Crazy Henry's Cure for Melancholy.

 

I was mourning the love I had for a woman long ago in my life. The tears welled up in my eyes, but instead of streaming down my cheeks they trickled down the inside of my throat -- scalding it.

Bam!

Someone had run full tilt into my front door. It was Crazy Henry; he always forgot that I kept my front door locked so he collided with it while trying to turn the door knob.

I was weary of his buffoonery, and thought to ignore him. But I knew he would not go away -- he would simply stand there patiently, sensing somehow that no matter how quiet my place was I was still inside of it.

So I let him in.

He bustled about like a dust devil, picking up magazines and throwing them down again; grabbing a handful of stale orange circus peanuts that I kept on the coffee table to discourage guests from staying too long; and rattling the Venetian blinds in a vain attempt to get them level.

"How's tricks, boychik?" he finally asked, settling into the rattan chair I had just brought in from the patio before the snows came.

Boychik. So he wanted to play Yiddish today . . . 

"Oy vey iz mir" I replied glumly. "I'm in mourning for a long ago lost love. She still haunts me."

Crazy Henry began to look truly concerned about my predicament, until he noticed that the Venetian blinds were still crooked. As he got up to go monkey with them again he said: "Let's go get something to eat -- that'll cheer you up. My treat."

I immediately shot out of my slump to stare at him open-mouthed. This was unprecedented; Crazy Henry never paid when we went out to eat. I always had to foot the bill.

But suddenly I resented his attempt to distract me from my melancholy. So I suggested we go eat at The Sisters, a very expensive deli and sports bar next to the stadium. That would put a monkey wrench in his fun factory.

"Okay" he said cheerfully. "I'll drive."

But when we got there, The Sisters was closed. On a weekday, yet. 

There was a sign in the window saying: 'We lost our lease."

"Let's try the Lebanese Grill over on Hennepin" Crazy Henry suggested.

But they were closed, too. The sign in the window said: "Closed by Order of the Secretariat." 

"Third time's the charm" said Crazy Henry, while I slumped lower and let my mind slide back into nostalgic misery.

"She loved Elvis Presley movies" I said morosely. "I hated them. Still do."

"Guess we can try a drive-through" said Crazy Henry hopefully.

But at Chik-fil-A the kid in the window said "We can't serve you without a ration sticker on your windshield."

Crazy Henry didn't believe in fighting against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, so he just turned to me to say: "I'll cook you a steak dinner; how about it?"

"Whatever." 

There was no meat at the supermarket. Instead there was a big banner saying: "Welcome Vegans to the Promised Land!"

This discouraged even Crazy Henry, who drove us silently back to his place where we had a bowl of popcorn with tap water to drink.

But the more Crazy Henry brooded the better I began to feel, until at last I slapped him on the back and told him happily:

"Here's looking at you, boychik -- and don't forget, we'll always have Orville Redenbacher."