Only Nice Things Happened

One afternoon a little more than three years ago, I was riding down First Avenue in a cab. I was wedged in the corner of the seat and my brother propped me up with his two hands. With my two hands I propped up a pint of rye. The rye was a decoy to get me into the cab and to my destination --Bellevue Hospital. I'd been there before, and I knew I wasn't going to like it.