And still nothing happens. I am not arrested.By some inexplicable oversightnobody jeers when I walk down the street.I have been allowed to go on living in thisroom. I am not asked to explain my presenceanywhere.What posthypnotic suggestions were made; andare any left unexecuted?Why am I so distressed at the thought of takingcertain jobs?They are absolutely shameless at the bank——You’d think my name meant nothing to them. Non-chalantly they hand me the sum I’ve requested,but I know them. It’s like this everywhere——they think they are going to surprise me: I,who do nothing but wait.Once I answered the phone, and the caller hung up——very clever.They think that they can scare me.I am always scared.And how much courage it requires to get up in themorning and dress yourself. Nobody congratulatesyou!At no point in the day may I fall to my knees andrefuse to go on, it’s not done.I go ondodging cars that jump the curb to crush my hip,accompanied by abrupt bursts of black-and-whitelaughter and applause,past a million unlighted windows, peered out atby the retired and their aged attack-dogs—toward my place,the one at the end of the counter,the scalpel on the napkin.