First he used to do it in the house. 
Right in the middle of the living room, 
or sometimes in the kitchen. And go 
through his routine. My mother would 
stare absently at the floor. And I would 
usually smile and clap my hands. 

Later on, he started doing it in 
restaurants. Sometimes on sidewalks, 
I remember once he did it in the middle 
of a crosswalk. Some guy honked his horn 
and called him a name. My mother grabbed 
Roy by the arm and pulled him all the 
way over to the corner. 

It was August, so it was a hot day. And 
when we got to the corner, he had really 
started sweating. My mother took out one 
of her lacy handkerchiefs from her 
pocketbook and tried to mop his brow 
with it. As she cleaned him up, he 
stopped moving for a minute, until she 
was done. And then, as we waited for the 
crossing light to change, he took hold 
of her hand. 

The light changed. And we walked back 
across the street. When we got to the 
other side, he bent down, looking at me, 
put his index finger to his temple, and
made a quick stirring motion. And in a 
startlingly clear voice said, while 
pointing at his temple, All gone. 
Then he smiled his kind of foolish 
smile, and made a pistol with his hand 
and pointed it at his head. And as we 
walked down the street, he kept saying, 
Shoot me. I wish somebody would shoot
me. I was away when he died. But it was 
not long after this happened.