Free What Is All This? by Stephen Dixon Page B

to him about his face. Then it begins to rain. Someone dressed for the rain and under an umbrella comes over to me and says “Don’t you think you should come out of the rain?”
    That your umbrella?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan I get under it?”
    There’s only room enough for one. You want an umbrella, buy one. If you haven’t the money, work so you can buy one. I don’t think that’s too unreasonable a solution. But if you want a cold and possibly a fatal case of pneumonia, then you’re doing exactly the right thing.”
    Thank you for your advice. I think I’ll just continue to sit.”
    â€œIf that’s what you really want, I’ve no complaints.”
    She goes. I continue to sit in the rain. I begin to catch a cold. Coughs, sneezes, a few feverish chills. The rain turns to sleet and then snow. I continue to sit. I can’t see the sky or the buildings across the street because of the snow and now not even the passing vehicles. The rain soaked me, now the snow covers me. I have no coat or hat on and only half a pair of socks, and the water’s soaked through the holes in my soles and the protective layers of paper inside my shoes to my feet. Several people stop beside me. They’re all dressed for the snow. One of them says “You have to come out of the snow. It’s a blizzard. Twenty inches are expected. It’s going to last till early tomorrow the weather report says. You’ll freeze to death out here.”
    â€œYou know or have a better place for me to go? I’ve run out of thinking or looking for them.”
    â€œUnder an awning. If all the awnings around here are down because the owners are afraid they’ll be crushed or blown away, then in a lobby or store. And if not there because they’d rather not have you for whatever their reasons, then in a parked car if you can find one unlocked or in one of those shelters downtown, but someplace warmer and more sheltered than here.”
    Thank you very much but I don’t think I can do that anymore.”
    â€œIf you’re too sick to, I’m sure we can call some service to help.”
    â€œNo, I think it’s better I just sit.”
    Someone must have called the police. By this time I’m very sick. The police put a coat on me, carry me to a drugstore and sit me beside a warm radiator till an ambulance comes. I’m driven to a city hospital, wheeled into the emergency section, put on an examining table. The curtains are pulled around me. My clothes are scissored off. The doctor who takes care of me is the same man I spoke to earlier today about something regarding his face. He checks my eyes and ears and after taking my pulse and listening to my chest, says “Personally, I knew you’d come to no good.”
    I can’t speak. I try to, my mouth opens but I’m physically unable to.
    â€œI mean, up to no good,” he says. “Not just for everyone else, but to yourself too. Am I right? Don’t bother to answer. You’re obviously too weak. But can you take a little honesty now yourself? I’m afraid, my friend, this is the end.”

STARTING AGAIN.
    â€œIt’s so difficult.” “What is?” “Just dealing with it.” “Dealing with what?” The rejections day after day, day after day.” “Don’t send your work out then.” Then they’ll just pile up.” “Don’t do them then.” Then I’ll have nothing to do.” “Try to do something else then.” “I can’t. I’ve been doing this so long.” “But if you’ve had no luck?” “I didn’t say I haven’t had any luck.” Then little success? Really, what can I say that I haven’t already said?” “Nothing, please say nothing. I know you’re trying to be helpful but I have to work this out on my own.”
    I go into the bedroom, shut the door, lie on the