First he used to do it in the house. Right in the middle of the living room, or sometimes in the kitchen. And go through his routine. My mother would stare absently at the floor. And I would usually smile and clap my hands. Later on, he started doing it in restaurants. Sometimes on sidewalks, too. I remember once he did it in the middle of a crosswalk. Some guy honked his horn and called him a name. My mother grabbed Roy by the arm and pulled him all the way over to the corner. It was August, so it was a hot day. And when we got to the corner, he had really started sweating. My mother took out one of her lacy handkerchiefs from her pocketbook and tried to mop his brow with it. As she cleaned him up, he stopped moving for a minute, until she was done. And then, as we waited for the crossing light to change, he took hold of her hand. The light changed. And we walked back across the street. When we got to the other side, he bent down, looking at me, put his index finger to his temple, and made a quick stirring motion. And in a startlingly clear voice said, while pointing at his temple, All gone. Then he smiled his kind of foolish smile, and made a pistol with his hand and pointed it at his head. And as we walked down the street, he kept saying, Shoot me. I wish somebody would shoot me. I was away when he died. But it was not long after this happened.