4بخش

Have you ever been teased?

Mary’s letter triggered memories Max had buried deep down in his shoes.

We’ve got him cornered now.

Hey. Jew-boy, you’re gonna pay…

Take this, Jew-boy, Jew-boy, Jew-boy.

And as usual, he coped in the only way he knew.

And 36 chocolate hot dogs later and after only two hours sleep, Max’s meltdown faded away and an idea popped into his brain.

Dear Mary Daisy Dinkle,

thank you for your letter, chocolate bar, lamington and pompom.

The chocolate got crushed, so I blended the bits with milk and ice cream and now I am drinking it right now.

After much thought, I think I have a solution to your teasing.

Tell Bernie Clifford your birthmark is made of chocolate, which means when you get to heaven you will be in charge of all the chocolate.

This of course is a lie, I do not like lies…

but in this case I think it will be of benefit.

I wish I could be in charge of all the chocolate but, of course, I cannot because of my atheism.

My neighbour Ivy is also an atheist.

She doesn’t talk much but makes me very good soup on Sunday nights.

She is partly blind and sometimes I find her hair in my soup. Eeugh!

I do not tell her as Dr Bernard Hazelhof says this would be impolite.

Here is a list of what I eat on the other nights.

Mondays, Glicks Potato Knish,

Tuesdays, Yiddels Noodle Kugel,

Wednesdays, Captain Salty’s Fishstix,

Thursdays, Yentls Cheezy Blintz

and Fridays, chicken nuggets.

On Saturday nights I create my own recipes.

Last week I invented canned spaghetti hamburgers.

Recipes are like mathematical equations.

Dr Bernard Hazelhof told me you should never weigh more than your refrigerator and to never eat anything bigger than your head.

I once ate a watermelon bigger than my head but not all at once.

Do you have any weight loss suggestions?

My Overeaters Anonymous meetings don’t seem to be working and just make me tense.

It would be good if there was a ‘Fat Fairy’.

She would be a bit like the Tooth Fairy but would suck out your fat.

Ivy says she is only a ‘little bit’ blind but I think she is very blind.

She should get a cane like other vision-impaired people.

She could make the end pointy and collect rubbish at the same time.

I think I will write a letter to the Mayor and suggest this.

He will be very impressed.

Ivy says she doesn’t need a cane because she has a good sense of smell.

She says she could find me with her eyes stapled shut.

She says I smell like liquorice and old books.

I think she smells like cough medicine and urine.

I have never told her this as Dr Bernard Hazelhof said this would also be impolite.

People often think I am tactless and rude.

I cannot understand how being honest can be improper.

Maybe this is why I don’t have any friends

of course except for you.

A real friend has been one of my three goals in life.

The other two are to own every Noblet and a lifetime supply of chocolate.

Dr Bernard Hazelhof says it is good to have goals but not stupid ones like mine.

I have now run out of things to tell you.

Please, write soon.

Your friend in America, Max Jerry Horowitz.

PS.Do not worry about not smiling.

My mouth hardly ever smiles but it does not mean I am not smiling inside my brain.

PPS.Please find enclosed a frisbee, some Chocolate Pop Rocks, which you should eat with cola, and an illustration of a turtle from one of my National Geographics.

PPPS.Did you know that turtles can breathe through their anuses?

Dear Max,

when I told Bernie Clifford

I’ll be in charge of all the chocolate in heaven and he wouldn’t get any,

he cried.

I also hide’d some dog’s poo in his bit of the sandpit.

Your advice was great and I’ve got a job delivering pamphlets so I can save to come and see you.

I am sad to hear you are fat.

Mum says I am fat too and I’m growing up to be a heifer, which I think is a type of cow.

Maybe you should only eat things beginning with the letter of each day.

On Mondays you could only eat milkshakes, marshmallows and mustard.

For my birthday, my Mum baked a cake, and Dad gave me a camera.

I hope you like the photos I sent.

The first one is of Ethel, who ate some tinsel.

The next one is one of myself after I ate the Chocolate Pop Rocks with the cola, like you said.

Next is Len.

He’s still trying hard not to be afraid of outside and conquer his homophobia.

The next one is of dad in his shed, and then one of the times I covered mum while she was asleep in her stickers that help her stop smoking.

Next, when I got my slinky caught in my hair.

Then one of the times Sonny digged up his wife, Cher.

And, finally, a photo of my other neighbour Damian Popodopolous.

He’s a Greek and smells like lemon dish-washing liquid and his skin is smooth, like the back of a spoon.

Mum says he’s a wog and has a stutter and can’t even say his own surname.

She says you have to hit him on the back of the head to get his words out.

Popodopolous.

I wish he was my boyfriend and we can be in love and do sexing like Katherine Ramsay told me behind the bike shed.

She said it’s when two people go nuddy I told her she’s a liar and would go to hell and burn like toast cos babies really come from beer glasses and eggs laid by rabbits and nuns and prosti-tubes.

She said ladies get knocked up and bake babies in their stomachs for 2 years.

Have you got a girlfriend, Max, or some wives?

Have you done sexing?

Valentine’s Day is soon and I want to give Damian a present so he can love me.

Can you explain love and how I can be lover’d?

Once again, Mary’s letter had triggered an anxiety attack.

Max knew nothing about love.

It was as foreign to him as scuba diving and he’d had an appalling history of getting it all wrong.

One Valentine’s Day he’d given Zelda Glutnik a gift he was sure was appropriate.

The only companion that had ever warmed Max’s bed was his hot water bottle.

Romance and love was a mysterious language he’d given up on.

If only Mary had asked how a toaster works or asked for an explanation of the Chaos theory.

If only there was a mathematical equation for love.

He kept eating and thinking.

Its logic was as foreign to him as as a salad sandwich.

The stars made more sense.

12, have you responded to the call?

Over.

The anxiety and stress were too much.

The inscrutability of love finally won, and Max’s brain gave in.

He was diagnosed with severe depression and obesity and spent the next 8 months institutionalised and bedridden.

They marinated him in a cocktail of drugs and performed the usual ‘therapeutic’ procedures.

Meanwhile, Mary wondered and waited.

Maybe Max’s typewriter had run out of ink.

Maybe America had run out of ink.

Maybe his pets had eaten him.

Maybe it was her.

Was she too demanding, too boring, too, ugly?

Filled with anger, confusion and self-loathing, Mary tried to erase the memory of her friend forever.