VODKA

By: J.G. LOWRY

A patient came in today and said he was upset. That’s a new one. He pulled at his hair to demonstrate. Yesterday, all day, everyone he met in the City and at work said the same thing to him: vodka. I sat looking at him. Vodka? He nodded vigorously. You need to say it too? Now explain it to me, he said. In the course of a conversation? I said, No. Just, hello, vodka. He folded his arms. You can’t explain it, can you? You’re going to tell me I’m crazy, aren’t you? Once again, I explained patiently that he is not crazy. That is not the point of our discussions. Then these people, the ones saying vodka to me, they are crazy, right? Let’s put this aside, I tell him and get on to other issues, such as your need to set fires. He smiles. Maybe they want me to put them out with vodka? Shit, I think going home on the train, he’s just crazy. Maybe they’re all crazy. I’m crazy. There’s a good-looking woman sitting next to me reading the New Yorker. I look at her until she notices and lowers her magazine. Vodka, I whisper. Her face lights up. That’s just what I was thinking, she says.