John replied, “I know you’re someone. Right? You’re someone? That I know. And I know that you’re someone I don’t know. I know that I don’t know. I don’t think, therefore I am.”

“Richard. I’m Richard. From the old days in Brooklyn. You told the doctor you knew me.” John smiled benignly. Was this an act? I continued: “The loft. Smoking weed. Talking about life. Knights of the Templar? Flesh-eating bacteria? Pentacostal miracles?”

“Richard. Okay. I get it. Get me the fuck outta this place, ‘Richard.’”

“I can’t.”

“You have any idea what I’m going through? I’m using my mind and then, boom, like a pothole in a road, a bump and I’m lost. I used to be a sharp guy.”

“I remember.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I loved listening to you.”

“Those were the days. Exactly when were those days?”

“In Brooklyn.”

“Yeah but exactly when were they?”