Are You Nuts? by Mark Richard Zubro Page A

walking toward us. Lydia was probably in her early forties. She did not have horns, a tail, and cloven feet. She was in a sleeveless rayon shirt that revealed mounds of flesh best left covered. If the overstuffed-sausage-casing look ever became fashion law, she’d certainly dwarf the competition. Her jeans were baggy enough to cover the bulges of the back end of a rhinoceros. The pant legs billowed around her, making her resemble somewhat a tent on legs. Her fat butt jutted out behind her. She had a downcast look. Her look said even if a busload of comedians showed up at her house, she’d be too tired to laugh. If there was a street, I’d have walked across it to avoid her.
    I didn’t have to worry about whether to approach her or not. Once she made eye contact with me, she marched over and planted herself directly in front of me.
    She introduced herself, then said, “I’ve heard so much about you, but then who in the district hasn’t?”
    â€œI’d rather be loved than famous. Didn’t somebody say that?”
    â€œThere’s something I don’t understand about you.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œWhat I don’t get is if all the running around and arguing and fighting is all worth it.”
    â€œIt’s worth it for Meg. We’re more than good friends.”
    â€œNo, I meant with all these television shows. It certainly can’t be fun.”
    â€œI don’t define my life by doing only that which is fun.”
    â€œMaybe I didn’t say that well. There’s got to have been an enormous emotional toll on you. Is it worth it? Is the price you’re paying in emotional health, psychic strength, loss of sleep, physical and emotional exhaustion, worth what you are getting out of it?”
    This was almost more nasty than a melodramatic confrontation. At least then I could make sarcastic and witty cracks while she prattled on like an imbecile. Now she was coming across almost as someone who cared that I lived and breathed. Now I was being melodramatic.
    She concluded, “For a choice you made, you are suffering a great deal.”
    â€œThe choice I’m making is to stand up to people like you.”
    â€œYou know, you really aren’t very important.”
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œYou may have been on television, and you may have tenure, but in the larger scheme of things, you aren’t very significant.”
    â€œHow kind of you to point that out to me.”
    â€œRetribution will be exacted.”
    â€œBy whom? You? For what?”
    â€œI may not be the instrument. God will decide.”
    â€œHow nice for him or her.”
    â€œBlasphemer.”
    â€œI guess.”
    She pointed a finger with a large turquoise ring on it at me. “I’m a school board member here. You have to treat me with respect.”
    â€œNo, I don’t. Respect isn’t something just conferred on someone because they get a few more votes than someone else. Just think Richard Nixon, and you’ll get the point.”
    Her jaw twisted at an odd angle. A vein in her forehead seemed about ready to pop. I wondered if causing someone to have a stroke was actionable. While she was deciding whether to explode or not, I asked, “What time did you leave the meeting last night?”
    She began walking away. “You’ll be sorry.”
    This was the second person in less than an hour to just up and leave. I wondered if this was the new “mature person’s response” to stress. Certainly I could put her in the lifelong-enemy category.
    In the teachers’ lounge, I found two people, heads together and laughing hysterically. When I walked in, they greeted me warmly.
    Rachel Seebach, a member of the English department, said, “You should have been at the meeting last night. I’d like to have bust a gut laughing. Meg was hysterical.”
    â€œYou were both at the meeting?”
    They nodded.
    Rachel was