from
 THE SINKING SHIP MAN
Peter Selgin

I say April is the cruelest month. I say it because that’s when I spend the most time carting poor Mr. Bishop around in his wheelchair in all kinds of weather, be it rain or snow or icy winds that blow and keep on blowing. And poor Mr. Bishop so skinny in his wheelchair, the wind flapping against his toothpicky legs, blowing out whispery thin strands of his white hair, making him rattle and tremble and shiver on top of his shaking, which he does, since he’s got Parkinson’s. I get him in and out of the taxi, in and out of his wheelchair, shove him back and forth and up and down sidewalks and stairs and into and out of elevators and up and down hallways. . . in and out, up and down, you name it, I’ve pushed him there.

He was four years old when a steward handed him to his mother in a lifeboat. He remembers big funnels, the sound of the big horn, white gloved waiters, shuffleboard and seagulls. He lost his father, but he never talks about that. Three years ago, when the other last survivor, a woman of ninety-five, passed away, he mutated into a celebrity. Now he’s The Sinking Ship Man. All through April the phone keeps ringing; the letters keep pouring in. “Dear Mr. Bishop” (not his real name): We of the (Name of Sunken Ship) Historical Society do Humbly Request Your Honorable Presence for the Such-and-Such Anniversary Commemorative Banquet Blah de Blah Yours Truly Mr. and Mrs. Pain-in-the-Rear-End Chairperson Please R.S.V.P. A.S.A.P. . . . p.p.s.: Could you prepare a short speech?”