MARGE LOOSES HER MIND

Marge is standing behind the podium on the stage at Royce Hall, UCLA, speaking to over 400 fellow psychiatrists about Freud's intolerance of women's sexuality, when her mind leaves her.

Although it is still morning outside, it is night inside the windowless auditorium and the audience is in total darkness. She can't find a single face to focus on. Her plane was late, she has a touch of jet lag, and didn't even have time to let her parents know she would be in town. She is the keynote speaker, she has butterflies in her stomach and now, to top it off, her mind wanders away. Her mouth stays present though and she continues to recite the words of her speech, one by one, with all the correct inflection. But her mind wanders away.

Her mind is on the loose, alone, a goner. It doesn't ask permission, doesn't say where it is going, it just leaves.

It slides over the edge of the podium and down to the floor. There it hesitates a moment wavering on whether to go left or right.Then it decides and a bored MFCC in the front row suddenly needs a smoke break, bad, and her mind hitches a ride on a Hush Puppy that has seen better days. The MFCC slips up the aisle unnoticed and right out the front doors into the squinty sunlight, limping slightly.

Back on the stage, her words continue on in perfect order.

Once out on the curb, in the startling sunshine, the MFCC suddenly remembers that he gave up smoking over 4 years go and that the very scent of cigarette smoke makes him ill. He returns to the auditorium scratching his head, but no longer limping.

Along the street in front of Royce Hall is parked a row of yellow Yellow Taxi Cabs, all poised for the conference to end, ready to take weary attendees back to dreary hotel rooms or tiny houses in the San Fernando Valley.

Her mind slithers up the side of one of the bright cabs, through the half open back seat window, across the torn leather seats and into the pit of the stomach of a sleeping driver.

"Shit," he says waking up with a start, "I'm hungry, thats what I am." He rolls down the window of his car door and sticks out his head, "Hey George, George," he yells at the taxi behind him, "George!"

George rolls his head to one side and leans slightly out his window. "You awake? Whadda you want?"

"Hey, my stomach hurts, I'm hungry. You got anything to eat back there? You know, some chips, a soda?"

"Oh, poor baby. I ain't got nothing here. Whadda think I am? 7-11?" George pulls his head back and rolls up his window.

"Shit," says our driver again, "Shit," and turns the key in the ignition. "I'm not sitting here forever. I'm hungry." He puts the car in gear and pulls out into the street.

"What am I doing?" he briefly wonders, "I was fifth in line for a sure fare. But hell, I'm hungry and a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do!"

Pastrami on Rye, her mind says to his nervous center, pastrami on rye.

"Yeah, that's the ticket, stormy pie. That's what I feel like having, stormy pie," he thinks as he turns onto Sunset Blvd. "Stormy pie? Wait a minute, what the hell is stormy pie? Am I nuts?"

Marge's mind tried again, this time it directs the message straight to his taste buds. The taxi driver's salivary glands kick in and his tongue massages his upper palate.

"Cantor's, best pastrami and rye in town!" he says to himself. "Cantor's Deli on Fairfax. Nothing but the best for me, kid." Marge's mind settles back for the ride.

"Crackle, crackle," goes his radio, "Ralph, are you there? Come in?"

"Yeah, Charmine," he answers.

"Mary Lou!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hey, I'm starving, gotta go for a bite to eat. I'll be right back."

"What? You can't. . . aren't you at Royce? Where are you?" Mary Lou was not a happy camper.

"Just coming up on Fairfax."

"But Ralph, you're supposed to. . .," Marge's mind gives him a swift kick and he turns off the radio as he speeds down Sunset. He turns right at Fairfax and then slows down once he passes Santa Monica Blvd. As the average age of a neighborhood goes up, the average driving speed goes down. He grits his teeth and keeps one foot on the brake as he negotiates his way through old folks, both in and out of cars, doing their morning shopping and kibitzing.

The old people glare at him and he glares back. Can't they see how hungry he is? He finally pulls into the Cantor's parking lot to wait in line for a parking space to free up. Ralph drums his fingers on the steering wheel and chews on his lip. The suddenly he wonders just why he is there. He reached under his seat and pulls out a full box of Nilla Wafers. He hates rye bread and besides, pastrami gives him gas.

Marge's mind is out the window and hanging on the side of the cab door. From across the parking lot comes a kid on a skateboard weaving his way through the parked and waiting cars. As he whooshes past the yellow cab, her mind drops onto his left sneaker. His sock needs a good washing, she notices.

Jimmy's on his was to play basketball in Joshua's backyard, when he gets this incredible urge to fly, to race the wind, to really cut loose on his skateboard. He turns left at the next corner and zooms down a side street, instead of turning right, to Joshua's. Two blocks down he turns left again and with a high wheelie, races down three more blocks, dodging old men with their fancy canes or sad dogs on leashes. At the end of the third block he passes a mailman who is carrying his heavy sack and feeling much too old for his job.

Then Jimmy remembers basketball. Whoa, Joshua was waiting for him. What the hell is he doing here of all places. He turns right at the corner and clicky clacks away.

The mailman, walking his usual dull, monotonous route, has an immediate and miraculous change of heart about the American work ethic. Although his mailbag feels just a bit heavier for some unknown reason, his outlook lightens. He decides to pick up his step and get this day over with. He has been dawdling long enough. Time to do his job, and do it well. Let's get moving: 1756, 1756 1/2. 1758 A, 1758 B, 1758 C. Of course he didn't realize that the Lillian Vernon catalog that was destined for 1758 C, had a little extra bonus clinging to it, but just after he drops it, along with the other catalogs and general mail, through the slot in the door, he no longer thinks that it is such a good day to be in a rush. After all, it was an 8-hour day; no matter what he does and 8 hours is 8 hours. No point knocking himself out.

Marge's mind has to wait a few moments before an old man picks up the mail. He then turns to shuffle towards the bright kitchen at the back of the dim and stuffy apartment.

"Hermy, Hermy, get the mail already," as Hermy enters the small sunny kitchen where a tall, straight-backed woman stands drying her hands on a fresh kitchen towel, "Did you get the mail? Well?" There is no longer any warmth in her voice for him, hasn't been for more years than he can count.

"Give it here, give it to me. Don't you open anything. You know you can't ready without your glasses. Just give it to me. Why are you standing? Sit down."

Hermy sits down heavily at the chrome and Formica table in the center of the room as she grabs the mail, drops the catalogs onto the table with disgust, and walks away with the rest. Hermy's hands are shaking and his breath is labored.

"You need some tea," she states and before he can answer, she puts an empty mug in front of him, absently turns on the flame under the kettle on the stove and goes back to looking through the mail.

"Nothing, not a thing. You think she could write, once in a while. Just a note, a postcard, a something? You'd think she hates us, her own parents. Nothing, nothing again. Hermy, why? Will you tell me that? Why?" She brings the kettle to the table, and pours his tea for him, putting in a half a teaspoon of sugar, "Half a teaspoon, that's all you need. Now don't burn yourself," putting the sugar away, the woman continues, "She always was your special one. Always, to you she ran. So why doesn't she write, at least to you? You'd think she could write, once in a while. Well, don't you?" The woman glares at her husband and then turns back to the stove here a large pot is threatening to boil over.

Hermy fumbles for his reading glasses and absently picks up the Lillian Vernon catalog. As he does, he suddenly recognized that distinct little girl smell. He feels the brush of silky hair on the top of his hand and feels the familiar quick breath on his neck. Then, as clear as day, he feels a big sloppy kiss on his cheek. It all happens in a moment and takes him completely by surprise. He quickly brings his hand to his cheek, knocking over his tea mug.

"I told you to be careful! Ach, I give up! I give up on the both of you. You don't listen and she don't care. The two of you. I tell you, I give up. Here, clean up your own mess," she drops a towel onto the table and storms out of the room, taking the mail with her.

He wipes the table halfheartedly and then touches his cheek again. He hears her happy, little girl laughter and sees her dancing, green eyes. The moment hangs in the air. He remembers and smiles.

Back at Royce Hall, Marge again has her mind back. Ralph is at the end of the line of cabs. Jimmy is at Joshua's and the mailman has 24 more drops to make. Marge smiles, ends her speech, collects her notes and leaves the stage, knowing she has done a good morning's work.