Ralphie

      Ralphie was a nut case. Everyone said so.

     Agitated for a few months, his affliction reared its ugly head in earnest the morning of his fiftieth birthday. He awoke, wished himself a happy birthday, put on his bifocals, reached for the phone and dialed up a swimming pool salesman. The eager gent pulled into the graveled driveway complete with clipboard and brochures stacked on the seat beside him. Ralphie greeted him, then guided him to the back yard, explaining the configuration he’d designed for the pool, questioning the comparative cost of using Mexican or Italian tile, and elaborating on the landscaping he wished to surround it: a gaudy display of flowers and shrubs, or perhaps a modest stand of firs for privacy.

     Ralphie, a self-described “number-crunching, bean-counting, pencil-pushing accountant” at Myriad Industries, lived with his wife in a small five room bungalow. Their ‘sprawling back yard’ consisted of an eight by eight patio upon which were placed two aluminum folding chairs, a round redwood table, a dying Poinsettia struggling to survive since December; and further out, six feet of grass which took Ralphie approximately two and a half minutes to mow. Deflated, the salesman left.

     On his fifty-first birthday, Ralphie awoke, wished himself a happy birthday, stirred four tablespoons of sugar into his espresso, and reached for the phone. He called a landscaper and ordered a delivery of fifty rose bushes. Ralphie and his wife still lived at the same address, their ‘grassy meadow’ had never expanded, nor were they gardeners. His wife, faced with the task of explaining this dilemma to the nursery, begged them to take back forty-nine of the fifty. One Peace rose was planted in the empty pot vacated by the deceased Poinsettia.

     On his fifty-second birthday, Ralphie awoke, wished himself a happy birthday, drove to Bowling and Billiards, and signed up for five bowling leagues. He purchased two pairs of bowling shoes, size nine and a half–one pair in blue, the other a light tan; and three bowling balls in a variety of colors–a patriotic red white and blue, another, a root-beer shade of brown, and a third, a conservative black. The finger holes were ground to his specifications. Ralphie had never bowled.

     Early that same year, Ralphie began hiding behind their living-room drapery to prevent President Eisenhower from spying on him as the imaginary motorcade drove by their house. Each afternoon, before leaving work, he opened the trunk of his car to check that none of his co-workers had placed office supplies there. Occasionally he carried on conversations with himself, both at the office and at home.

     Late one evening, he swallowed five sleeping pills, washing them down with a bottle of Budweiser. His wife awoke to find a note pinned to her pillow which merely read: “Goodbye”. She rushed him to Emergency; the long and short of it–Ralphie was rewarded with the best night’s sleep he’d had in years.

     Back home, it wasn’t long before he tried his luck again–this time with a shot gun. The barrel, too long to be positioned properly, resulted in an explosion which missed the intended target completely, but did manage to annihilate his wife’s potted fern.

     Secretly, his wife scheduled an appointment with Dr. Morgan, a psychiatrist, impressing upon him the increased seriousness of the situation, and pleaded with him to do something–anything! Ralphie was admitted to General Hospital’s Psych Ward for observation and evaluation. The first night there, he tried to hang himself with the frayed tie-back on the curtain in his room–only to have it shred and break. After confinement of a few weeks spent weaving potholders, fashioning ashtrays and juggling medications, he was released by Dr. Morgan.

     On the advice of the doctor and the Psychiatric staff, Ralphie’s company placed him on permanent medical disability and he was retired from Myriad at full salary, plus medical benefits. Shortly thereafter, during a prescribed hospital procedure, the doctors discovered that his carotid arteries were clogged with plaque and needed to be reamed. The procedure was successful–miraculously so. Ralphie was no longer psychotic. Seemingly, he became a normal, functioning member of society.

     Ralphie’s fifty-third birthday arrived. Once again bestowing upon himself best wishes, he reached for his bifocals, scrabbled for pen and paper, and wrote his former employer the following letter:

          “Dear Mr. Stuyevescent:

           I am no longer mentally impaired. I would feel guilty if you continued sending my monthly disability checks. This is my authorization to cease mailing them.

           Yours Truly,

           Ralph Maybock”

     After reading the letter, Mr. Stuyevescent chucked it into the wastebasket, commenting to his secretary: “This guy has GOT to be crazy! No SANE person would ever stop their checks from coming.”

     Ralphie died of natural causes at age ninety-five, outliving his long-suffering wife by thirty-nine years. When the will was probated, it was discovered that he had amassed a fortune of over two million dollars. For forty-two years to be exact, a smiling and ebullient Ralphie strutted to his mailbox to retrieve, cash, and wisely invest his generous monthly stipend.

     Yes, Ralphie was a nut case. Everyone said so!

 

                                                                                                         Jan Chapman

                                                                                                         March, 2010