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Polaris, v. 1, issue 2, March 1940
Page 5
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POLARIS 5 ly thereafter. There was a rather awkward silence at the other end of the phone, then I heard this acquaintance's voice saying: "Who did you say you were?" It was the same experience all over again. I'd rather not go into detail about the rest of that day. There were no less than a dozen repetitions of the events of that morning. Storekeepers, waitresses in my favorite restaurants, business associations, friends -- no one knew me. That night, I went out and became very drunk. It was a difficult thing to return that night. I was afraid that they would question me at the hotel. And I was right: the doorman looked at me as if he had never seen me before; the desk clerk had to look up my name in the register. Oh, they were courteous and apologetic enough when I showed them my name in the book and indicated the date on which I had arrived. But, nonetheless, it was torture. The next morning, the porter came in to my room, then stared at me as if he had seen a ghost. Poor fellow -- we had been very friendly, for he had poetic talents and I had often given him criticisms. I do not know if poetry was my line, but I did have a considerable knowledge of the subject. But now -- he stared embarasedly and said he didn't know the room was occupied. How odd that the worst of all did not occur to me then. I was to meet Catherine -- oh, I'm sure her name was Catherine -- that morning. We were to go riding in the park, then a tour to the top of the Empire State Building -- I think I received inspiration for my work there -- and later dinner in a Chinese restaurant and a play. A little holiday to celebrate something that had happened to me recently. (Could it have been a book I had published? I have looked carefully over the lists of new books recently appearing, but no one seems more familiar than any other.) Oh god -- I can't describe it. The burning shame of it. She -- Catherine did not know me. Her eyes -- I think they were dark and full of secret fire -- were kind but more than her sympathetic words they said: who is this poor man? Why did they have to find me before the poison could work? Why can't I die now? The doctors are kind, but firm. They will not let me be alone. Even now a nurse is sitting at the other end of the room. And -- mockery -- she constantly had to refer to her charts in order to recall who I am. She is worried, too. I assure her that it is all right -- my name: I think it is Allyn something. It mustn't ask her, let her know that I, too, have forgotten... How odd, I cannot remember my own face any more. There are mirrors in the room. Often I go to one and looking -- only to look around searching for the man whose image looks out at me. Well, at least I'm not an illusion. I am here -- alive. I pricked myself deliberately a little while ago. There is blood -- and pain. Someone is calling the nurse. Perhaps -- can I dare hope -- she will forget I am here. It is not a long walk to the river. And, I do not think they will miss me soon enough. Now she has gone. Her footsteps die away. I wish I could say goodbye to her and thank her for her kindness to me. But this opportunity must not be lost. People are still passing by this window. Old people, young people. Men, women, children. Lovely young women with dark eyes. Perhaps some of them knew me -- once.
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POLARIS 5 ly thereafter. There was a rather awkward silence at the other end of the phone, then I heard this acquaintance's voice saying: "Who did you say you were?" It was the same experience all over again. I'd rather not go into detail about the rest of that day. There were no less than a dozen repetitions of the events of that morning. Storekeepers, waitresses in my favorite restaurants, business associations, friends -- no one knew me. That night, I went out and became very drunk. It was a difficult thing to return that night. I was afraid that they would question me at the hotel. And I was right: the doorman looked at me as if he had never seen me before; the desk clerk had to look up my name in the register. Oh, they were courteous and apologetic enough when I showed them my name in the book and indicated the date on which I had arrived. But, nonetheless, it was torture. The next morning, the porter came in to my room, then stared at me as if he had seen a ghost. Poor fellow -- we had been very friendly, for he had poetic talents and I had often given him criticisms. I do not know if poetry was my line, but I did have a considerable knowledge of the subject. But now -- he stared embarasedly and said he didn't know the room was occupied. How odd that the worst of all did not occur to me then. I was to meet Catherine -- oh, I'm sure her name was Catherine -- that morning. We were to go riding in the park, then a tour to the top of the Empire State Building -- I think I received inspiration for my work there -- and later dinner in a Chinese restaurant and a play. A little holiday to celebrate something that had happened to me recently. (Could it have been a book I had published? I have looked carefully over the lists of new books recently appearing, but no one seems more familiar than any other.) Oh god -- I can't describe it. The burning shame of it. She -- Catherine did not know me. Her eyes -- I think they were dark and full of secret fire -- were kind but more than her sympathetic words they said: who is this poor man? Why did they have to find me before the poison could work? Why can't I die now? The doctors are kind, but firm. They will not let me be alone. Even now a nurse is sitting at the other end of the room. And -- mockery -- she constantly had to refer to her charts in order to recall who I am. She is worried, too. I assure her that it is all right -- my name: I think it is Allyn something. It mustn't ask her, let her know that I, too, have forgotten... How odd, I cannot remember my own face any more. There are mirrors in the room. Often I go to one and looking -- only to look around searching for the man whose image looks out at me. Well, at least I'm not an illusion. I am here -- alive. I pricked myself deliberately a little while ago. There is blood -- and pain. Someone is calling the nurse. Perhaps -- can I dare hope -- she will forget I am here. It is not a long walk to the river. And, I do not think they will miss me soon enough. Now she has gone. Her footsteps die away. I wish I could say goodbye to her and thank her for her kindness to me. But this opportunity must not be lost. People are still passing by this window. Old people, young people. Men, women, children. Lovely young women with dark eyes. Perhaps some of them knew me -- once.
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