Читать книгу Zany! - Jim Gold - Страница 14

DR. ZANY WAS SITTING in his living room armchair, contemplating his future, when he happened to notice his house was burning down.

At first he paid little attention, thinking the flames would die away by themselves. But as wall boards heated up and ceiling burst into flame, he put aside his coffee, rose from his chair, turned to the open window, and shouted to Martha, who was raking leaves in the back yard, “Help!”

What had caused the conflagration? The long summer heat spell? Overcooked breakfast? A Sitzensprintz spark caused by over-inhabitation of his armchair? Or had it been his raging sore throat?

So hard to know the hidden causes of things.

Martha dropped her rake. “Call the fire department!” she cried. Attila came running down from the attic, AK-47 in hand, and started shooting into the flames.

Dr. Zany waved his arms in the air. This only served to fan the flames. Realizing the ineffectiveness of his approach, he turned to the phone and dialed a number scribbled on the wall: (966)0446-9770-97753122-345797644. The flames leapt higher. Martha raced up the back kitchen stairs, grabbed the phone from Zany’s hand, and dialed the fire department.

“Treebeck Fire Department. Jones speaking. What can I do for you? Anything burning?”

“Our house is on fire.”

“You’ve called the right number. What’s your address?”

“422 Burdberry Avenue.”

“I thought that one burned down last month. Well, never mind. We’ll be right over.”

Soon the wail of fire engine sirens could be heard up the street. Twenty firemen poured out of four fire trucks, carrying axes and a long hose. Entering through the front door, they sprayed the walls and living room floor. Suddenly, with a great crack, the kitchen ceiling fell. Pieces of the upstairs bathroom landed on the floor; then the bathtub crashed through, slamming into the kitchen table.

“Save your valuables!” the fireman shouted. “We don’t know where this one will go or how long it will take.”

Zany grabbed his armchair and pushed it through the living room window. It fell into the tulip bed with a thud.

They tried to evacuate Attila, who dodged them and raced through the dining room, shooting up Zany’s den as he went.

Martha followed the doctor outside with an enormous tin of virgin olive oil and three pieces of fruit. Zany dragged his armchair to the front lawn. He sat down to watch smoke rising from the second floor windows. Martha and Attila sank onto the lawn next to him.

“I like fires,” said Zany. “They were an important part of my youth. One of my early hobbies was burning down the forest behind our back yard.”

Martha eyed him strangely. “It’s true,” she said as they watched the east wall of the kitchen collapse. “Fires can be soothing.”

Zany meditated upon his childhood adventures as the flames rose higher; the burning house yielded many fruits for philosophical consideration.

“Fire reminds me of early traumas!” he said. “Ancient fears of abandonment! Ghosts of non-recognition are popping up everywhere.”

Suddenly, a revelation seared his brain. “So that’s why I’ve spent so many months in the house! By warming my chair, I was creating fires of lassitude. Tears of melancholy or sadness could not extinguish them. Now I know. Secretly, I was furious about my former life. No matter how hard I tried or how successful my concerts, I was constantly slapped down by non-recognition. And this slap down came from me. Even while the audience cheered, I was busy diminishing myself. I always knew the sad truth that, no matter how large my success, abandonment would follow. The sadness I felt during these months of armchair sitting is not due to old age or fear of death. Rather, it is memories of childhood traumas! Their reappearances destroy any chance of happiness or appreciation of my success.”

The flames grew higher. Zany slapped his thigh with delight, rose, stood on the arm of his chair, and leaped into the air. In an instant, he was lying flat on the lawn, laughing, shouting, and singing as cries of freedom issued from his lips.

An hour later, firemen had hosed down the remains of his den. Zany considered the future. “I’ll move slowly, carefully, return to old forms but with new wisdom. I’ll start with . . . yes, the violin! I may even return to concerts! Me! Imagine that. But what about old fears? Memory lapses in public? Will I be brave enough to forget my music before thousands of adoring fans?”

As doubts invaded, Zany shook his head. Remembering the importance of blood supply in the brain, he turned himself upside down, stood on his head in a skillful sirhasana, the yoga pose he had learned from the kabbalistic yogina Balabusta Devananda after a fund-raising concert in the Himalayas. Pointing his toes south, north, then straight up towards heaven, he felt a rising awareness as currents of health-giving blood rushed to his temples. His face turned red. After eighteen minutes, a total Hebrew chai, he returned to his favorite resting position, the savasana or corpse pose.

Martha observed him. “Daring is good. You’ll feel like a coward and failure if you don’t try your best.” She mopped the doctor’s sweating brow with a handkerchief, then added with authority, “It’s always better to give your best.”

Zany sat up and straightened with attention. “You’re right,” he said. “To dare or not to dare—that is the question. Beneath daring lies courage. That’s what Larry Columbus said before he discovered America. I’ll say it, too!”

Martha agreed. “You must return to the concert stage, mein Doktor. If not that, to some public stage. Otherwise you will dry up inside and die.”

“Yes. Some things are even worse than death. Now I realize that hiding in my closet is one of them.”

“What about your stage fright? Isn’t that why you stopped concertizing in the first place?”

“This fire has suggested a new attitude: giving concerts with different approach. Instead of running offstage when I forget a piece, I’ll improvise and somehow slowly work my way back to the original piece.”

Martha sympathized. Her eyes blinked in philosophic consent. “Forgetfulness will feed your imagination.”

“Right. I’ll conquer stage fright in the process.”

“An added benefit.” Triumphantly, Martha raised her voice and proclaimed, “Let creativity knock those little fukker fears right out of the box!”

“Yes! I’ll do it! I won’t let those little fukkers get away!”

Exhilarated, Zany took off his shirt, pants, and shoes, fell to the ground, and began a hundred joy-juice push-ups.

Just then St. James drove up in his Ford, the fully loaded fertilizer pick-up truck screeching to a halt by the curb. Balls of horse manure rolled out the back and onto the sidewalk. The Apostle had hoped to mow the lawn, and fertilize his rare Brazilian posthumoscarpial shrubs.

“What the hell is going on here?” he cried. Smoke was still rising into the sky.

Seeing the good doctor prone on the ground in his underwear, he called out, “Zoltan, are you all right?”

Attila ambled over, shot his AK-47 into the lawn one last time, and, facing his father, proclaimed: “Zanys believe in fight or flight!” Shouldering his gun, he ran past the firefighters into the burning house to save his last box of bullets.

One minute later, he exited the charred front door carrying nothing.

“Where did you pick up that piece of psychological wisdom?” Zany asked his son. The doctor still felt exhilarated by his exercises; he panted in happy mode.

“From shooting. It healed my back pain.”

Zany shook his head. “You used to be such a nice, quiet boy, so placid and kind. But since you started with that gun three years ago, something has changed.”

“You’re right, Father. AK-47 has changed my life. I owe it all to you. Remember that Sunday afternoon when I rummaged through our garbage can and took out that soiled book? It was during our yard sale.”

“What book was it?”

“War Games and Back Pain.”

“Ah, the one by Italian nutritionist Giovanni Sartorello?”

“That’s it. The one you never read. Dr. Sartorello believed shooting others led to peace of mind, inner health, and physical fitness.”

“Didn’t they incarcerate him in Monticello Psychiatric? The schizophrenic patient section?”

“Yes. But realizing his genius, they allowed him to continue taking three shots a day from his window. Dr. Sartarello’s book made me realize I suffered from TBP.”

“What do those letters stand for?”

Attila had no idea.