Friday, November 27, 2015


I opened my eyes feeling somewhat serene—and immediately faced my old friend, Eddie the bartender, in Wonder Bar, Asbury Park, New Jersey.

He looked at me with sore eyes, flicking them back and forth between a person to my left and myself.

I turned.  “Whoa!  You’re really here!”

Jesus looked around Wonder Bar in, well, wonderment.

The bartender shook his head crossly at me.  “You can’t bring him in here!”

“Are you kidding?” I said with incredulity.  “Do you know who He is?”

“Doesn’t matter.  I’m under strict instructions not to allow homeless people in this bar, under any circumstances.  I’ll lose my job, boss.”

"But... but He's mot homeless.  He's..."

The bartender cut me off.  “Where do you live?” he demanded of the figure.

“Wherever the will of God takes me.”

The bartender glared at me.  “Ya see?”

“Go ahead, “I said to the figure.  “Introduce yourself.”

“I don’t have time for this!” snapped the bartender.  “Okay, I give up, who the hell are you?”  

“I am Jesus of Nazareth.”

The bartender rolled his eyes.  “Okay, Jesus—time to go.”

“But He really is,” I said.  “I just brought Him back with me.”

“Oh, really?  From where?”

"The Last Supper."

“I give up.”  Eddie turned to grab something and plunked a pitcher onto the bar.  “If you’re really Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, turn this water into wine for me.”  He poured water into a glass set it before the bearded figure.

Jesus closed his eyes and moved his lips in prayer.  He opened his eyes and nodded.

The bartender put the glass to his lips, sipped.  “Water.”

The figure shrugged.  “I guess I’m a little rusty.”

“That’s good.”  The bartender snickered.  “A little rusty.  You could do stand-up, man.  The ocean’s that way.”  He pointed with his thumb.  “So please leave quietly and go walk on it.”

A minute later, Jesus and I stood on the corner of Fifth and Ocean. It was just past three in the morning.  He plucked a shot glass from his robe.

“You took that?” I said.

The figure nodded.  “I always said I’d arrive like a thief in the night.”  He looked up.  “Thank you, Father.”

I looked up and saw a moon face with a toothy smile, a cross between Howdy Doody, blue eyes and high arched eyebrows, and Alfalfa—the middle-part haircut—from The Little Rascals. 

“I’d like to take you to meet Dr. Stendahl, my psychiatrist.” I said.

“You think I’m crazy?” said the figure.

“No.  He thinks I’m crazy.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure what to think anymore.”

“Do you believe you are real?”

I looked down at my feet, checked the palms of my hands and held them to my face, not unlike Bizarro in The Scream.  “Yes.”

“Do you believe that what you have done is real?”

“Should I?”

“Without you, I would not have arrived here."

“Does that make me sane?”

“Maybe, maybe not.  There are principles of the universe we are not clever enough to understand.  You should look at this—you bringing me here—as a miracle that cannot be explained.”

“But what if you’re not real?” I said.

“What if you’re not real,” He replied, “but just a character in a book that’s supposed to guide me to my Second Coming?”

Wednesday, November 25, 2015


I shook my head.  “Your proverbs, your parables your prayers—they work to your advantage right now, among your crowd, the apostles—and, I can tell you, your wisdom endures for very many centuries, at least twenty—and you are one of the most enduring figures in human history.  But if you showed up in my time, as promised, I don’t know if your wisdom and spirituality would cut it.”  I paused, considering this, spawning a new idea.  “Why don’t you come back with me?  Save yourself from the horrible death planned for you, return with me to my time.”

Judas, nearby, stirred.  He wanted his thirty pieces of silver.

“I must accept my fate,” said Jesus.

"What are you, some kind of masochist?"

“No.”  Jesus drilled his eyes into mine.  “I had a vision of your arrival.  I cannot allow you to change history.  I know what we must do.”

The apostles twitched with excitement.

“But we will do this after my crucifixion,” said Jesus.  “So if you don’t mind, I have a Eucharist to conduct.”

When Jesus was done with His last supper and His Eucharist, I watched His agony in the Garden of Gethsemane; I watched as Judas betrayed Him with a kiss, and then as one of His disciples drew a sword and cut off the ear of one of the Romans on hand to arrest Him.  

It reminded me of when Paul Gauguin severed Vincent van Gogh’s earlobe.

Jesus turned on his disciple and rebuked him for violence.  “All who live by the sword shall die by the sword.”

And I watched Jesus led away.

The next thing I recall was Jesus standing before Pontius Pilate, who adjudicated the matter.  

Pontius announced that Jesus had done nothing wrong and was innocent of all charges brought against Him—and then condemned Him to death by crucifixion.

Next thing, I looked up and saw Jesus nailed on the crucifix, a crown of thorns upon His head to mock His claims.  

The sky began to darken, and the earth rumbled, as if experiencing an earthquake.

A voice instructed me to look down.  I did, and saw a silver cross about four inches long on the ground beside me.

“Pick it up,” the voice instructed.  “All twenty-one grams of me.”

I did so.

“Put me in your pocket,” said the voice

“You were declared innocent,” I said.  “So why did you get the death penalty?”

“People in authority don’t like to be challenged,” replied the voice.  “Church and state prefer status quo hypocrisy—it’s more comfortable for them.  Plus politicians always play to a crowd.  Ready?  Let’s get on with power and glory.”

Monday, November 23, 2015


And suddenly I was there, facing Jesus Christ.

He looked up, startled.  “Do you come in need of food?” He asked.

I stood speechless, not knowing what to say to one of the world’s most famous personages of all time.  I shook my head.

“Do you carry a message?”

I shook my head.

“What is the reason for your presence among us?”

“Why?” I asked.  


“Yes, why?  Why did God the Almighty create a world so full of pain and suffering?  A world where great artists—the angels of universe—are scorned and humiliated and live in poverty?  A world in which a young innocent girl can die alone from sickness?”

The apostles hushed to silence.

Jesus finally spoke.  “You’re asking me?  I’m about to be betrayed and as a consequence will suffer the most excruciating death.”

“And why is that so?”

“I must die for the sins of humankind.”

“But why?”

“So that we can be forgiven and go with the Lord.”

“Forgiven for what?  Pinkie never sinned.”

“We all sin.”

“So why did the Lord create a world of sinners?”

“He wanted friends,” replied Jesus.

“Well, I didn’t ask to be born.”

“No one does.”

“Exactly,” I said.  “No one asks to be born.  Yet here we are.  We get pushed out into the world and, if we’re lucky—and I mean the luckiest of the lucky—we’re born into a good family with shelter and food on the table.  Yet as soon as we’re a few years old, we’re forced into school, where we have to listen to boring teachers yak their heads off all day about boring stuff we don’t really need to know and we’ll never use.  And then…”

“Pardon me, if you will,” said Jesus.  “But this is supposed to be my last supper.  There isn’t exactly a lot to eat here.  And someone…” Jesus cast an irritated glance to his right… “Someone forgot the wine.”

“And then,” I continued, “When you’re eighteen, you’re pushed out the door and told you have to toil eight hours a day doing hard labor or mindless stuff, ordered around by lunk-heads, just so you can afford someplace to sleep and food to eat.  I mean, who asked for this?  And most people feast on the flesh of animals.  Living beings!  With real feelings!  And real nerve endings!  And these living creatures—God’s creatures—are bred in horrible conditions and slaughtered and sold to everyone as food.  And if that isn’t enough, human history is a wreckage of brutality and murder on a widespread scale.  Constant wars!  Constant suffering!  Humankind is like an army of germs killing the very organism on which they live.  They consume without replacing and they scatter their poisonous waste, suffocating the earth—just like cancer does to a healthy cell.

“And if you’re lucky, you grow old.  But what good is that?  You lose your ability to do things, to think properly.  Your loved ones cast you out to become someone else’s problem—people paid to humor you, only you don’t think anything is funny anymore.  And then maybe you get sick, cancer, and you suffer, in terrible pain.  

“God could not have created mankind, certainly not in his image, unless he is the devil.  So whose child are you really?”

All eyes of the apostles turned to Jesus in shock and great anticipation.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“No,” I said.  “The only thing we have going for us is love.”

"Exactly..." said Jesus.

“But here’s what happens:  We fall hopelessly, desperately, obsessively in love—and most of the time the objects of our love and desire do not feel the same way, cannot reciprocate our feelings.  Or they do, but only for a little while, before they lie and cheat and break our hearts.  But let’s say two people find true romantic love.  This is a physical and chemical reaction in the body that releases endorphins and makes us feel good.  But it wears out!  It’s short term!  Studies have shown that love has a shelf life of between fifteen and thirty months.  After that, it’s more about patience and tolerance than genuine love. And though we con ourselves into believing otherwise, it’s always the same.

“And here I am, in love with a girl in a painting from over two centuries before my time, tortured by her image because her family shipped her out from Jamaica, where she was born and which she loved and longed for, shipped her to England, where she caught whooping cough because London back then was dirty and disease-ridden, and there she dies alone at the age of twelve.

“Why her, Father of Heaven and Earth?  Why Pinkie?   And why must I suffer this, this absurd situation?”

“Why not?” said Jesus.  “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

I shook my head.  “Your proverbs, your parables, your prayers—they work to your advantage right now, among your crowd, the apostles—and, I can tell you, your wisdom endures for very many centuries, at least twenty—and you are one of the most revered and enduring figures in human history.  But if you showed up in my time, as promised, I don’t know if your wisdom and spirituality would cut it.”  I paused, considering this, spawning a new idea.  “Why don’t you come back with me?  Save yourself from the horrible death planned for you, return with me to my time.”

Judas, nearby, stirred.  He wanted his thirty pieces of silver.

Saturday, November 21, 2015


I packed my bags and flew to Milan, Italy, and bee-lined to the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie.  

This was where Leonardo da Vinci, in the 1490s, painted his famed mural on a dining hall wall.  

I entered the church and lit three candles—one for Fou-rou, one for Bizarro and the third for Pinkie.  (I’m not religious, but I believe in respecting the traditions of others when inside their homes.)

And then I approached the twenty-nine foot wide mural.

I ‘d learned from my past encounters with paintings to focus on swirls or texture or eyes.  And so it was with The Last Supper.

Within a couple of minutes I found a rhythm based on the trinity: 

At the table, disciples are bunched in groups of three; and there are three windows behind Jesus.  

Christ, himself, is shaped like a triangle, draped in blue and orange, Van Gogh’s favorite colors, looking down at the open palm of His outstretched hand.  

In DaVinci’s depiction, Jesus has just announced that one of the apostles would betray him; He looks sad and resigned to his fate.

I felt my heart accelerate into a rapid beat as giddiness consumed me.

And suddenly I was there, facing Jesus Christ.

He looked up, startled.  “Do you come in need of food?” He asked.

I stood speechless, not knowing what to say to one of the world’s most famous personages of all time.  I shook my head.

“Do you carry a message?”

I shook my head.

“What is the reason for your presence among us?”

“Why?” I asked.  


“Yes, why?  Why did God the Almighty create a world so full of pain and suffering?  A world where great artists—the angels of universe—are scorned and humiliated and live in poverty?  A world in which a young innocent girl can die alone from sickness?”

The apostles hushed to silence.

Thursday, November 19, 2015


“Where are we?” I asked this strange man from The Scream.



“Near Kristiana.”


“You catch on quick.”


“September, of course.  You can tell by the blood red sunset, no?”

"I mean, what year?"

“Eighteen ninety-two.”

For a mad moment I thought it might be 1794 and I could make a run for England, and Pinkie.

Bizarro studied me.  “Have you come to take me away from this misery?”


“Pity.  Perhaps this calls for a drink.”

In a blur, we suddenly appeared at a corner table in a large bar.

“Where are we now?” I asked.

“The Grand Hotel, Kristiana.  This is where I used to drink with my bohemian buddies, the anarchists and nihilists.  This was our headquarters.”  He looked up at a hovering waiter.  “Whiskey and soda for two,” he said, waving him away, reverting to me.  “My ideas as an artist were developed right here, with my friend Hans Jaeger, borne out of the great Russian thinkers.  This is where we wrote our Nine Commandments, on a paper napkin.  The first was Thou shalt write thy life.  This is what I do.  I write my life in paintings—the Frieze of Life, I call it.  The ninth commandment was Thou shalt kill thyself.”  

Bizarro turned introspective.  “Hans drove his closest disciple, Johan Fleischer, to his suicide—and wanted me to replace him.  He’d sit where you’re sitting now—this very table—raise his whiskey and soda and say, ‘Metaphysics or suicide.’  We used to have drinks before breakfast just to sober up.  Later we drank to get back into a stupor.  I’d sit here barely able to think, trying to get rid of a worm gnawing at my heart, and I thought I was going mad.  Screaming saved me.  So…” Bizarro studied me.  “Suicide or scream?”

“Right here?” I looked around the large cafĂ©-bar, at all the people drinking around us.  

Bizarro nodded.  “Here—and now.”

From my midsection I felt it coming on.  I opened my mouth wide to let it out—a high-pitched howl, a terrible shriek that continued until my lungs were completely empty.  I gasped to fill them with air, and opened my eyes.

A bar full of patrons stood watching me in wonderment.

Behind the bar, a person I recognized shook his head.  “Do I need to call an ambulance?” asked Eddie the bartender.  “Like last time?” 

I looked around, mortified.

Wonder Bar.  Asbury Park, New Jersey.

“Uh, no,” I mumbled, embarrassed.  “Sorry.”

The young patrons returned to their conversations, all titters, giggles and whispers.

The bartender leaned in.  “Are you all right, boss?”

I nodded.  “Actually, I am.”  I considered this.  “You should try it sometime.”

“Try what?”

“The scream.”

“Did you ever find Pinkie?”

“What do you know about Pinkie?” I demanded.

“Your last visit, boss, before the ambulance arrived, you were really upset and crying about Pinkie.  You kept saying over and over that you loved her and lost her.”

“Just a painting.”  

“Next thing, we all had to get vaccinated for whooping cough.”

I looked up and down the bar.  “Why do you suppose I keep coming back here?”

Eddie shrugged.  “Asbury Park is making a comeback:  This place, and Tim McCloone’s Supper Club.  I was there last night…”

Last night, supper club…

Eddie the bartender’s words juxtaposed in my brain, synapsing by neurotransmitter into a new phrase…

The Last Supper.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015


On a piece of blank paper I had scribbled Pinkie so many times—handwritten, printed large, and small—that there was almost no white space left on the page.

I turned it over to start again, but instead wrote my feelings:  Despair, melancholy, anxiety.  

This prompted a new thought:  I entered all three words into Google and searched images.

There, before my eyes on the computer screen, I saw the embodiment of how I felt:  

The Scream by Edvard Munch:  A lost soul holding his head in his hands beneath a blood red sky, delivering a primal scream.

I Googled The Scream and found a better, larger image of the iconic painting.  It filled my screen in such detail I could discern it had been painted with pastels.  

The longer I studied it, the more caught up I became in its swirls, until my eyes got stuck in the center of the painting, above the screaming figure, just below the sky, a puddle of sunlight surrounded by darkness.  My broken heart pounded.

What is the poor fellow screaming about?

“Existence,” said a voice.

I blinked.  And when I opened my eyes I stood before the painting’s ghostly figure, which looked like something akin to an alien from outer space.  His arms now rested at his sides and his mouth had closed.

The tall dark figures on the left of the painting slowly trudged off in the other direction.

“I thought maybe you were screaming about them?”  I said.


“Those men in black, coming for you.”

The figure shook his head.  “No.  I was actually walking with them.  But I could not go on.”

“Why not?”

“I’m tired.  And I had this strange feeling that nature was screaming at me.  So I screamed back.”

“That’s how I feel,” I said.  “Who are you?”

“They call me Bizarro,” he replied.


“Because of my paintings.  I do not paint women knitting or men reading.  I paint real people who feel, suffer and love.  Also, my paintings look unfinished, but this is deliberate.”

“You are the artist?”

He nodded.  “You can hear the screams, no?”  He pointed at the hillside to the right of a body of water.

I strained my ear.  “Yes,” I said, quite amazed.  I heard grotesque screams, barely audible.  “What are they?”

“Two separate places,” he said.  “One, a slaughterhouse.  This is where they send moose and reindeer and sheep to be butchered for food.  The animals smell death, and they scream before it is their turn.   Two, Gaustad.  A hospital for insane women.”  He paused.  “My sister, Laura, was there.”  He lowered his voice to a whisper.  “Schizophrenia.  People think I am mad, too.  And perhaps I am.  For certain, I am almost mad.  But I feel better now, after screaming.  The walls are down, the floors are up, and only the chimney remains.”

“That’s how I feel.”

“Have you screamed?”


“You might try it.  But first you must be stretched to the limit, a breaking point.  And then.  Shrik!  He did it again:  A loud piercing cry that vibrated my bones to the marrow.  “You feel?” he asked.

I nodded, trembling.

“I paint the secret life of the soul—and the suffering of sickness and death and poverty.  And sometimes I just need to scream—to let it all out.”

Sunday, November 15, 2015


Not knowing what else to do, where else to go, I parked myself in Dr. Stendahl’s waiting room.

When he came out for another patient, he did a double take, allowing his specs to dip down his nose.  “Do we have an appointment today?”

I shook my head.  “I really need to see you, doc.”

An expression of irritation briefly crossed his face as he consulted his wristwatch.  “I can see you in an hour.  But only for a few minutes.”

Dr. Stendahl regarded me thoughtfully from across his coffee table.  "You've lost weight," he said.
I nodded.  “I’ve been in the hospital with whooping cough.” 

“That’s terrible.”

“The doctor there wanted to know how I got it, and I didn’t know what to say, so I thought maybe you’d have the answer.”

Dr. Stendahl shrugged.  “You think I have an answer to that?  Okay:  whooping cough is highly contagious.  Obviously you caught it from someone.”

“Exactly,” I said.  “The people at the hospital needed needed to know from who.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Doc, here’s what I need to know, for me, not the hospital:  How could I catch whooping cough from someone inside a painting if it’s just a hallucination?”

He looked at me sternly.  “Did you go off the meds I prescribed?”

“Yes,” I said, “but only because I was blacked out or unconscious or delirious for a week—and I wanted to see you again before recommencing.  I was still taking Zyprexa and Abilify when I had my last hallucination, as you would call it, and someone in that hallucination gave me whooping cough, and I just wonder, doc, if you can explain that for me?”

“You think you caught whooping cough from a painting?”

“How else?”

Dr. Stendahl got up and rustled around his desk, put his hand on something.  “I remember now.  I had a call from Monmouth Memorial Hospital.  The doctor treating you said you kept asking about a certain Pinkie and he wondered who she was.   I think he wanted to warn this person to visit a doctor.  So I Googled Pinkie—and this is what I found.”  He held up a color image of Pinkie.  “Is this where you think you contracted whooping cough?”

“Not in that painting,” I said quietly.

“Oh?”  This surprised him.  

“From Pinkie, on her deathbed.”

Dr. Stendahl turned to look at the picture.  “But this is not a painting of Pinkie on her deathbed.”

“It was tactile!” I erupted.  “I could feel her, the touch of her hand on mine!”

He shook his head.  “That doesn’t make it real.  It only makes the psychosis behind your hallucinating more serious.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to hallucinate anymore on meds?”

“It’s not a perfect science,” said Dr. Stendahl.  “It’s hit or miss, and try again, until one finds the right cocktail that balances the brain.  Everyone’s brain is different. Was this the only hallucination you’ve had since we met?”

I nodded.

“Why are you so distraught?” he asked.

My eyes welled, and I uttered a half-laugh, half-cry.  “I’m in love with Pinkie.  I can’t get her out of my mind.”

The doctor studied me.  “Perhaps you are confusing love with obsession.”

“What I’m doing is blaming myself for her death because I might have been able to save her.” 

Dr. Stendahl folded his arms, a bemused expression.  “And how do you suppose you might have done that?”

“Pinkie missed Jamaica.  She didn’t like England.  She never would have died so young if she hadn’t left Jamaica.”

"Does it occur to you that you're talking about something that happened over two centuries ago?"
he asked.

I did not reply.

“Are you traveling in time now?” he asked, somewhat sarcastically.

It made me feel indignant. “How could I catch whooping cough if I wasn’t really there?” 

Dr. Stendahl shrugged.  “Maybe riding a Greyhound bus all night in close quarters with someone with whooping cough?”

I looked down, feeling my spirit broken as well as my heart, and I shook my head.  “What am I supposed to do?”

Dr. Stendahl spoke gently and quietly.  “Start by facing reality.”

I looked up.  “But I need to talk about what happened.  How can I fall in love with an eleven year-old?”

“You tell me?”

“I don’t know!”

“After I Googled Pinkie I read a about her—about the painting,” said Dr. Stendahl.  “Some say that, to the artist, Pinkie represented childhood.  Maybe that’s what is going on here:  you are resorting to the same kind of escapism that little boys do in childhood when they daydream.”

“I honestly don’t know what’s going on here, doc, but I used to daydream as a boy—and it was nothing like I’m experiencing now.  What can I do about it?”

“I’m going to guess, the way you’re talking, that you’ve already been back to see the painting of Pinkie.”

I nodded sheepishly. 


I shook my head.  “Nothing.”  A tear dripped down my cheek.

"That's good, no?"

“No,” I said sadly.  “I want to go back into it.”

“You’d rather live in fantasyland than in reality?”

I shrugged.  “Whatever it takes to see her again.”

“But you know she’s not real.”

“To me she is.”

“And what happens if you don’t, uh, hallucinate Pinkie again?”

I wrung my hands in despair of such a notion.  “I can’t even imagine.”

“Do you feel suicidal?”

I did not answer.  In truth, I felt that my life would not be worth living if I could not see Pinkie again.

“I see,” said Dr. Stendahl, looking grim.  “There’s only so much I can do with medication and seeing you once a week.  Based on how distraught you are, I think you should check yourself into a facility.”

“You mean a mental hospital?” I shot back.

“It’s not as bad as it seems.  No one is going to commit you.  You go in voluntarily.  These days, specialized short-term care can do wonders for patients with symptoms like yours.  In just a few weeks they’ll have you feeling good, and back to living a normal life again.”

“Without Pinkie.”

“That’s the point.  You need to get on without her.  If you prefer, you could receive intensive counseling as an outpatient.”

“I don’t know.”  I lowered my face into my hands.  “I just don’t know."

Dr. Stendahl checked his wristwatch.  “I’m going to give you two things:  One, a new prescription for meds.  We’re going to increase the dosage, which we probably should have done before your most recent hallucination, but you didn’t come back to see me.  Two, I’m going to write down an 800 telephone number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.  If you are feeling desperate and suicidal, call them.  It truly helps to talk with someone. They are specially trained to listen and to talk you down from thoughts of suicide, which are always temporary.”

Friday, November 13, 2015


The hospital kept me for three days and nights, until I was no longer infectious and had responded favorably to antibiotics. 

As I had done twice before from the Jersey Shore, I made my way to Newark Airport.  Only this time I did not return home; instead, I purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles, from which I launched by taxi directly to Pasadena, to the Huntington Library, to the exhibition room, to Pinkie.

She stood looking at me, as before.  But I saw no recognition in Pinkie’s eyes—only her direct stare with half-pout.

I closed my eyes and tried again. 

And then, unshaven and disheveled as I was, weakened by an illness that had ravaged my soul, I just stood staring, waiting to be hypnotized, wishing myself to reappear on Richmond Hill.

At some point, a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and interrupted my concentration.  “Are you okay?”


Maybe I was trying too hard?

I strolled across the length of the hall to see The Blue Boy.  

Yes, that’s how it began.  

I studied his silken costume for a while, and then turned to gaze at Pinkie from afar.  Slowly, I retraced my steps toward her, not taking my eyes from hers.  

I stopped in front of her, the exact spot as a week earlier.  I focused in, lost myself in the artist’s brushstrokes.  I practically willed myself into the painting… until another tap on my shoulder.  

I turned, annoyed.

A suited male accompanying the security guard said, “May I help you with something?”

“Yes, by leaving me alone,” I mumbled.  “I’m just enjoying this painting.”

“You’ve been standing here for almost two hours,” he said.  “We’re getting ready to close.”

“What?” I checked my watch.  “But it’s only 4:25.”

He nodded.  “That’s right—we close at 4:30 on weekdays.”

“Is there any way,” I said, “I can spend the night here?”

He shook his head. “None.”

“What time do you open tomorrow?”

“Twelve noon.”

The gift shop was closing as I passed, but they unlocked the door so I could purchase a 20 x 27 inch framed art print of Pinkie for $104.99.

Someone at the front gate called me a taxi and I checked into the closest hotel I could find, The Langham.  Inside a cottage suite, I took down a picture from the wall and replaced it with Pinkie.

I continued to stare at it through the evening, and when it got late, I hung it over the bed, positioning myself with pillows the wrong way round so I could continue to see her as I lay flat.

When I awakened, just past six in the morning, there she was, Pinkie… flat and one dimensional on the wall.

I counted the hours, then the minutes, and finally the seconds until noon, when I paid admission and rushed to Pinkie.  I stood before her, waiting patiently to be let in.

By four-thirty, nothing had happened, and instead of Pinkie I had only my tormented mind and broken heart.

It sounds like clichĂ©, but I had to be dragged away screaming.  They ordered me never to return.

Not knowing what else to do, where else to go, I parked myself in Dr. Stendahl’s waiting room.