Out the Open Window

I do sneeze, and outside the doorway, Chico and I hear the shuffle of feet. Voices.

The knob turns as Chico ducks beneath the bed.

Standing in the doorway is Dr. Hall, asking if there is a problem.

I shake my head no.

"Perhaps you're catching cold from being out in the rain," he says.

I nod my head yes.

Whatever they tell me, I'll agree!

Beneath the bed, Chico makes a noise, and Dr. Hall's eyes dart to the floor.

I'm sure he'll catch Chico now, but Dr. Hall doesn't even take the time to look. To investigate. Maybe I'm not crazy, but who cares. It's easier to see the picture already painted then to wait for some newer, clearer image to emerge. Or perhaps the artist wrote a sonnet and tucked it beneath a crazy painting. There's always something deeper. Hidden. It pays to break apart the frame.

The doctor steps into the hallway, calling for lackeys and a nurse.

"Help me get this girl to the operating room," he says.

Another man I can't see tells the doctor, it'll be a moment, and just as the doctor pulls the door to -- with one finger raised and an odd smile as if to say, There's no escaping -- I hear a slight tap come from the window.

I look. And there is Harpo: his face pressed against the glass, smiling a not-so-odd smile of, I am here, and I will rescue you!

I smile too, but then check, looking at the door to make sure I'm not being watched. To make sure I'm not crazy, and No, the door IS shut.

Chico crawls from beneath the bed, and is adjusting his jacket, squinting at Harpo, as if he too believes it may all be an illusion.

I move, thinking I can rise from this bed, but I can't. I'm still in an ice cold straight jacket. Not as wet as it was, but what difference does it make. A nearly dry and stiff sheet tied around me, and my wrist fastened to a bed. A white, wet inch worm; armless; a wingless bird...the bird is gonna eat the worm! And soon I'll be an ouroboros, and disappear completely.

Chico answers the window. Letting in Harpo.

Of course once the pane is lifted, there is a row of metal bars, and Harpo will have to squeeze between two of them. My eyes widen. Just how he fits through it, I'm not sure. I'm thinking surely he must be made of sugar! Through salivation, or perspiration, he can condense himself tight enough to fit through anything! Walk beneath doors. Squeeze through keyholes. Windows. The smallest man on Earth, and here he is at my bedside, looming like Christ upon the cross.

"You're not here to save me," I say.

And he nods his head yes.

Whatever they tell us must be true...I am here to agree. I take no concern of Chico crawling out the window ahead of us. How he squeezes through the bars, I'll never be sure! But he does. As Harpo frees me from the brown leather straps of the bed. He saws 'em in half with his bow tie, and through use of a taxi horn, fashions for me a bed sheet dress.

"You're very creative," I say. And he nods his head, neither yes or no...

Just sideways.

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