Page 15 - WTP Vol. X #2

soever (“isn’t that your arm you’re leaning on?”, or, “you’re sitting on it, that’s where it is,” or, “wouldn’t it be best to just stop worrying about it and eat your lunch?”) and then his mind would fall into a com- plete muddle, like one of those jigsaws he used to
do with all those tiny pieces all jumbled up in a pile, pieces which never seemed to fit together no matter which way you jiggled them, and he would mumble and groan in such a way that drowned out the beautiful sound of the morning birds. And then he would call out in despair—to his mother or his wife or someone whose name he could not quite remem- ber—and, suddenly, the room would stop. Still, he would smile kindly at the woman sitting beside him who kept begging to help him (how pitiful, he would think, that she had nothing better to do), for one should never be rude, no matter the circumstances, one should never indicate the least bit of petulance. That’s what his mother had taught him. That’s the way he had been brought up. That’s the way he had always conducted his life.
~
So one day, when he was in an especially petulant mood and the birds, it seemed, had flown south (for he could no longer hear them, could not make them out through the wash of sounds and images that had recently overcome him), a man came by—a rather large man, it seemed, for he took up the entire space and left no room for anyone else to pass. And this man, whoever he was, sat down, or so it appeared, and pulled out an extra-long pencil and a very thin sheet of paper and began to speak, or perhaps not, for the words seemed to come from nowhere and they hung in the air like raindrops which continu- ally pelted him in a shower of confusion that an- noyed him even more than the man’s presence. For all he knew, they could have been anything—a truck speeding down the hallway or a pair of eyes blinking loudly—and every once in a while, he could make out something incomprehensible, nothing, though, that made as much sense to him as the sound of the clock ticking silently on the wall.
Things like: “your name” or “born” or “2+.” All silly
things. All questions, if questions they were, he’d an- swered correctly he was sure, though the man never seemed to be quite satisfied (as if he knew what the answers were better than he did). Because he’d start to answer (“2+”) and the man would wander off or just wouldn’t listen, he wasn’t sure which, because he’d keep asking the same thing, over and over, and end up confusing the matter, and then Salvatore Vec- chio, for so he called himself, would spend the rest
of the day trying to remember the correct answer, if, indeed, there was any correct answer at all, and the questions would bounce around in his head like tiny balls he could never seem to catch and then he would get so exasperated he would scream, because the words would haunt him and the balls evade him and the woman (yes, it was a woman, he was sure) would keep asking, over and over, and then strangers would appear, strangers all, and hold him tight (“get a hold of yourself”), pick him up and put him down in his bed, though he’d complain he wasn’t sleepy at all and then, suddenly, they would disappear and the lights would disappear and the room would disappear and he’d find himself in the midst of a lovely park where the sheep were grazing and the cows were lowing and everything was so peaceful without all those an- noying birds and all those foolish people and he just wanted to stay there for the rest of his life, in peace and quiet, stay there with no one to irritate him.
~
It became like that. All the time now. He’d wake up and lose himself and strangers all would come to help him, without his asking, and then they’d ask the same silly questions and get angry and then they would whisk him off to that place he did not wish to go. And all the while calling out:
“Where’s Mama?”
And he would cry because he wanted to tell them that he had something very important to do but he couldn’t remember, but they just wouldn’t listen to him, the birds wouldn’t listen, and the morning eggs would just sit there and ogle him and everyone would just keep prattling like monkeys, Mama wasn’t here they would say, though he knew she was because he had just seen her.
“Mama,” he remembered, because it was right. “Sol,” she would say, looking around. “Where’s Sol?” “Sol is here.” Yes, that was it. It was Sol.
“Where’s Sol?” Where was Sol? Poor Sol. Poor Sol, he
was lost.
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