When George and Rose lost their marbles (standard:fantasy, 5267 words)
Author: AGLapitino	Added: Sep 16 2002	Views/Reads: 3423/2336	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A satire. Two people encounter problems in their lives escape to another reality.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

boys were eating top-drawer grub. George would sit at the table quietly 
watching what seemed to him treadmills laden with hamburgers and 
spaghetti dumping into the mouths of his sons. 

"What's the matter, George?"  Terry would ask. 

George would smile,  "Oh, nothing..." 

Then Terry would kiss him on the head and fly off to her job.  Even a
blind man could tell she had gone through a magical transformation, so 
full of enthusiasm and looking so neat and attractive. 

As for George, he was staying later and later in bed.  When he did get
up he stared in the mirror.  That face he had for all these years, was 
it really him, or was it a cover-up for someone else. A disembodied 
voice whispered in his ear trying to tell him who he really was! One 
afternoon as he sat in his cubicle putting the final touch to a doodle 
on the back of a property analysis sheet he was suddenly seized with 
the  truth!  He had sketched the unmistakable figure of a bareheaded 
monk with outstretched arms obviously communicating with the above.  
Hallelujah!  George's fist hit the desk.  It was the sign he had been 
waiting for.  It was time for him to act! 

When he got home Terry met him at the door full with exciting news. 
Guess what, she told him, she was going to have her very own high 
fashion dress shop, and Sal was putting up the money.  Wasn't that 
generous and thoughtful of him? 

"Isn't it fantastic?"  she squealed, clapping her hands. 

George moved his head up and down. 

"And you can help!" 

George hunched his shoulders and turned up his palms in a gesture of
inquiry.  Help? What kind of help could he render? 

"Yes, you can, honey," Terry smiled.  "There will be lots you can do. 
Yes, indeed!" She thought for a second.  "How about inventory? You can 
check inventory and you can be in charge of deliveries..." She stopped 
short and looked querulously at George who had closed his eyes and was 
moving his lips silently. 

George stayed in bed for the next three days.  Terry moved into the
spare room and the boys were instructed not to bother their father 
while he was recovering from the flu.  It was an unnecessary caution 
since the healthy lads spent the entire time outside yelling and 
running and inside only to clean out the refrigerator. 

On Monday morning, after Terry and the boys had left George got out of
bed.  At last, he was ready to follow his destiny.  He shed his blue 
striped pajamas, wrapped his torso in the bed sheet, gathering it up in 
his crotch, sensibly using pins to keep everything in place. With his 
dark curly hair and four days growth of beard he looked like a saint 
from a Michelangelo painting.  He found a broom, which he held inverted 
in his right hand, and thus equipped sallied forth out the front door. 

He drove to Island Realty, right up to the outside door stopping only
inches from smashing it down.  Instead of going to his cubicle he 
strode to the manager's office and thumped on the door with his broom. 

"Open the gate!"  George shouted.   A group of interested office people
gathered around.  The door opened enough for Tom Kantor to put his head 
out.  He studied George for a few seconds and then inquired, "Just who 
in the hell do you think you are?" 

Without hesitation George raised his voice.  "Can you not see, I am
Siegfried, the brave and noble warrior!" 

The door snapped shut.  After a moment the door opened a crack and Tom
stuck his nose out, somewhat confused asked, "You look like George 
wrapped up in a bedsheet to me."      	"You don't say!" George shouted, 
his nose turned up scornfully. "Your ignorance will be your doom!" 

Once more the door snapped shut.  Tom was thinking what did he care
about Siegfried anyway, or for that matter, even George?  Besides, 
where did George get off coming to the office during business hours and 
doing like Halloween.  With growing indignation he picked up the phone 
and called Terry at her new store and in a very complaining manner told 
her what was happening. 

"I knew it!"  Terry cried.  "I knew it!" 

"Knew what?"  Tom asked. 

"I knew something like this was going to happen." 

"Really?  Then why in the hell didn't you keep him home?" 

Terry didn't know why but said help would be on the way. 

"I hope so," Tom muttered.  "I've got a business to run here." 

Terry immediately called Pilgrim Manor, a nearby facility which
specialized in locking up people whose judgement was not in line with 
the regular community.  Make haste, Terry begged them, for mayhem was 
about to be committed. 

Back at Island Realty George had now directed his attention to the
office staff His audience was warming up to his threats to bring death 
to all enemies when three men in white jackets came through the front 
door smiling reassurances to the onlookers and whisked George away in a 
big white van.   He was strapped and placed in the back seat behind a 
metal grill where he sat suddenly quiet.  As the van approached Pilgrim 
Manor he knew he was going to sanctuary and a great peace fell upon 
him. 

During the days that followed he did not respond to various highly
professional psychiatric therapies like dream interpretation or recall 
of past lives under hypnosis, but neither did he run amuck or foul 
himself with snot and excrement.  Eventually, the staff just left 
George alone. 

*		*		* 

In a beach house on the other side of town from George before he moved
to Pilgrim Manor lived a person by the name of Rose, someone George had 
never met.  At the moment, she happened to be in her kitchen opening an 
ice-cold bottle of eighty proof vodka.  It was ten in the morning.  She 
was in her nightgown having been up about fifteen minutes. Carefully 
she poured the liquor, somewhat viscous from the freezer, into a long 
stem wineglass. She stood by the large casement window gazing at the 
seagulls swooping down for scraps on the beach.  Flying rats, she was 
thinking, hungry bastards.  How come nobody, human or animal, ever ate 
the seagulls. 

For that matter, seagulls were not really her biggest concern.  Just a
week ago Rose would have waited for her husband Stoddard to come home 
from the college, where he was an instructor in a new course called The 
Practicality of Virtual Reality, to have her first drink together with 
him before dinner.  Sometimes they had several and passed out in front 
of the TV while their three teenage daughters fended for themselves. 

Alas, Stoddard would not be coming home.  Last Sunday Rose had thrown
him out when he had casually announced the birth of a petite liaison, 
as he put it, with Pamela, one of his students.  No big deal, he said, 
like turning a new corner and down a different street. 

"Are you screwing her, Stoddard?"  Rose asked. 

"Now and then," Stoddard answered. 

"Get lost, you bastard!"  Rose replied. 

It was a dialogue of few words but of decisive action.  Stoddie removed
himself from the premises with great haste, intuitively feeling 
impending mayhem was at hand. 

Surprisingly, the little episode did open a new street for Rose. She
learned to start her day with ice cold vodka, occasionally mixed with 
coke.  She spent her time watching the seagulls or just looking out at 
the waves, eventually going to her bedroom and falling asleep listening 
to some guy on the radio who had a program consisting of insulting 
people who called him. 

Her three daughters, unencumbered since it was summer school recess,
took over.  It was not an unworkable arrangement.  Rose obediently 
signed shopping checks for the girls and had her vodka delivered by a 
young dude who had his eye on her oldest daughter.  The arrangement had 
not been invented in heaven, but what the hell, it was tolerable. 

One Saturday afternoon the girls were discussing the feasibility of
leaving Mommy alone long enough for them to attend the local cinema to 
see a rerun film about a family called Brady.  But to leave Mommy 
unattended? Was that safe? 

In great resentment Rose said did they think their Mommy was a child and
couldn't take care of herself?  All the daughters did think Mommy was a 
child and couldn't take care of herself, but didn't say so.  Instead, 
they said okay they would go to the movies if Mommy promised that she 
would take a nice nap in the deck hammock while they were away.  No 
problem said Rose with conviction.  So off the girls went. 

Just one little drink said Rose to herself to help her rest. It is well
known one drink is never enough, so when Rose finally hit the hammock 
she was pretty well oiled and fell in a deep slumber.  As luck would 
have it, the sky decided to erupt with a downpour reminiscent of 
Niagara Falls, inundating her ossified carcass.  She was quietly 
drowning when her daughters returned to save her in the nick of time. 

Rose stayed in bed three days.  The girls brought her soup and regularly
took her to the bathroom.  On the fourth day Rose got up.  She took a 
long hot bath, exercised great care putting on make-up and combing her 
long blond hair.  She put on her favorite dress and stepped out in 
front of her daughters as if to say take a look at the new me. 

"Oh Mommy!"  The girls exclaimed.  "You look wonderful!" 

Rose nodded, said things were going to be different.  She was going out
but would be home for dinner and not to worry.  A couple hours later 
she returned and announced she had a job with New Horizons Marina. 

"Doing what?"  The girls asked in unison. 

"Selling boats," Rose replied. 

"No kidding?"  The girls said. 

On the first day of employment a man in old-fashioned overalls, who had
been evaluated as a deadbeat by the veteran salesmen, was directed to 
her for service.  The guy smiled, said he was a plumber and often 
wondered how it would be to own a boat.  He gazed fondly at Rose as she 
read aloud the attributes of a Boston Whaler from a card attached to 
the boat, and added with a big smile what lovely times he would have if 
he owned such a boat. The plumber grinned and wrote a check for the 
full amount. 

The next day she sold a Boston Whaler to a middle-aged man who looked
like a house painter and had been sent to Rose by the plumber. 

A few days later, the house painter sent Rose a little guy in white
pants and a sailor hat who said he wanted to see what the painter had 
bought.  With mounting enthusiasm Rose took the little guy out to the 
dock to show how the boat looked in the water and began extolling the 
boat's amenities, emphasizing particularly its great stability. 

"I'll show you what I mean!"  she cried and leaped off the dock aiming
for the boat but in her zealotry overshooting and landing with a big 
splash in the water. The little guy with the sailor hat immediately 
jumped into the boat and carefully helped Rose out of the water 

The manager of New Horizons, having been told tales of Rose's affinity
for vodka by the jealous salesmen, wormed his way close to Rose in an 
overt posture of trying to help, surreptitiously sniffing her breath 
and getting an unexpected whiff of bacon and tomato. Rose smiled 
sheepishly, inhaled deeply, pushing out her ample bosom then strode 
away ostensibly to go home and change clothes. 

"Only bacon and tomato!"   The manger told his men. 

"Don't you know vodka doesn't smell?"  The guys said. 

"You mean..." the manager started to say. 

"Yeah!  Drinking on the job!"   All the guys nodded solemnly. 

So, making up some horseshit reason, the manager laid Rose off until
further notice. 

This all happened on Rose's thirty-eighth birthday.  Some birthday
present she was thinking.  What's to celebrate?  She reached for the 
unopened bottle of vodka she kept in the cupboard as part of her 
alcoholic therapy, a technique she had seen in a movie.  She went out 
to the deck and raised her long stem glass to the seagulls and without 
knowing why announced  "Give my regards to Valhalla!" 

There was an unusual snowfall in November.  It started during the night
and continued to first light creating a lush white cover to greet the 
morning risers.   Rose opened her eyes about mid-morning and was 
blinded by the bright light in her window. . The bedroom was 
incandescent. She could see small images of white-robed figures flying 
through the closed window. She listened carefully to the message they 
were giving her.  Jumping out of bed she rushed to the outside deck and 
threw up her arms and gave a resounding Viking cry that pierced the 
immediate neighborhood like a knife. The wind was howling through the 
open door. Her daughters ran out to see what was happening.  It took 
all three of them to drag Rose back in the house.  After all, what 
would the neighbors think?  They stood shivering and facing each other 
in the kitchen. 

"Where is Siegfried!"  Rose demanded. 

"Who is Siegfried?"  The girls asked. 

Rose began to whirl around the room her nightgown billowing out. "I must
find Siegfried!  I must find Siegfried!" 

"Why, Mommy?  Why, Mommy?"  The girls wanted to know. 

Rose stopped whirling and faced her daughters.  "I plan to kill him,
that's why!" Bright girls they were, also enlightened by the 
cheerfulness of the Brady family movie to persevere no matter what the 
calamity. Immediately, they decided telepathically as sisters can, on 
therapy that can loosely be called placating the clown. 

"What a great idea!"  they all said.  "And we will help!" 

"I need a horse!"  Rose shouted.  "Get me a horse!" 

"A horse?  Why, a horse?" 

"Fools!"  Rose was really thundering.  "Can you not see I am a Valkyrie!
Brunhilde is my name!  Brunhilde the Valkyrie!" 

"Of course, Mommy."  The girls had a way of speaking synchronously. "We
will get you a horse." 

Instead, they called papa Stoddard who told them not to be alarmed for
he would take care of everything, which meant he called Pilgrim Manor 
and reported a crazie was about to kill someone named Siggy. 

In short order the three smiling men in white jackets came to the beach
house and found Rose about to exercise her new flying ability from the 
porch.  Without as much as by your leave whisked Rose into their white 
van and drove off to Pilgrim Manor. Rose was installed in as 
comfortable a room as you can expect in such an institution. "I could 
see it coming for years," Stoddard told the resident psychiatrist.  "It 
wasn't the booze you know.  The madness is in her genes."  The 
psychiatrist kept nodding his head as if he just learned something. 

On Christmas Eve, all patients carefully evaluated with the least
expectation of going helter-skelter were seated in the dayroom around 
the Christmas tree to wait for Santa Claus. George, now a guest of the 
Manor since summer, had simmered down cunningly waiting for his 
opportunity to escape and pursue his destiny as Siegfried the brave 
warrior. His beard had grown in dark curls though his bedsheet had been 
confiscated for a Pilgrim Manor costume, a greenish gray shirt and 
trousers with large black letters PM on the back of the shirt.  At the 
moment, his bright eyes scanned the Dayroom and came to rest on Rose 
sitting next to him nonchalantly examining the backs of her hands. 

"Salaam!"  George greeted, bending his head and touching his forehead
with the palm of his hand. 

Rose raised her eyebrows.  "Salami?" 

"Oh no," George smiled.  "Not salami...Salaam...peace." 

"That's nice," Rose returned his smile. Several weeks without alcohol
and regular meals had restored Rose's handsome features and sensually 
enlarged her curves.  Her blond hair glowed, combed back and coiled in 
a neat bun.  Her doctor had said she was well enough to go home except 
for one little idiosyncrasy, a temporary aftermath of heavy drinking 
which produced a forgetfulness of some things.  It was called 
Korsakoff's Syndrome, the doctor had smiled with an air of technical 
superiority.  Stay at the Manor a bit longer, he urged. 

"Why are you here?"  George asked Rose, very politely. 

Rose smiled.  "They tell me I used to think I was a Valkyrie. someone
called Brunhilde." 

"Brunhilde?"  George shook trying to contain himself. 

"What's wrong?  That name mean something to you?" 

George leaned over, whispered, "I have heard she is looking for me." 

Rose smiled.  "Hey, she may be just what the doctor ordered." 

George's apprehension tightened.  "You don't understand.  I have been
told she means to kill me!" 

Impulsively, Rose affectionately pinched George on the cheek.  "Nah,
don't worry, you're safe here." 

Not to be placated, George stood.  " I need my cloak of invisibility!"
he bellowed. 

"Do sit down," Rose urged.  "They will take you bye-bye if you don't" 

"I hear Wotan calling me!" 

"Oh?"  Rose searched her memory.  "That must be my husband."  She
laughed.  "I used to think he was Siegfried." 

George began to whirl and stamp his feet swinging his arm like holding a
sword or an ax.  Rose approached him gingerly to render assistance when 
those three men in white jackets appeared from nowhere, took hold of 
the whirling George and quickly transported him from the dayroom. Rose 
stared at George's empty chair, snapped her fingers with 
disappointment. 

The next day was Christmas.  Rose went home and George went to the shock
therapy room located on the second floor.  The room was outfitted with 
operating tables and strange apparatus with tubes that would have given 
Doctor Frankenstein an orgasm.  On the door was the notation Do Not 
Enter! 

Stoddard was waiting for Rose in the lobby.  On the drive home she
peeked at him curiously. She thought, Siegfried?  Nah! 

When they reached the house Stoddard announced with a smile that he had
moved back right after Rose had been taken away. 

"Really?"  Rose exclaimed, waiting to hear the rest. 

"It was the only way to take care of the girls." 

"That was considerate, Stod." 

Stoddard took a deep breath and said, "I've also brought Pam...we're
using the attic." 

Rose said nothing. 

"Well?"  Stoddard asked. 

"Well what?" 

"What do you think?" 

"You and Pamela?  Me and the girls?" 

"Yes, yes...we would be a group." 

"Like turning a new corner and down a different street?" 

"That's right, Rose," Stoddard said with gusto.  "I think you're
beginning to understand." 

"I understand you are a Siegfried shit!" 

"What's that?" 

"You will find out if you and your floozie don't get the hell out real
quick!" 

Stoddard caught a glimpse of Brunhilde and in no time he and Pamela were
skedaddling out the back door.  Back in the kitchen Rose stared blankly 
out the window. Automatically she reached for her bottle of security 
vodka.  By the next day she was flying with the seagulls.  Her 
daughters, experienced in these matters, immediately detected the first 
signs of emerging Brunhilde, dutifully called Pilgrim Manor and soon 
Rose was back in her old room.  To say the least her cure had been 
short-lived. 

After Christmas comes New Year's Eve.  Rose was allowed to sit in the
dayroom waiting for the arrival of the New Year.  A few in the group 
were already blowing horns and spinning noisemakers.  As coincidence 
would have it Rose sat next to George, who after shock therapy had 
become George again and had removed his cute curly beard. 

Rose glared at George.  "Achtung!" 

Startled, George turned to face her. 

"Have you seen Siegfried?" 

"I beg your pardon," George replied, "I'm afraid I have not seen anybody
called Siegfried." 

"Who are you?" 

"My name is George.  What is your name?" 

"I am Brunhilde, daughter of Wotan!" 

"Is that so."  George peered closely at Rose.  "You look familiar..." 

"I need a horse!"  Rose snarled, "I must find Siegfried." 

"Please don't talk strange, Brunhilde," George admonished.  "They will
take you upstairs and fire your brain." 

"Ach!"  Rose shrugged.  "I don't mind fire.  I am used to it." 

"Say, listen," George said, trying to be helpful, "why are you so
anxious to find this Siegfried?" 

Rose looked fierce.  "He ravished me!" 

"Goodness!  I can understand being mad about that." 

"That wasn't it...that dragonslayer-turd...he left me!" 

George sighed compassionately.  "You really should forget about
Siegfried. A beautiful woman like you can easily find someone else." 

Rose modestly lowered her eyes.  "Do you find me attractive?" 

"Oh, indeed, I do!" 

Rose edged closer to him.  "Where are you being held captive?  I will
come to you tonight." 

"You can't do that," George said, smiling, happy at the thought. "And
besides, I'm leaving in the morning.  I am now cured." 

"Cured?  Cured of what? 

"Well, I am George once again." 

Rose grabbed his hand.  "Take me with you." 

"I can't!  I can't!"  George exclaimed with obvious frustration. 

"Why?  Why?"  Rose asked. 

"They won't let me!" 

Rose leapt to her feet.  "We shall see about that!"  She began to gyrate
across the floor piercing the air with Valkyrie war cries.  "Who are 
they who think they can hold a Valkyrie?" 

The three attendants in white coats who had carried George away on
Christmas Eve, quickly appeared and with customary dispatch took Rose 
away.   George lowered his eyes as latent memory infused him with 
symbiotic understanding. 

In the morning, the advent of the new year, George went home and Rose
was on the second floor in the shock therapy room.  A smiling assistant 
was adjusting black electrodes on her head. 

*		*		* 

Eventually, George went back to Island Realty in a new job opportunity,
explained to him in glowing terms as keeper of the records tucked away 
down in the basement in ramshackle file boxes.  George was pleased with 
the opportunity and smiled copiously to every one during the few times 
he was not in the basement. 

One of the salesmen remarked how old George seemed born again,
subsequently seeing a notice in the newspaper of a meeting of born 
again people at the motor lodge and thinking what a good idea for 
George to attend such a meeting.   "Why dontcha go, George!" he said 
helpfully.  George nodded agreeably. 

The reborn members were crowded in the conference room.  One by one each
member took turns at the podium telling tales of profitable business 
deals and other good things which had happened to them since joining 
the movement.  Big wins at casinos and dirt-cheap houses bought at 
foreclosure sales were favorite happenings generating much clapping and 
exclamations of approval. 

George's eyes wandered among the assorted heads in front of him when he
came upon one head turned around and staring at him.  Surprised, he 
recognized Brunhilde.  Of course it really was Rose.  She smiled and 
waved. With one accord they both left the room and met in the hall. 

"Brunhilde?"  George asked. 

"And you, Siegfried...where is your beard?"  Rose replied. 

"I took that off when I became George again." 

"A pity.  So, now I'm Rose again." 

"Do you have to go back to this meeting?" 

"Not if you have something better."  Rose winked. 

"How about a stroll on the beach?" 

"Great idea!  We can throw rocks at the seagulls." 

They left in George's car.  Rose explained she was back at New Horizons,
in the office taking care of files and stuff. 

"Isn't that a coincidence!"  George remarked. 

They sat on the beach.  The spring cool increased as the sun was
setting.   Departing afternoon strollers created an emptiness that 
amplified the sound of the waves.  In the distance a lone figure 
approached.  A tall man, fiftyish, wearing denim jeans and jacket was 
inspecting the beach with an electronic metal detector.  He stopped a 
few feet in front of them and smiled. 

"What are you looking for?"  Rose asked. 

"I really don't know," the man said. 

"Is it money?"  George ventured. 

"Oh no, not money." 

George and Rose nodded, as if they understood.  The man sat in the sand,
crossed his legs and looked toward the ocean. 

"Nice day, isn't it," Rose said. 

"I just get curious," the man replied, "about people.  You would be
surprised what you can tell about a person just from things in a 
handbag or a pocket." 

"What kind of things?"  Rose asked. 

"Metal things.  They must be metal, otherwise I can't find them." 

"Can you give us an example?"  Rose said. 

"Not today.  I haven't found anything yet." 

"How about yesterday?"  Rose smiled. 

"I wasn't out yesterday." 

"Anytime!"  George laughed.  "Give us an example of something you found
anytime." 

The man scratched his head and was silent for a moment.  He grinned, 
"At the moment I can't think of anything." 

Rose closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. 

The man flexed his arms and stood up.  "I've got to go," he said with
determination. "There's a lot of beach left for me to cover."  He 
picked up his detector and left going in the direction he came. 

Rose raised her head.  "How about that, George?" 

"How about what, Rose?" 

"What do you think of our visitor?" 

George smiled.  "Take your pick.  A searching man, a contented afternoon
stroller or...someone who needs a little Pilgrim Manor." 

"Did you not see a Knight who came riding and wielding his sword
searching for the Holy Grail?" 

"A what?" 

"Ah, George, I think I like you better as Siegfried." 

"Things are what they are, Rose." 

"How can you tell?  You do not see what I see." 

"That sounds like a Christmas carol." 

"Tell me, George.  Do you prefer to see what something is or sometimes
see it as you wish it to be?" 

"What are you saying?" 

"I am saying we are the victims of forced reality!" 

"That sounds nutty." 

"Watch your tongue, George!" 

"Now, Rose, remember our experiences at Pilgrim Manor." 

"Right!  Do you remember that little room on the second floor?" 

George winced at the vision of the electrodes. 

"Was it worth it?"  Rose snuggled closer and put an arm around his
shoulders.  "Are you happy being George again?" 

Their faces were almost touching.  George sighed.  "Everybody is
relieved to see I am George again." 

"And is that who you really are?" 

George was silent. 

Rose tightened her arm around him.  "Who will miss the George person?" 
she murmured. 

A spark of understanding illuminated George's head.  "Who will miss the
Rose person who files papers for the boat salesmen?" 

"Eureka!"  Rose cried, pushing George down on the sand and kissing him
passionately on the mouth.  Above, the ravenous seagulls were squealing 
madly. 

It was almost dark when Rose sat up with a spontaneous shout. "I have
it!" 

George raised himself on one elbow.  "I can imagine."  he smiled. 

"We are going back to Pilgrim Manor!" 

"Are you out of your mind?" 

"That is a vulgar remark, George." 

"Are you saying you want to be a patient again?" 

"Never!" 

"What?  What?" 

"We will go to a Pilgrim Manor of are own making.  Consider the
possibilities, George." 

"You're saying we can be whatever we want to be?" 

"Such wisdom!" 

"I will need my magic sword!"  George grinned. 

"And I shall need a horse!"  Rose laughed. 

Without any warning a heavy cloudburst deluged the beach.  It lasted but
moments. Where Rose and George had been sitting a puddle of sparkling 
water drained quickly into the sand. 

THE END 


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