Chapter 4

I see reruns of Murder, She Wrote.

I see the cowboy in a pair of shorts and nothing else, obviously comfortable in the heat.

Hours slip by like this.

So much television.

So much summertime heat.

By midnight, all the lights are off at 287 Shelton Street. Darkness consumes the residence’s interior.No more shadows. Nothingness.

I decide to stay up and work. Soon, I will tell you about my job. Be patient.

* * * *

The next afternoon, the fifth of August, I tell Dr. Henry Lewis all of this. Every detail. Every word my mind recalls.

“Honestly, I’m obsessed with the summer cowboy.”

Dr. Lewis is a chubby man, with no hair, glasses, and he smells like Raisin Bran. He sits across from me inside his small office on Riverdale Street in the city: one circular window the size of a pizza pan, no desk, two chairs, no books, wooden sculptures of naked, African females with small breasts and large bellies. His legs are crossed. Mine aren’t. He never takes notes. Only listens.