The Fall of Donnald Trummp, Sarrah Pallin, Hillary Clinnton, Anon1488 . . . And the Rise of The Coyote!: Yes that's right! It's a novel about the dis-united States of America!

By Nicholas Kyriacos

Outrageous farce, ludicrous satire and preposterous exaggeration embellish features of contemporary America as they collide in The Fall of Donnald Trummp etc: there are the white supremacists, the unemployed youth, the anorexic-inducing world of high fashion, gun violence, the BLM Movement, the glitzy show business nature of the electoral proces

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Kyriacos
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645666540

Nicholas Kyriacos

Nicholas Kyriacos lives and works in Sydney

Book preview

Part 1

July 31st

We are the most godless and most religious, the most puritanical and most libertine, the most charitable and most heartless of societies. We espouse the maxim that government is best which governs least yet look to government to address our every problem. Our environmental consciousness is outmatched only by our environmental recklessness. We are outlaws obsessed by the rule of law, individualists devoted to communitarian values, a nation of fat people with anorexic standards of beauty. The only things we love more than nature’s wilderness are our cars, malls, and digital technology. The paradoxes of the American psyche go back at least as far as our Declaration of Independence, in which slave owners proclaimed that all men are endowed by their creator with an unalienable right to liberty.

Robert Pogue Harrison

Extract from an article in The New York Review of Books

August 17th, 2017

God bless America

Chapter 1

Tim thought certain facts as he set off from Washington Heights for the hospital in The Bronx to visit Mother, who lay in a coma after collapsing several weeks previously the very moment after a certain Donnald Trummp had made the announcement that he was considering running for president in November of this year as an independent. Tim recited these certain facts so that were he to ever get lost he could communicate them to some kindly person who could then aid him in finding his way home. He went over these details every time he set off from the apartment complex which had been named, for reasons no-one in the short lane in which he lived knew or for reasons that made no sense to any of the locals, as The House of the Rising Sun. Such thoughts gave Tim a feeling of equilibrium, of balance, of order, the notion that all was well with his world and that he would, therefore, arrive safely at his destination. They alleviated a sense of unease he had about America. America made him nervous and anxious; and the word nervous, Tim knew, came from the Latin nervus, which meant sinew, while the word anxiety came from the Greek ankho, which meant to choke.

Tim knew that on this particular morning he had to take more time than was usually the case when considering these facts because he was about to set off without someone accompanying him for the first time since Mother had collapsed.

Tim set the timer on his cellphone.

These, then, are, the facts to which Tim gave thought:

I live in an apartment on the ground floor of a complex in Washington Heights, New York. The five apartments are owned by Miss Sophia Henckel, who lives in the penthouse. Hers is the only apartment with a balcony. This complex is in a narrow lane off Amsterdam Avenue. Those who live locally and our friendly postman know this lane as Miss H’s Lane, after Miss Henckel.

I am a gamer. A gamer is a person who plays video games. I work as a creator of video games. I also participate in role-playing games.

There are seven floors to this complex, if one includes the basement. I like using the word one. That is why I see it in bold font in my mind’s eye.

(Tim was disappointed that he used, once again, the expression in my mind’s eye, because it was a metaphor. Most metaphors upset Tim. Metaphors upset him because they are lies. He told himself that the next occasion he left for the hospital he would simply omit such words from his recitation and think: That is why I imagine it in bold font.)

My apartment is on two floors because I live on the ground floor and I have access to the basement where I spend much of my life playing games, and Miss Henckel’s apartment is on floors five and six.

Each of the apartments of the other three tenants are on a single floor, comprising one room measuring 31 feet and five inches by 22 feet and seven inches. Each room serves as the bedroom, living room, kitchen and dining area. The bathroom is the size of a large wardrobe.

Miss Henckel is very old. Jeremy Smithers, who lives in the apartment above Jimmy Durante, says Miss H will live forever because death is afraid of her. She watches dvds, old videos and documentaries and reads books and magazines on subjects which make her sometimes sad but usually extremely angry, such as The Holocaust, school shootings, the history of slavery in America and Black Lives Matter.

The proximity of The House of the Rising Sun affords its tenants pleasure in the neighborhood because it is close to Harlem River and Highbridge Park which is something I like to tell people because I love the sound of the word affords.

To the above thoughts (which took one minute and 40 seconds to recite), Tim now added the following:

On the fourth floor lives a tall young woman. Her name is Samantha Chow. Samantha has a huge ball of fuzzy black hair and narrow eyes with no eyelashes. The blind on her single window is down. No-one has seen her for two days. Everyone in The House of the Rising Sun is wondering if it’s because she’s upset at the recent school shooting.

These were facts. They could not be denied, questioned or refuted, three words which began, in the order in which Tim thought them, with the letters d, q and r. This meant that he’d thought them in alphabetical order. Thinking them in alphabetical order gave him comfort. It was what Tim often did. He even thought this to himself; that is, Tim thought, It was what Tim often did. Tim sometimes referred to himself in the second and third person. This also gave him a sense of security. It was why he sometimes imagined himself being in a movie. He’d watch himself doing whatever he was doing as if he was sitting in a cinema observing himself on the screen: counting the number of steps he made when he crossed Amsterdam Avenue to go for a walk in Highbridge Park, for example, or making a pot of tea on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday, or a cup of coffee on a Tuesday or Thursday. This enabled him to create an even greater sense of security because he could decide on the camera angles through which he could imagine himself observing himself and what type of soundtrack and sound effects accompanied him as he did this and that.

There was a time when Tim would also try to avoid using contractions, when he would say, for example, it is rather than it’s. Tim did not like contractions. He thought they were a blight on the language. He liked referring to contractions as a blight until he realized that such an expression was a metaphor after looking up the word blight in the dictionary he carried around with him everywhere he went: it meant a disease affecting plants; and it was at this moment that he understood that even he, much to his disappointment, found it difficult sometimes not to use metaphors. With the encouragement of Samantha and the doctor who attended Mother, Tim had overcome his abhorrence of contractions and, after much time and some agony, was now able to use them.

If Tim’d had the choice he would’ve existed in a world comprised solely of words. That way, he could’ve hidden from America for the rest of his life.

Tim took out from one of his many trouser pockets a drawing. This indicated which of the five apartments was the one in which he lived. Here is a copy of that drawing.

He’d drawn this illustration on the day that Mother had gone into a coma after her admission into the hospital, although her quietly-spoken doctor never used the word gone, preferring to say she’d slipped into a coma, but Mother hadn’t slipped or fallen and hit her head so why the nice doctor used that word was a thing of mystery to Tim. He frowned. Coma … He said the word out aloud. Co-ma. He thought that it was probably derived from the Greek word κωμα. He made a decision to look it up shortly in his dictionary. But first he had to stare hard at the drawing. He did this each time he set out from the complex to ensure he would not forget which apartment was his when he returned home, even though on all such previous occasions he’d been accompanied by a carer or someone from The House of the Rising Sun. He also did this in case he lost the paper on which the drawing had been made. Why he might forget such a simple fact when he was able to memorise, word for word, several pages of a novel or a speech someone made, or why he could not use his smartphone to direct him to Manhattan when he was a world-class gamer, he did not know. For Tim, these were also mysteries. And so he squinted with some intensity at the number of his apartment block and also the name of the avenue the lane ran off which Miss Henckel had written on the reverse side of the piece of paper. He knew that as much as the idea frightened him, he might have to show it to some kind soul in case he got lost and had to be pointed in the right direction, even though he was well aware that pointing in certain circumstances was an action some considered offensive.

Tim looked up to the fourth floor window hoping to see Samantha looking down at him and smiling. He cocked his head to one side. He thought, for the first time, that a more appropriate term for the building would have been The Finger as it was so narrow and tall.

Tim was reassured by all that he’d given thought to. After the sadness he’d felt following the latest school shooting he’d heard Miss Henckel, Jimmy Durante and Jeremy Smithers discussing, he’d managed to raise his own spirits by once again contemplating thoughts structured in complete sentences, ones which followed the subject/verb/predicate format. This bolstered his awareness, his clear-headed insight into, his impression, his presentiment, his reasoned understanding of … of calculated, conscious edifice, of intentional, purposive, wilful social anatomy –

He shook his head to stop the flow of words.

This was a good beginning to the day. He had alleviated his anxiety. It was important that he departed The House of the Rising Sun in a calm mood because of the fact that he was leaving for the hospital on his own. He knew that he’d be able to resume reading to Mother from his dictionary and, this being the last day of July, he would complete his recitation of words beginning with m. As a result, his interview for a job after his hospital visit would have a better chance of success. He was looking for a new job because The Dickless Boss, the woman who owned the gaming company for which he worked had, of late, reduced the amount of work she’d been giving him while increasing the work she’d been giving to Samantha Chow. Tim would not say the word Dickless because it was rude. On one occasion he did accidentally say it which meant he had to wash his mouth out with lots and lots of water.

He proceeded to check the six pockets in his trousers and the two in his shirt. And as he made his way through this ritual, after which he would be able to look up the word coma prior to setting off for the hospital, others watched. They well knew the consequences that would ensue were Tim to discover, later that day when he was well away from home, that he’d forgotten his cellphone, or his travel card, or he’d neglected to take his lunch or his beloved dictionary (which the other residents had named Linus after the character in the comic strip Peanuts), or a pen and notepad on which to write down an adjective or adverb that had caught his fancy.

One of those who observed Tim was Jeremy Smithers. Jeremy lived on the third floor, directly above Jimmy Durante and below Samantha.

Immediately after the last presidential election, Jeremy began conducting a poll which, he was confident, would predict the outcome of the following election, which was to be held in November of this year. His poll was conducted as follows:

For five days each week, Jeremy would represent, in turn, the candidate from one of the two major parties or, collectively, the independent contenders. He would lie on his side on his bed, his head cupped in the palm of his hand, and propel a pencil toward one of the numbered circles he’d drawn on the ceiling, starting with the circle numbered 1. There were, in all, 20 such circles. He’d then throw his bulky self and bald head across the room in an attempt to catch the pencil before it fell to the carpeted floor. If he was able to do so, one point was registered to the party – the Republicans or the Democrats - or the group of independents whom he represented for that week. The following week he’d do the same for the next nominee, and so on. After each 3 week period he would tally the points the Republicans, Democrats and independents had accumulated, record them on one of the sheets of paper stuck to a wall and, with much solemnity, announce to the tenants of The House of the Rising Sun who had won. He would also listen to CNN for the views of Wolf Blitzer, the journalist and news anchor, and regularly mimic Blitzer’s voice during breaks in the pencil- throwing to comment on the progress of his point-scoring and what that meant for the future of America.

Being the first person to predict the outcome would make him distinguished. It was for this reason that Jeremy woke up every morning hoping that would be the day when something dramatic would happen for him to become the person the media referred to as the one who was first on the scene. The nature of the scene did not concern him: it could’ve been a car accident, a fire that had engulfed a building or a brawl in Highbridge Park. He’d glance out the single window in his apartment or scan the street or the park with binoculars in case there was some incident nearby so he could bolt out of the building and take note of then memorize all the details so that when he was interviewed by the media he would give a good account of himself: becoming distinguished was his primary aim in life and for this reason Jeremy was proud of his tremendous weight that had him, he would say, resembling President William Howard Taft, the fattest of all past presidents. He was also bald. This, he thought, meant that he resembled Taft from the neck down and President Dwight D Eisenhower from the neck up. He knew that there was still time for him to become distinguished: he was, after all, not that much older than John Kennedy when Kennedy became president. This preoccupation in becoming distinguished resulted in:

a) Jeremy using words and phrases he’d come across in P G Wodehouse’s The Code of the Woosters for which he felt a particular fondness and which no-one he knew used, such as frightful, aghast, by Jove, popping off and egad, and

b) responding in a hostile manner if those who’d been forewarned called him Jerry. For Jeremy, Jerry was a name that should be used exclusively for children.

Tim was pleased that, of late, Jeremy had begun to insist on such an appellation because it gave Tim the opportunity to use the word appellation when discussing with Jeremy the issue of his name. Tim was also pleased that Jeremy had agreed earlier that morning with his suggestion that he should research his full name which, Tim had said, had an even more distinguished form than Jeremy, a comment that had Jeremy widen his eyes in anticipation:

Jeremiah was one of the major prophets of the Hebrew Bible, Tim had said. Jeremiah was a denouncer of the times, a melancholy prophet, a man of great distinction.

This particular day - the day that Tim was setting off for the hospital alone - was one in which Jeremy’s absolute concentration when polling would, he knew, be demanded by both parties and all independents. The election, after all, was only a little over three months away; and what Jeremy Smithers referred to in an emotively-charged, uncharacteristically anti-Wodehousian lexicon as the spectacle, the pageant, the razzmatazzed-pantomime, the policy-free gleaming-white toothy shebang had become intensified, roused, beefed up, more crackpottery by the day – indeed, Jeremy said, with the grave authority of an ex-president such as Taft or Eisenhower, it had become Trumpianised: a woman who’d changed her name by deed poll to Hillary Clinnton had passed the number of delegates needed to secure the Democratic Party nomination; while a woman who, in response to Hillary’s strategy, had changed her name by deed poll to Sarrah Pallin, had already gained a simple majority of 1,725 delegates on the first ballot at the Republican Party’s Convention, hundreds more than was required to secure nomination. Jeremy’s scores going into this, the final day in the final week of July, were Republicans 382, Democrats 381, with the independent candidates well behind. With this thought and that of Tim walking alone to the hospital in mind, Jeremy looked out onto Miss H’s Lane.

And it was because Jeremy was concerned that Tim might get lost that he’d noticed Tim checking the pockets of his trousers for what Jeremy immediately knew was Linus, his dictionary. Jeremy observed the expression on Tim’s face and Jeremy gasped. It happened at a moment that was, for Jeremy Smithers, most upsetting. What had happened was this:

Jeremy had thrown the pencil into the air, aiming for the circle numbered 20. The moment it was airborne he’d hurled himself off the bed and across the room; and then, when in flight, his head twisted toward the window, he’d happened to see out of the corner of his eye the trembling Tim on the sidewalk. Tim appeared to be hyperventilating.

Jeremy became distracted.

The pencil fell to the floor.

He was horrified. He was aghast. It was a frightful moment of extreme egad-icism. If it hadn’t been for Tim, he would almost certainly have caught the pencil. Or would he? Who could ever be certain? There was, after all, no replay he could consult. He slowly rose to his feet. He sat on the edge of the bed. He bent over and put his face in his hands. After almost four years of research there hadn’t been a single mishap in his pencil-throwing. Was there a rule to cover such an occurrence? Was there a precedent he could consult for guidance? Where would one go to find an independent adjudicator who could decide on a course of action to resolve the crisis? And who would want the burden of such a task when, in all likelihood, whatever decision was made would be contested by the other side? The intolerable burden of responsibility, he knew, fell on one person’s shoulders: his.

This was, he knew, historic. This could have consequences.

Jeremy got up off the bed and slouched to the window and looked down on the distraught Tim and knew, immediately, what had happened. The dictionary, thought Jeremy Smithers, Tim has forgotten Linus. He realized that he needed to act immediately otherwise Tim might not be able to recover well enough and quickly enough to get to the hospital and then to his appointment for that job interview. He ran down four flights of stairs, threw open Tim’s unlocked front door, entered his apartment and found Linus. He rushed out, holding the dictionary aloft like some trophy. Tim saw him, saw Linus in his hand and was comforted. Jeremy slowly approached Tim, now with his arms held stiffly by his sides so that Tim knew Jeremy was not going to touch him. Jeremy handed him the dictionary. Tim took it and held it to his chest, his eyes shut. His lips were moving. Jeremy knew that Tim was slowly counting to ten as Jimmy Durante, who lived on the floor below Jeremy, had taught him.

Half a minute or so passed before Tim opened his eyes.

Have you recovered, Tim?

Yes, yes I have.

Quite a moment, what?

Yes, it was. Thank you, Jeremy.

"No, no, no. Thank you, Timmy."

Why do you want to thank me, Jeremy?

You know, you’ve only ever called me Jeremy. Jimmy Durante has called me Jerry 139 times. I know. I keep count. I’m very good at keeping records. I don’t only do polling, you know. I do other things. I know a lot, too. And I know that you are aware of that. That I know a lot, I mean. That’s correct, isn’t it, Tim?

I do know that, Jeremy, I really, really do.

See? See? That’s what I mean. It’s always Jeremy for you. Thank you, Tim.

It’s my pleasure, Jeremy.

You just used a contraction! Well done, Tim! Frightfully good, I must say! I believe that it is a pleasure for you, Tim. I really believe that.

Thank you, Jeremy.

Jeremy looked hard at Tim and hesitated. There was that certain look in Jeremy’s eye which Tim knew meant that Jeremy had something on his mind, so Tim said, Say it, Jeremy.

May I, Tim? May I ask you something?

"Why do you want to ask me about something, Jeremy? It’s a common word. As you know, it denotes a certain unnamed thing, a thing or person of some value which on page 1219 of The Concise Oxford Dictionary – "

No, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I was wondering if you know why Jimmy Durante behaves of late in such a beastly manner toward me, as you have no doubt seen. I’ve challenged him on this but he only ever responds by smirking.

Gosh, Jeremy. Jimmy doesn’t behave like a beast.

Oh, no. Goodness gracious, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that he can be very rude and as a result he makes me nervous. I get all-a-twitter when he speaks to me, you see, expecting him to say something hurtful. I get so nervous that I’ve started making embarrassing mistakes. Perhaps it’s due to the stress I’m under maintaining my poll. A couple of weeks ago I had a response prepared that I would hurl at him with all the sarcasm I could muster if and when he made some nasty comment and stirred the old egg up. I’d chosen a tried-and-true American colloquialism that I considered most appropriate. I was going to say – and I’d rehearsed it many times in front of the mirror, Timmy – I was going to say, ‘Jimmy Durante, you’re yodelling in a canyon’, but what do you think happened? I said, ‘Jimmy Durante, you’re codelling in a yanyon.’ And then the other day I was going to tell him that he can be frightfully trying, but instead said that he can be trightfully frying. His manner and his attitude have affected a change in me, Tim, they really have.

"Is that affected a change or effected a change, Jeremy?"

I – I beg your pardon?

You can only affect something that already exists, therefore, it’s correct to say that Jimmy’s manner and attitude have affected a change in your attitude, but incorrect to say Jimmy had affected a change in your attitude.

What an educational experience it is to speak to you, Tim! You know, it’s always good to see you, even though I don’t always know what you’re talking about. You’re a good old egg, Tim. I mean that. I mean, when I see you, it gives me a good feeling. You’re such a good boy, Tim.

Oh dear, Jeremy, I’m not an egg and I’m not a boy.

No, no, no, of course you’re not. He paused. He was looking at Tim and there was that sideways, thoughtful look in his eye again.

Tim said, Say it, Jeremy.

As you suggested, I did some research this morning on my name. I’m thinking of taking up your idea and changing it to Jeremiah. Would you have a problem calling me Jeremiah if I did change it, Tim?

Not at all, Jeremy. I think it’s a wonderful appellation.

You see?! You see?! That’s what I mean! Oh, Timmy, you’re such a good boy!

My name is not Timmy and I’m not a boy.

Yes, yes, yes, of course. I mean, no, no, of course. I mean – I’m sorry. He screwed up his eyes and gave Tim his considered look.

Say it, Jeremy.

Would you like me to come with you, Timmy – I mean, Tim? To the hospital, to see Mother?

Oh, thank you, Jeremy, thank you, thank you, but I must do this on my own.

And you still prefer to walk?

Oh, yes, Jeremy, I know the way and it gives me the time to think about what I’m going to say at my interview.

Okay. Well, big day, what?!

Golly yes, it is, Jeremy.

You’ve got your lunch with you?

Tim removed two paper bags from the pockets in his trousers: Yes, Jeremy, Miss H prepared these for me.

Now don’t you go giving them away again, will you?

But if someone is hungry, Jeremy –

No, Tim, no. You’re going to need something in your tumtum prior to your interview. Have you got enough money? Have you got your MetroCard with you?

Tim opened his wallet.

Good. And don’t you give any of your money away again, either, otherwise you won’t be able to catch a cab if you get lost. Are you listening, Tim?

Yes, Jeremy. I must go now. Goodbye.

And because Jeremy did not say goodbye in return, Tim remained standing on the sidewalk, waiting. Speak, Jeremy.

Well, you know, in case you get all-a-flutter on your way to the hospital, do you think you might try using your iPhone to direct you there and … and …

I can’t, Jeremy. I don’t know why. It’s a –

Yes, I know, a mystery, eh?

I’ve gone over the route many times with you, and Jimmy, and Miss Henckel. Look, here are her directions. But thank you, Jeremy. You’re a good man.

Am I, Tim? Am I really?

Yes, you are.

Poor Jeremy. You look at him and wonder what it is that has a man of his age yearning with such desperation for acceptance. You’d reach out and put your arms around him if you could cope with the touch of another human being. You’d like to grasp his fat right hand and shake it hard until the tears of joy streaked down his cheeks. You’d like to tell him that you’ve stood outside his shut door and heard him admonishing himself for his weaknesses, but you don’t want to hurt him. You see him looking at you with those big baby eyes and grinning his huge lopsided grin and feel an affection for him you imagine a parent would feel for their child despite the fact Jeremy’s so much older than you; and you’re convinced, aren’t you, Tim, that something terrible happened to Jeremy Smithers a long, long time ago.

You glance up at the fourth floor again hoping to see Samantha looking down at you, waving and wishing you well as you’re about to set out alone, but her blind is still drawn. You know she’s there and you know something’s wrong because what young woman would lock herself away for two days? You’ve heard her doing her crazy exercises. You’ve heard her running water into the bath several times a day. So why on earth doesn’t she just come out and tell you what’s bothering her?

Well, then, good luck, Tim.

Thank you, Jeremy.

Time to go, what?!

Yes, it is.

It was good talking to you, Tim.

Thank you, Jeremy.

But Tim did not say that it had been good talking to Jeremy, and so the man walked away in a black mood. He walked slowly up four flights of stairs, entered his apartment, lay on the bed and thought about resuming his pencil-throwing.

It wasn’t just Jeremy, however, who’d taken notice of what had agitated Tim after he’d realized he’d forgotten Linus. Old Jimmy Durante, who lived on the second floor directly below Jeremy, had been sitting at his kitchen table, drinking coffee, keeping his own tally of the poll taking place on the basis of Jeremy’s exultant hooping or cries of despair and the thumping sounds Jeremy made if he fell onto the floor as he either caught or missed a thrown pencil. When Jeremy’s polling suddenly ceased, Jimmy took his coffee to his window and looked out. He saw Tim on the sidewalk, pacing up and down, repeatedly checking the pockets of his trousers and hyperventilating. Moments later he saw Jeremy emerge with Linus. Jimmy watched as they spoke, unable to hear what they were saying, envious of the affectionate looks passing between them. After Jeremy had climbed the steps back to the entry into The House, Jimmy opened his window and signaled for Tim to wait. Tim watched as Jimmy, wincing in pain from the arthritis in his hips and knees, descended the steps to the sidewalk. The old man held onto the railing, looking down at Tim and smiling his gummy, gap-toothed smile.

But his broad grins and silly jokes don’t fool you either, do they Tim. You often watch Jimmy after he’s cracked one of his one-liners. You see the smile quickly disappear from his face when he thinks no-one’s looking. You wonder - are you the only one who sees some story crying to be told in the deep, symmetrical lines carved near Jimmy’s eyes and mouth, the stooped thinness of his body and the unkempt waves of hair? You consider the way this old man looks a fraction too long and thoughtfully into a half-empty cup of coffee or stares too hard out at the world through the single window in his apartment after he has delivered one of his wisecracks.

Tim recalled hearing the story from Miss Henckel: how he’d been invited into The House of the Rising Sun by Miss Henckel many years previously from wherever he’d come, with no name and no history; how Jimmy had, not long later, adopted the name Jimmy Durante after hearing a chance remark by someone on the remarkable similarity between his distinctive, clipped, gravelly voice and strong New York accent and that of the legendary comedian’s and because he could recite, to people’s delight, many of the man’s knee-slappers, which led to him becoming, for a short while, a stand-up funnyman. But taking on the identity of a well-known deceased comedian? Who, thought Tim, would do such a thing? And why?

Jimmy spread wide his arms, palms out, and said, Well, it bein’ July an’ all, what letter we’s up to from Linus with Mother, Tim?

"It’s m, Jimmy."

"M, eh? That’s good, that’s good. He paused, then said, Big day, eh?"

Yes, Jimmy, it is.

No carer to go with yer, eh. He paused again. You see the anxiety in his eyes when he says: So, you’ll manage on yer own?

Yes, Jimmy.

That’s good, that’s good. He hesitates before saying, Look - I can come with yer, y’know. Won’t be no harm done. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Got nothin’ else to do.

Oh, I’ve got my map and notes from Miss Henckel. Thank you, Jimmy. It’s something I have to do. I think I’m ready for it.

Right! Okay, then. Now, you’ll r’ember the name of this here lane? An’ Amsterdam Avenue?

I’ve got them both written down here, Jimmy, on this note.

Jeez, Tim, yer can r’ember stuff from them plays an’ books an’ poems yer reads but yer ferget the name of a street. It’s a wonder, ain’t it?

Yes it is, Jimmy. I don’t understand why that’s so.

Yer jest used two of them contract thingies! That’s good, ain’t it?

You mean contractions, don’t you?

Yeah, them’s the ones.

Yes, I did, Jimmy.

Yeah, well, that’s a good sign, eh, sport? Ok, Tim. Well, I s’pose it’s a good thing yer headin’ off without that carer guy ‘cause it had ter happen sooner or later, but I can’t get me mind on nothin’ else but yer gettin’ lost, y’know? Yer got yer phone?

Yes, Jimmy.

Yer got yer lunch an’ some spare cash an’ yer MetroCard?

Yes, Jimmy.

An’ yer re’mber what I said ‘bout you givin’ things away?

Yes, Jimmy, I remember.

Good. Now yer listen to me, Tim. I got somethin’ to say an’ I know I said it before but I gotta do it, okay? An’ I’m sorry if yer gonna get upset an’ all, but I say it ‘cause I care ‘boutcha, okay?

Why was he saying you might get upset? You’re agitated enough after over-hearing Jimmy discussing the school shooting with both Miss Henckel and Jeremy, which was probably the reason you forgot Linus; and so you feel yourself retreating into some movie of your own making, a musical with a live orchestra, an unseen camera zooming out so that you can watch yourself from a distance. You imagine yourself on the other side of Amsterdam Avenue about to enter the park; you see yourself running your hand through your great mop of hair, clutching a dictionary and singing You’ll Never Walk Alone to an old fellow whose face is creased with concern. Whatever Jimmy is about to say won’t be heard if the orchestral soundtrack and your voice increase in volume; the mise-en-scene darkens and the image fades out. If you try hard enough you can even will the credits to appear …

Tim! Don’tcha do this to me, sport! I ain’t int’rested in nothin’ but you ain’t gettin’ hurt. Won’t be no harm done for yer to listen, so come back, Tim, come back!

Tim has the musicians cease their playing. They look at each other in the orchestra pit, confused. The lighting sharpens. The camera focuses first on Tim, then on Jimmy. There is a close-up of Jimmy’s distressed eyes. Tim tells himself that he can can trust the old man. The cloud in his eyes lifts.

Yer back, Tim?

Yes, Jimmy.

Okay. Now, lissen. R’ember that day what yer did when that fella said somethink ‘bout yer face?

Yes, Jimmy.

Okay. So, irregardless of what some fella does, whatcha gonna do? What I mean is, if some fella makes fun of yer, whatcha gonna do? If some fella says somethink rude, or stares at yer, or points at yer, tell me, whatcha gonna do?

I’m not going to get upset. I’m going to count to 10, Jimmy.

An’ whatcha gonna say back?

I’m not going to say anything, Jimmy.

Good! An’ then?

And then I’m going to walk away.

He smiled. His eyes were kindly and moist. Was Jimmy going to reach out and embrace him? Tim took one small step back.

That’s good. I learned yer good, eh?

Jimmy?

Yeah, Tim?

Tim looked at Jimmy sideways, as Jeremy had done to him, so Jimmy said, You wanna say somethink, then say it.

How do people kill? How can they do such a thing?

Jimmy shook his head and stared at the ground. He stayed silent for a long time. He looked at Tim and was about to speak, then hesitated.

Gosh, there’s so much I don’t understand, Jimmy. But to kill someone? How do people do that? And what happened at that school …

And then you cease talking because it’s all too much for this old man who’s shaking the palm of his right hand so close to your face, begging you to stop, that you’re worried he’s going to reach out and place it over your mouth. You take another step back.

Nobody can’t make no sense of it, Tim. It’s a damn bad thing. Yer get ter wanna throw yer television outta the winder, like Mother did ‘fore she got unwell, ain’t it the truth. Now yer take care, Tim, an’ if it all gets too much for yer, yer ring me, okay sport? Yer ring me an’ tell me where yer at an’ I’ll come for yer, okay? Goddam it, Tim, I couldn’t not stand it, yer know, if … well, yer jest take care.

Poor Jimmy; and poor you, too. You wonder why you’re unable to express your feelings. There are times when you catch the words of a song, like the one you heard recently that celebrated those who dedicate their lives to others, or you hear a musical piece in which the harmonic merging of sound – and you know the word; it’s from the Greek, αρμονια - sent cold tingles of joy up and down your arms, or you observe those signs of affection connoting care for another, as is the case now with Jimmy, when you feel you could weep for joy, but who would know it, looking at how you respond with that blank look? You see the old man’s reddening eyes and wonder why it is that you can never cry when deep inside some mysterious part of your body you often howl with grief or jubilation or gratitude.

Miss H she says ter say good luck. She tol’ me this mornin’ ter tellya she’ll be thinkin’ of yer.

Tim looked up as Jimmy turned to climb the steps back to the entrance of The House. There she was, on her balcony. Everyone