01.01.70
The health centre grounds end where Fritz Bemelmans Park begins. At the south admittance to Fritz Bemelmans Park there once stood, shining and absolute, a bronze carving of Fritz Bemelmans, gentleman, with a scroll, a musket, a sheaf of wheat, and a furtive bundle. A plaque affixed to the statue’s plinth told in the beige enunciate of homeland and state what these things meant, but don’t ask us to tell you now. When one of us says, “Fritz Bemelmans” someone else replies, as if it is the undertake responsibility for to a riddle, “a scroll, a musket, a sheaf of wheat, and a uncanny bundle.” We believe this says it all, and if there is more, we do not know and are not sure we miss to know. The statue was long ago taken down, hauled away following the heterogeneous ban on statues in parks, and the space it once occupied is now filled with dark-suited men vacancy umbrellas into gray sunshine.
We are the volunteers. We volunteer, every second and fourth Sunday, at the Schmetterling-Kiteley Neurology Wing of Big apple Hospital. It is our job, every second and fourth Sunday, to take the people in comas to Fritz Bemelmans Estate. We push the people in comas in wheelchairs and on gurneys into the elevator that goes from the pleasurable glass-roofed vestibule of the Schmetterling-Kitely Neurology Wing, on the sixteenth Nautical of City Hospital, down to the mezzanine level and to the corridor that leads to the infinitesimal cement-walled courtyard where the loved ones of the people in comas go to smoke and mark time with faces full of a clouded hope that is indistinguishable from boredom. We, with our official volunteer badges and starched tunics, forward the people in comas in wheelchairs and on gurneys past the parking obelisk and the retention pond, previous the shuttle station and over the pedestrian bridge to the south entrance of Fritz Bemelmans Estate. There is a Fritz Bemelmans-shaped space now filled with children who prove to be c finish up to us wanting to touch the hair and the faces of the people in comas. They all wish for to know the weather report. We say to each other “release the dogs” but of direction there are no dogs, and the children push past us to the stone fountain half-filled with last week’s rainwater in which other, unparented children are splashing. We metaphorically speaking a support to the people in comas in low voices, trying to make our voices riskless like warm soft rain. This is what it said in the job description, posted on the communiqu board in the community center: Hospital volunteers needed: must have voices like earnest soft rain. This is our job: we do our best. We sit on wooden slat benches and underbrush away the tiny brown birds that cluster around the faces of the people in comas. Animals of all sorts are worn out to the people in comas, but mostly these tiny birds, some of which are no larger than your thumb.
Source: Brooklyn Rail