of other prosthetic devices, but his wife was divorcing him—he had no time to practice.
Marilyn simply couldn’t get over how he’d “behaved.” In this case, she didn’t mean the other women—she was referring to how Patrick had behaved with the lion. “You looked so . .
. unmanly,” Marilyn told him, adding that her husband’s physical attractiveness had always been “of an inoffensive kind, tantamount to blandness.” What she real y meant was that nothing about his body had revolted her, until now. (In sickness and in health, but not in missing pieces, Wal ingford concluded.)
Patrick and Marilyn had lived in Manhattan in an apartment on East Sixty-second Street between Park and Lexington avenues; natural y it was Marilyn’s apartment now. Only the night doorman of Wal ingford’s former building had not rejected him, and the night doorman was so confused that his own name was unclear to him. Sometimes it was Vlad or Vlade; at other times, it was Lewis. Even when he was Lewis, his accent remained an indecipherable mixture of Long Island with something Slavic.
“Where are you from, Vlade?” Wal ingford had asked him.
“It’s Lewis. Nassau County,” Vlad had replied.
Another time, Wal ingford said, “So, Lewis . . . where were you from?”
“Nassau County. It’s Vlad, Mr. O’Neil .”
Only the doorman mistook Patrick Wal ingford for Paul O’Neil , who became a right fielder for the New York Yankees in 1993. (They were both tal , dark, and handsome in that jutting-chin fashion, but that was as far as the resemblance went.)
The confused doorman had unusual y unshakable beliefs; he first mistook Patrick for Paul O’Neil when O’Neil was a relatively unknown and unrecognized player for the Cincinnati Reds.
“I guess I look a little like Paul O’Neil ,” Wal ingford admitted to Vlad or Vlade or Lewis, “but I’m Patrick Wal ingford. I’m a television journalist.”
Since Vlad or Vlade or Lewis was the night doorman, it was always dark and often late when he encountered Patrick. “Don’t worry, Mr. O’Neil ,” the doorman whispered conspiratorial y. “I won’t tel anybody.”
Thus the night doorman assumed that Paul O’Neil , who played professional basebal in Ohio, was having an affair with Patrick Wal ingford’s wife in New York. At least this was as close as Wal ingford could come to understanding what the poor man thought.
One night when Patrick came home—this was when he had two hands, and long before his divorce—Vlad or Vlade or Lewis was watching an extra-inning bal game from Cincinnati, where the Mets were playing the Reds.
“Now look here, Lewis,” Wal ingford said to the startled doorman, who kept a smal black-and-white TV in the coatroom off the lobby. “There are the Reds—they’re in Cincinnati ! Yet here I am, right beside you. I’m not playing tonight, am I?”
“Don’t
worry,
Mr.
O’Neil ,”
the
doorman
said
sympathetical y. “I won’t tel anybody.”
But after he lost his hand, Patrick Wal ingford was more famous than Paul O’Neil . Furthermore, it was his left hand that Patrick had lost, and Paul O’Neil bats left and throws left. As Vlad or Vlade or Lewis would know, O’Neil became the American League batting champion in 1994; he hit .359
in what was only his second season with the Yanks, and he was a great right fielder.
“They’re gonna retire Number Twenty-One one day, Mr.
O’Neil ,” the doorman stubbornly assured Patrick Wal ingford. “You can count on it.”
After Patrick’s left hand was gone, his single return visit to the apartment on East Sixty-second Street was for the purpose of col ecting his clothes and books and what divorce lawyers cal personal effects. Of course it was clear to everyone in the building, even to the doorman, that Wal ingford was moving out.
“Don’t worry, Mr. O’Neil ,” the doorman told Patrick. “The things they can do in rehab today . . . wel , you wouldn’t believe. It’s too
Marilyn simply couldn’t get over how he’d “behaved.” In this case, she didn’t mean the other women—she was referring to how Patrick had behaved with the lion. “You looked so . .
. unmanly,” Marilyn told him, adding that her husband’s physical attractiveness had always been “of an inoffensive kind, tantamount to blandness.” What she real y meant was that nothing about his body had revolted her, until now. (In sickness and in health, but not in missing pieces, Wal ingford concluded.)
Patrick and Marilyn had lived in Manhattan in an apartment on East Sixty-second Street between Park and Lexington avenues; natural y it was Marilyn’s apartment now. Only the night doorman of Wal ingford’s former building had not rejected him, and the night doorman was so confused that his own name was unclear to him. Sometimes it was Vlad or Vlade; at other times, it was Lewis. Even when he was Lewis, his accent remained an indecipherable mixture of Long Island with something Slavic.
“Where are you from, Vlade?” Wal ingford had asked him.
“It’s Lewis. Nassau County,” Vlad had replied.
Another time, Wal ingford said, “So, Lewis . . . where were you from?”
“Nassau County. It’s Vlad, Mr. O’Neil .”
Only the doorman mistook Patrick Wal ingford for Paul O’Neil , who became a right fielder for the New York Yankees in 1993. (They were both tal , dark, and handsome in that jutting-chin fashion, but that was as far as the resemblance went.)
The confused doorman had unusual y unshakable beliefs; he first mistook Patrick for Paul O’Neil when O’Neil was a relatively unknown and unrecognized player for the Cincinnati Reds.
“I guess I look a little like Paul O’Neil ,” Wal ingford admitted to Vlad or Vlade or Lewis, “but I’m Patrick Wal ingford. I’m a television journalist.”
Since Vlad or Vlade or Lewis was the night doorman, it was always dark and often late when he encountered Patrick. “Don’t worry, Mr. O’Neil ,” the doorman whispered conspiratorial y. “I won’t tel anybody.”
Thus the night doorman assumed that Paul O’Neil , who played professional basebal in Ohio, was having an affair with Patrick Wal ingford’s wife in New York. At least this was as close as Wal ingford could come to understanding what the poor man thought.
One night when Patrick came home—this was when he had two hands, and long before his divorce—Vlad or Vlade or Lewis was watching an extra-inning bal game from Cincinnati, where the Mets were playing the Reds.
“Now look here, Lewis,” Wal ingford said to the startled doorman, who kept a smal black-and-white TV in the coatroom off the lobby. “There are the Reds—they’re in Cincinnati ! Yet here I am, right beside you. I’m not playing tonight, am I?”
“Don’t
worry,
Mr.
O’Neil ,”
the
doorman
said
sympathetical y. “I won’t tel anybody.”
But after he lost his hand, Patrick Wal ingford was more famous than Paul O’Neil . Furthermore, it was his left hand that Patrick had lost, and Paul O’Neil bats left and throws left. As Vlad or Vlade or Lewis would know, O’Neil became the American League batting champion in 1994; he hit .359
in what was only his second season with the Yanks, and he was a great right fielder.
“They’re gonna retire Number Twenty-One one day, Mr.
O’Neil ,” the doorman stubbornly assured Patrick Wal ingford. “You can count on it.”
After Patrick’s left hand was gone, his single return visit to the apartment on East Sixty-second Street was for the purpose of col ecting his clothes and books and what divorce lawyers cal personal effects. Of course it was clear to everyone in the building, even to the doorman, that Wal ingford was moving out.
“Don’t worry, Mr. O’Neil ,” the doorman told Patrick. “The things they can do in rehab today . . . wel , you wouldn’t believe. It’s too
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