To Marry Marie
My eyes darted from Jerry to the front door. “Should I retreat to the safety of my bedroom, or use my momentum to make a break for the courtyard?” I wondered. Having lived with Jerry for a few weeks, one thing had become clear—there was something profoundly wrong with the man. Conversations were interminable, pointless, and often bizarre. Avoidance was my plan for Jerry.
In spite of being hopped up on adrenalin, I had taken too long to evaluate my options. I realized he had looked up from his magazine and was grinning at me in that disturbing lunatic way he had. There was no escaping it. I sat down in the chair next to the sofa and asked the crazy son-of-a-bitch what he was reading. He set a Bic Ballpoint pen down and we embarked on a weird voyage through Jerry’s mental illness.
“I was reading this article in Time and I found some very interesting things. Here have a look,” He began thrusting the magazine at me. I reluctantly accepted the thing and read through the article it was turned to. A random hodgepodge of words were circled. He had drawn lines connecting some words to others and he had written a number of nonsensical notes in the margins. When I looked up, the lunatic was grinning from ear to ear and nodding encouragingly.
“Don’t you see?” He was sitting on the edge of the cushion. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to encourage him, but I also didn’t want to end up wrapped in tinfoil in the freezer.
Jerry’s betrothed?
“Marie Osmond!” He blurted out.
“Marie Osmond?” I repeated.
“Here! Come listen to this. Then, it’ll all make sense.” He leapt to his feet and headed for his bedroom. Like every poor dumb bastard fallen victim in every horror movie ever, I followed him to his lair. He placed a tape in his cassette player, reset the counter, and fast forwarded it to a number he clearly had memorized.
“Just listen to this!” he said triumphantly and hit the play button. It was Marie Osmond launching into what has to be the whitest-ever episode of scat singing in the history of music. He punched the stop button and turned to me, his face aglow, and said “See?”
Against my better judgement, I slowly shook my head.
“Didn’t you hear her say ‘North Valley State College’?” he headed back down the hall and sat down on the sofa again.
During the relocation, Jerry’s monologue continued, never missing a beat, “God told me I should move here and marry Marie Osmond, and every time I hear something or read something, God reaffirms to me that I am here to marry Marie Osmond and go to North Valley State College. I have to go give myself an enema now. I’ll be out in a minute.” The words came out in a tumble. I watched silently as he waddled back down the hall and shut his door.
It’s Enema Time
I sat on the sofa and stared at the black screen of the TV trying to digest this new information. I reached for the Time Magazine, but then I remembered the enema thing, and decided I didn’t want to touch it any more. I heard a key in the front door. It swung open and Jack stepped through in that languid way he had.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said as he tossed his backpack on the kitchen table. All I could manage was a shake of the head until I saw him heading down the hall. There were six of us all total and three bedrooms. And Jack had been the last to move in, which meant he got to bunk with Jerry. As he headed towards their room, I called after him.
“Uh, hey Jack, Jerry said he was going in there to uh…give himself an enema?”
“Oh, he told you about that, huh?” Jack came back to the living room and turned on the TV.
“So, that’s not, like, code for something? He’s actually giving himself an enema in your room?”
“Yup.”
“Does he do that very often?”
“Second time since we moved in.”
There was another key in the front door. This time Carl burst in clutching a carburetor or something out of a BMW’s engine. He carefully set the thing down on a newspaper that was sitting on the kitchen table between Jack’s backpack and Sam’s computer.
“Hey guys, is Jerry home?” He asked.
“Yeah, but it’s enema time,” Jack replied. Jesus, I must have had my head buried in the sand. Was I the only one who didn’t know about these enemas?
Carl’s face broke into an impish grin and he leapt down the hall way and started banging on Jack’s door.
“Hey Jerry! Hey! Hey Jerry! Whatcha doing in there?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t antagonize him,” I said to no-one in particular.
Carl darted back into the living room and jumped into the sofa and assumed the attitude of someone who had been reading the Time Magazine instead of instigating shit with a lunatic down the hall.
I ventured to ask, “Hey, has he told you guys about the Marie Osmond thing?” The confused looks on their faces answered that question for me.
Just then, Jerry burst out of his room, and he was pissed off to the point of incoherence. “Carl, I know that was you. I’m doing a medical procedure and I deserve some privacy. My doctor prescribed that I need to do a home enema! You shouldn’t go around banging while I’m giving myself a medical proc—“ he grunted and clutched at his gut, and with stunning dexterity, executed an about-face and quick-waddled to the bathroom.
“Guys, see you later,” I said. And, like a big coward, I left.
Read Part 3 –>
About the Author
About the Author: Ian is a 3rd generation native of Southern Nevada, where he lives today in a quiet suburban neighborhood with his wife of twenty years and their two sons. Ian has earned his bread in a variety of occupations including stocking a beer freezer, mixing and pouring concrete, being a roadie for a synth punk band in San Francisco in the early 90's, being a not-very-well-known hard rock DJ, scenic carpentry, theatrical lighting design, theatrical sound design, playing Ku Klux Klan Member #5 in a professional production of "Grover", and writing for an virtually unknown, subversive, underground blog called Radio Free Las Vegas.
More from this author.
Tagged With: Marie Osmond, roommates
