#60 I Went To Yale. I Went To Yale.

I went to Yale. I went to Yale. My mom is coming to town this weekend. She is coming to town.

He beat his arms against the window in a rhythmic way.

Kill, kill, kill. He chanted in an easy tone as he fluidly moved his body around the subway car and barely brushed against a couple who looked on nervously pretending to be cool with this Ivy League oddity wearing a dark magenta blazer and a deep plum shirt. His curly hair sweaty and matted.  He is smiles and stern.

Essie knows what this is and gets up and moves away and remembers the time she had her studio in Soho and found an old friend on his knees praying to Jesus or the Art Gods or someone to help him (he was also at Yale).

Dave, come with me she said leaning over him. He looked up at her and his eyes were teary red. Dave. Now. Come with me. He got up from the sidewalk and obediently followed her to the studio at 552 Broadway, 5^th floor.

Dave, what is your doctor’s name?

He knew exactly what she meant and he gave her the number. She left a message.

I found Dave on Broadway and he is having a psychotic episode. Please call me back at this number so we can help him.

Within minutes Dave was on the phone with his doctor and she sent him to Bellevue in an ambulance. The parametics were gentle and kind.

Dave thanked her and they never saw each other again. He knew exactly who she was.

He was someplace in between here and there. Before she found him, more there than here.

I went to Yale grabbed the ceiling bar in the subway car and lifted his legs up and curled them around his monkey bars. His own jungle gym. Mumbled very important information to himself and to those present.

Essie stands up and walks to the end of the car and says to a stranger: he is having a psychotic episode. He isn’t well.

Stranger: he looks so normal.

That means nothing.

I will tell the conductor and will not be popular.

At 23^rd Street she slips into the next car and opens her book and reads the rest of the ride.

I went to Yale.