Zany!. Jim Gold

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.

       10

      SEARCH FOR DIRECTION

      BUT AS HE SAT on the lawn, Zany was facing—despite the momentary emotional lift he had felt just after the fire—the emptiness of his future. He tried getting up, but a sudden vertigo forced him back to the ground. Finally, he rose, walked slowly to his front steps, and entered his home. He gazed in confusion at the embers of his former kitchen. “So many months of sitting. I never left the house. What will I do now?”

      He returned to the lawn to find Attila sitting under a tree in lotus position, perusing a copy of Thucydides’ Peloponnesian Wars. The etymological scholar had been thumbing through his notes on the conflict between Athens and Sparta. “ ‘Athenian markets conquered the Aegean,’ ” he read aloud in his own translation from the ancient Greek.

      “That’s not in Thucydides,” snapped Zany.

      “It is in my translation!”

      “After paying for all those classics courses at Bustard, you dare make it up? Shameful! What happened to your brain? That school messed up your medulla.”

      Attila’s face reddened. He defended himself. “You didn’t waste your money, Papa! Classics are right for me. They helped get me into Harvard Medical School. Studying ancient Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Hittite, Akkadian, Syriac, Babylonian, Sumerian, and Ugaritic widened my social life—Radcliffe women wanted the Ugaritic type. They loved my original approach to translation.” With filial concern, Attila looked into Zany’s eyes. “Anyway, Father, you’re doing it again. Avoiding, avoiding. Distracting yourself from facing your future.”

      “Well, with all your wasted education, what do you suggest?”

      “Marketing.”

       “Marketing?”

      “Yes. It will give new meaning and direction to your life. It’s good to promote something.”

      “Attila, you’re mad. Artists create art; marketers create markets. They are two separate entities. Artists cannot and should not sell. Never, never. Marketing is out. Besides, how could I possibly do both? Impossible. One life style cancels out the other.”

      “Father, this low-profile philosophy of yours has kept you prisoner in your pig pen long enough. Time to break down the walls and get out. You suffer from what Sartorello calls APS—Artist Pighead Syndrome. Marketing is not an annoying distraction—it can increase your visual powers.” Emphasizing his point, Attila shot his gun into the air. “And bring dynamism to your life as well!”

      “How do you know all this?”

      “Shooting practice on the firing range has vastly increased my directional skills. So has my study of ancient Greek philosophy.”

      Zany considered this answer.

      Then he began a long, thoughtful sit. Hours passed. The sun sank into the western sky; afternoon turned into evening. Chin in hand, he faced the darkness, pondering great questions in silent wonder.

      The following morning, in the charred kitchen, Martha set up a breakfast table and pushed three metal chairs around it. Zany sat down, fondled his plate, tapped his knife and fork on a coffee cup in waltz rhythm, and asked his son, “Does this marketing really fit my personality?”

      Attila snapped some bacon in pieces and arranged it on his fried egg sandwich. “Absolutely!” The lad bit into the sandwich and munched thoroughly before downing a glass of orange juice. Mouth loaded with food and stomach filling with authority, he continued, “Marketing, coupled with sales, will consolidate your connection to the public.”

      Zany remained silent. Martha set a boiled potato, cabbage, and a garlic clove on his plate. As she poured orange juice into his glass, he pushed back his chair, stumbled to his feet, and staggered around the kitchen. “Could this be where I’m heading?” he asked himself as chills of awe and wonder passed through him. The floor beneath his bare feet turned cold; he imagined ice beneath him as he suddenly remembered wearing torn fur mittens while playing a Bach gavotte during his concert tour of the Arctic. “If this is my new direction, what shall I market?”

      At that moment, he saw his old self crumbling. Minutes passed as the demise continued. The sun peeked through the kitchen window; a robin chirped in the back yard. Rising imperceptibly, like a fog on the upland Scottish moors, the barest glimpse of a future Zany appeared. The chill diminished and disappeared; his frozen body softened to a warm glow. Clothed in mystery, he envisioned a life filled with potential and adventure. Spirit lasts forever. But was there really a connection between adventures Beyond and those in the here-and- now of the marketing world? He would see.

      The great violinist knew, in any event, that his quiescent phase of house-sitting had come to a close; armchair existence was over.