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.
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 -