Patients in the waiting room form an idea of him through symbols: Trench-coat, army boots, and the way he holds his knuckles before being called.
Dr. Semikov understands him as the patient who laughs when needles pierce his gums.
The woman from apartment seven talks about him as the ‘person with the nose’ who waits with her for the bus.
Notes from a sisters’ drunken journal: “he knows people best, gives them what they want etc, etc, but, drunk, tells them about the things they think they hide, etc, etc.”
Grandmother’s last words: You were always the cutest, and most stubborn.
Officer Biryukov remembers him as ‘the one who snuck-in kiwis.’
His ex-wife understands him less than she believes, but more than he believes she understood.
Emilio of EMILIO’s bet eighty-five cents that he was an ex-alcoholic, this buyer of grapefruit and coconut water, almonds, sweet potatoes and kale, and has yet to determine whether he has lost or won.
The maid paints him with black toothbrush, Bon Jovi t-shirt, case of sparkling water.
Elementary friends called him Candy Andy.
His dog considers him as the person who feeds me when his voice sounds like a cat.
Joey, the barber, knows him as the guy who likes to talk about his dog, who tips well and knows when someone needs to say something.
He uses the keywords “teamwork” and “hardworking” to describe himself in interviews, words that mean as much as politicians who say they are tough on crime, as though the others support it. He says, Your economic class really slaps you in the face, after leaving the dentist, the pressure of a particularly brutal dentist justified by low rates.
The receptionist asks, can you please complete this questionnaire so that we can create a profile?