Johnny Fever
Johnny Fever lives down the road from me in the house where he was born, a 1920’s cabin that’s been added onto multiple times and that he inherited when his mother died. Johnny’s about 50, going on 110, got some health issues and some serious mental ones that meds keep under control. Johnny, though, doesn’t like the mood stabilizers he takes to keep him from running without a governor on his engine. When he goes off his meds, he revs up to a high pitched scream, a condition he prefers to the blah moods his drugs maintain.
Johnny’s an old old friend, a brilliant guy who can be dumb as a box of rocks. Apparently he can’t tell the difference. And I’m having a harder and harder time myself. Bi-polarity has a way of blurring those lines. Johnny’s long suffering wife has basically thrown up her hands. She doesn’t even ask me now to try and talk him into taking his medications when he’s flying high — she just collects his credit cards and explains best as she can to their three kids, daddy’s gone bonkers again. Mr. Hyde is here now but Dr. Jekyll is coming back. The doctor, well, he’s not half as interesting, just watches a lot of TV all day long. You watch TV all day long, you’ll become pretty damn boring.
Johnny stopped by my place this morning. It was 4 AM and he’d called 911 when I didn’t get to the front door right away, informing the sheriff he had an emergency: his car needed a jump, dead battery. He had airline tickets at SeaTac in a few hours, non refundable. I cursed, I hollered at him, I even pushed him when he got 4 inches from my face, then I gave up and got my truck, grabbed the jumper cables and drove us to his car, the one he’d left his headlights on the night before.
“Where you headed, John?” I grumbled. “I’m getting the hell OUT of this place,” he shouted over both our engines, then laughed maniacally, not a laugh I much like. I could see heads looking down at us from the upstairs windows.
John’s on his way now, wherever he’s going. “Thanks for the jump, old buddy, old friend,” he’d hollered out the open window as he rolled out his drive, “see you in hell.” A friend in need isn’t necessarily a friend in deed. When he comes back, he’ll be in hell, all right, and I’ll be here too.
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