There’s something wrong with him, my father said. Look at him. Something’s not right. Something’s happened to him. He’s sick. All he thinks about is writing. That’s all he thinks about. He is blue.

   Even though I wasn’t there, I heard my father. And perversely relished what he had said about me. All I thought about was writing. I was sick. I was blue.

  I took a job at Duane Reade. No one explained to me what my duties were. I just started doing stuff. Mostly I moved around items around on the shelves, trying to look busy. That, and I dusted the shelves. Somehow I was in possession of a feather duster.

   While I was dusting, the store manager asked me if I could work tomorrow night. I tried to think of reasons why I couldn’t work tomorrow night, but just wound up saying—I’m not interested in your offer.

   The manager’s thin dark severe eyebrows jumped to the middle of her forehead.

   Do you even want this job, she asked me.

   I gave it some thought. Yes, I said, but only on a part-time trial basis. Maybe a couple of nights a week. We’ll see how it goes.

   The store manager curtly nodded and walked away. How could she fire me? I couldn’t even remember having been hired. What was I doing at Duane Reade dusting shelves and reorganizing their inventory?

   At one point, I stopped working and stepped outside through the back door. There was a breathtaking nighttime view of the city. Everything was lit up with a resplendence that evoked the nostalgia of old films. It was New York, through a Hollywood lens, in the 1930s or 40s. My heart went out to that city, but the rest of me returned to Duane Reade. I picked up my feather duster and went back to work. I knew that I was between worlds. A decision would have to be made soon.