Zany!. Jim Gold
hard to imagine I wrote such a curative book,” he said, rubbing his aching quadriceps, gastrocnemius, and buttocks before moving up to his triceps and trapezius. “I’m tired of these sedentary cellular discomforts, suffering these persistent muscular pains. Isn’t there a better way?”
“For you? I doubt it.” Martha glanced upward as she considered the long slow period of Zany’s transition plight. “Actually, I really don’t know. We’ll see what the Lord brings.”
She dropped four tomatoes into boiling water, pulled them out, and began to remove the skins and seeds.
“Can’t you save your religious opinions for the laundry?”
“Mein Doktor, the body is the clothing of the soul. It too needs cleansing. Though imagination is your essence, its flexibility may compromise your happiness.”
While Dr. Zany thought about flexibility, Martha sauteed onions and garlic. “You mean enlarge my desires, expand my vision? If not, I’ll focus only on aching body parts?”
“Exactly . . . .” She added three sprigs of thyme. “Ah, Dr. Zany, what a homey aroma!”
Zany sat in silence for the next few hours, considering his options. Martha mopped the kitchen floor where a fried fish had fallen.
Finally, he spoke. “Up to age eighty-three, Freud constantly revised his ideas. So should I. Vision enlargement is the way to go.” A hint of enthusiasm entered his voice. “I’ll revise my Bumble Bee Concerto and reexamine, restore, and improve my other compositions as well. I’ll search for new meaning in the Bach Chaconne. New interpretations will flow.”
Zany nodded as he agreed with himself. “Goodbye, nirvana, enlightenment, and yogic meditation. Inner peace is no longer my goal.” Zany raised his hands, flailed the air in 4/4 time, and began conducting an imaginary Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. “I prize the dynamic moments of restless imagination. I want battles of creativity shaping the rest of my life!”
Martha cleaned away the soup plates.
9
FIRE!
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