Allen C. Sharp

Chapter Three

“One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three…”

“What are you doing?” said Valerie.

“Counting,” said Warren.

“What are you counting?”

“Nothing.”

Warren stood up and walked outside.

Valerie picked up the phone.

Valerie watched Warren through the picture window.

Warren slumped into a lounge chair on the veranda. Valerie could see his lips moving.

“I’m watching him. He’s outside,” said Valerie, “He’s talking to himself.”

Warren smiled.

“Now he’s smiling, looking at something on the river. Now he’s looking at his shoes.”

Warren bent over at the waist. He let his arms fall, and he traced the mortar between the bricks with his middle finger.

“He’s doing something with a bug on the ground. Playing with it looks like.”

Warren straightened and let his eyes follow the horizon. With his hands, he made the shape of binoculars and looked through them with squinty eyes.

“Hobby horsing,” said Warren, “boats are hobby horsing.”

“Here he comes. He’s coming back in. I’ll call you later.”

Warren closed the door behind him.

Valerie handed Warren his mid-day medicines, and he popped them into his mouth.

“Did you see the boats?”

“No,” said Valerie.

Warren turned and walked to his room. Valerie shook her head and walked outside where Warren had been.

Warren lay on his bed and counted the tiles in the ceiling.

“I can talk now. I gave Warren his noontime pills. He’ll be out for a while.”

For the last year, Valerie had dispensed Warren’s medicines, and no one knew he was swallowing them down and puking them right back up. He awoke each morning to a world he had never known.

* * *

Warren called them dwellings for the delusional. His favorite was Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital, two adjoining six-story brownstones on the Upper East Side with a river view. Warren wondered why it was named Timberlawn. There was no timber, and there was no lawn. He asked his therapist if she knew why. She said it was a silly question and very annoying. Warren reasoned she was silly and very annoying.

The afternoon progressed into evening, storm clouds formed over Long Island, and the air was full and heavy.

“Warren, wake up,” said Valerie. “We’re going out for dinner. Wash your face and get the sleepies out of your eyes. It’s a nice place we’re going and I want you to wear the clothes I picked.”

“May I pick them?”

“You’ll look a ragamuffin, remember, I told you.”

After Valerie left, he took off his clothes and put on skinny jeans, penny loafers with no socks, a white linen shirt, and a burgundy, corduroy jacket. He rolled his sleeves back and let his shirt tail hang below the hem of his jacket. He washed his face, brushed his hair, and entered the living room.

“Ready,” he said.

Valerie hung up the phone and said to Warren, “Those aren’t– You look– I must say, you look– Never mind. Let’s go.”

They walked up Central Park West, and when they passed Cornell Medical Center, Warren stopped, came to attention, and executed a hand salute.

“What in forever are you doing?”

“I’m bidding adieu to Dr. Halibut.”

“Adieu! That’s French. You don’t speak French. Makes you look addle-brained. Do you like that?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’ve brought your eight o’clock meds. Help me remember– never mind. I’ll remember myself,” said Valerie. “Hurry, Warren, my friends are waiting.”

“Fashionably late,” muttered Warren.

“Say again, I didn’t hear you.”

“Va te faire mettre.”

“Whatever,” said Valerie. “And Warren, try not to act out. This is a hawt place.”

The bar was long and mahogany with a brass boot rail, and the room was the kind of crowded that meant something. Valerie had made reservations, and she and her friends were seated at a large table in the middle of the dining room and one, small table by the front window for Warren.

“I’ve ordered a ham sandwich for you,” Valerie said.

Valerie walked to her table.

Warren sat with his hands in his lap and looked out the window. In the light rain, he saw the doorman and he saw a police officer arguing with a prostitute. The prostitute’s skirt was incredibly short.

The waiter brought his sandwich. Warren stood, picked up the two halves, and wrapped them in a napkin. He walked out the front door, nodded to the doorman, and stepped between the arguing policeman and the prostitute.

“Excuse me,” said Warren.

” Excuuuse meee, too,” said the officer in a Brooklyn accent, “back up,” he yelled, “you’re interfering–”. The officer drew his nightstick.

“Robin?” said Warren. “are you ready, my dear?”

“Robin? Dear? What the hell?” the irate policeman said.

“My fiancee. We must be at the Cort Theater by the first call, and time’s a-wasting.”

“Pardon me, uh, my mistake, oh my, I uh,” said the policeman, “you want I should hail you a taxi?”

“No, we’ll catch a buggy.”

Warren and the prostitute walked around the corner and stopped.

“Look, mister, thanks for that, but the price of the game is still the same. One hundred.”

“I appreciate the offer but–”

“Offer’s quarter off since you done it.”

Warren looked at the dog hair on her black coat and the leash coiled in her pocket.

“Thank you. I’ll-” said Warren. “I brought you a sandwich. Half for you and half for your dog. What’s his name?”

“Molly. She’s a–”

“Here, take this Benjamin and this sandwich and go home, it’s about to rain a downpour. And give Molly a kiss from me.”

* * *

The wide-eyed doorman who watched the interplay let Warren into the restaurant, and Warren signaled to his waiter on the way to his table.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“La soupe à l’oignon, avec du fromage supplémentaire,” said Warren. “Et un verre de la maison rouge, s’il vous plaît.”

“Très bien, monsieur.”

Warren leaned back and watched the rain streak the window and smiled at something private. The waiter broke his thought and brought the cup of soup and the glass of red wine.

“Merci,” said Warren.

The waiter smiled and bowed.

“Bon appétit,” he said.

It was an excellent soup, made better with extra cheese on top. The wine was good, too.

“Fini?” said the waiter.

“Oui,” said Warren, “et un verre d’armagnac. And, please, I’ll be at the bar. You may serve me there.”

Warren moved to the bar and sat between two paunchy old men in brown suits and wide ties. The men were bickering.

“Bollocks!” said one, “in the morning, I am long on March bills at the bell.”

The other one said, “You’ll have a heart attack when all is said and done, be forewarned.”

“Gentlemen,” said Warren, “if you don’t mind a stranger…”

The two men looked at him.

“Thursday. Fed report. Watch the money supply, and here’s what to look for–”

“Warren!” said Valerie, “What forever are you doing? Please excuse us, sirs. I’ve medication for my friend. He doesn’t think clearly sometimes.”

“If you don’t mind my saying,” said one man, “he thinks clearly enough and speaks… well, let’s hear what he has to say.” And then to Warren: “Are you a trader?”

“I read–”

“Reads? He plays with bugs,” said Valerie. “C’mon, dearie, it’s sprinkling and we have to get back before it rains buckets.”

“Buckets in your face, lady, leave the fella alone,” the other man said.

“He talks silly, wouldn’t you agree?” Valerie said.

“What exactly is your relationship with the young gentleman?” said one of the men.

“I’m his, I’m his–”

Warren got up, and he and Valerie left the restaurant.

When they got back, Valerie shut the door. “Warren, you shit, why do you have to make a scene every time I try to do something nice for you?”

“I’m addle-brained?” answered Warren.

She gave him a handful of pills.

“Going to my room, now,” said Warren.

“Not before I watch you swallow those pills,” said Valerie. “Acting the way you did in front of those gentlemen! You’d think you aren’t taking any medication at all!”

Warren swallowed the pills with un verre de tap water and went to his room.

Not before he went to the bathroom and puked.

* * *