The last person I expected to hear from on Thursday morning was Myron’s wife Marsha. You remember Myron—my fiery red-headed cousin with a temper to match his hair color. Marsha and I agreed not to talk about anything but the children years ago.
Our conversation was short. “If you don’t do something about your crazy cousin,” she said, “I will have him committed.”
Myron explained that he was dropping things. “Just today, I broke 11 cups and bowls, 4 pieces from an antique chess set, my electric razor and three mirrors,” he said. “And my wrist—when I fell and broke my cellphone.”
“When did it start,” I asked?
“I was watching the State of the Union speech and dropped the TV remote,” he explained. Then, I bumped into the TV and knocked it off the wall.”
“Help me,” he pleaded.
Believe it or not, Myron has always been one of the more stable members of the family. Our family coat-of-arms would be sure to feature a hysterical baby. I got Myron in to see a new shrink, who had just opened an office on Pitkin Avenue. His ad said that he specialized in treating Trumptosis—nervous symptoms arising from having Trump as President. The most common, it turns out, is a form of nervous exhaustion that may manifest in dropping and breaking things.
The doc recommended an extensive vacation in a country whose alphabet is unrecognizable and cable TV is very, very rare.
I just dropped Myron and Marsha off at the airport. They wouldn’t tell me where they were going for fear I might contact them and bring up Trump in conversation.
On the way home, I got a ticket for distracted driving. It’s my fourth since Tuesday night.