A Monstrous Regiment of Dunces

“I quit!” Peter (Pedro) O’Tule announced. He tossed down his company apron and his company hat, but was taking his sweet time leaving.

The manager looked at him resignedly.

“I actually fired you, but yes, you may say you quit. It is all the same to me, Pedro.” The manager went back to filling orders and doing whatever managers of fast-food restaurants do.

“My decision cannot be brooked, my good man. The repercussions will be enormous. Enormous!” Pedro waved his arms in the air as he departed the Taco Bell at which he had resigned/been fired three times.

The orders cleared in due time. The rest of the staff took a break, lolling around the counter and drinking fountain colas. They all smiled slightly at what had taken place, more because it was fitting than because it was entertaining. They had all seen this before.

“He was puttin’ guacamole on the double-decker tacos ‘stead of beans. Again,” one of the workers said. No one had asked but the worker felt like it needed to be said. It really didn’t need stating, but no one faulted the speaker for it. They were all just happy that Pedro O’Tule was gone.

“Yesterday he told me that I spoke like a particularly obtuse Philistine. I’m not sure what ‘obtuse’ means, but it can’t be good,” the newest member of this Taco Bell teams stated. Everyone nodded. With Pedro, no pronouncement could ever be good.

**************

Although it may seem a little out of the ordinary to have quit (fired, most likely) three times from the same job, losing employment was one of Pedro’s talents. He had worked at 17 jobs in the past two years, never remaining more than a month at any place he worked. He often took a brief sabbatical between jobs so that he could pen acerbic letters to the managers who fired him and retreat to the basement of his father’s house.

It was here in the dingy, ill-lit basement that Pedro would stew and fume and rail against the stupidity of the world. No one, it seemed, recognized his genius. All were blind to his dazzling insights into…well…everything. He had lost a job as a pizza delivery man by sending the boxed pizzas spinning through the air and crash landing on patrons’ doorsteps. Artistic delivery, Pedro claimed. Fucking idiotic, his boss claimed. He had lost a job as a library assistant by putting books away in the wrong place. A novel way to classify novels, he claimed, snickering at his own cleverness. Unacceptable, the librarian claimed. And so it went with all of his jobs.

“I am home, Padre. Another sordid attempt on my artistry has been thwarted, I am happy to announce. No longer will Taco Bell restrict me in my culinary designs. They will rue the day…”

“Did they fire you? It sounds like they fired you. Again,” Mr. O’Tule said.

“My dear padre. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. The insipid minds of the Taco Bell management team cannot shackle my mind. I must…”

“Yeah, they fired you,” the senior O’Tule said, walking away.

Pedro blinked at him and then shrugged. I love you, padre, but you have no insight. I will pray for you. Pedro bowed his head and said a fervent, quick prayer before thumping down the stairs and turning on his laptop. He was almost finished with his latest novel, a 755-page stream-of-conscious epic about a wounded bird’s last thoughts as it plummeted to earth.

Pedro finished up the novel in two days and sent his manuscript off to a famous publishing house, assured of his own success. He leaned back in his chair, well satisfied with his literary magnum opus. It would rock the world. He would be feted, wined, dined, and generally adored by the literati. The world would be his oyster. He amended that to ‘the world will be my kingdom,’ for he hated oysters.

The rejection letter arrived with amazing swiftness, along with the manuscript. The reviewer said that the writing was so bad that it gave him a migraine after reading the first two pages. He also stated that he had never had a migraine before.

The manuscript was returned, the beleaguered reviewer also wrote, so that all of the evil spirits contained within would not affect the rest of the staff, but he hoped to God that it would affect Pedro.

Pedro clapped with glee. The deep hatred the reviewer had for the book must mean only one thing: it was a supreme piece of writing. Nothing but sheer genius could cause such a reaction. Pedro immediately sent it to another publisher, confident that this firm would recognize it as a generational masterpiece.

Again it was returned, with a short message: “It almost blinded me, you fuck! Never send anything here again.”

After seventeen attempts at publishing, Pedro put the manuscript away, determined to wait until an enlightened publisher appeared on the scene. Meanwhile, he would seek employment elsewhere. Surely someone out there needed his assistance. But no one was hiring.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Many places were hiring, but no one wanted to hire Pedro. Word had gotten around about this strange man that had no respect for authority and thought he knew more than his bosses. Pedro was also partly to blame for this. During interviews, he would point out all of the things wrong with the company in question, and then state that he could fix them, for a price. Pedro was shocked that no one took him up on his offer, and saddened that the world was full of such dim, unimaginative leaders.

And then, an idea suddenly occurred to Pedro. He smiled brightly at the simplicity of the idea, and he ran to tell his father of it. It was this decision that would change his life forever.

**************

“I shall start my own business, Pater. I will be the envy of the business world, without a doubt. Moguls will look up to me and proclaim me the guru of financial insight. I will…”

“What will you do?” The senior O’Tule was apprehensive. Starting a business could be expensive, and he trusted his son to be a successful businessman about as much as he trusted the marshmallows in his hot chocolate to stand up and perform The Nutcracker Suite in his mug.

“It is simplicity itself, padre. I will sell the most basic of all life-giving elements to the masses. They will pour forth and purchase my product, begging for more and more and more and…”

Pedro had to stop and take a deep breath. He bent over slightly, right hand on his side. His father shook his head. The boy needs to lose a few pounds, he thought. He figured if the boy got rid of all of his grand ideas, he would probably weight about half of what he does now.

“What do you propose selling, son?”

Pedro looked him in the eye, smiling brightly.

“Water.”

The father looked at his son, cocking his head to one side. He wondered if he heard the boy correctly. He was sure that Pedro said ‘water,’ but that couldn’t be right. Everyone could buy water, anywhere. They could get it out of their taps, from their hoses, even from public water fountains. Water. Water!

“Yes, Padre. The substance that maintains all life on this dull planet. I will purchase a cooler. I will fill it with ice and bottled water, and then I will sell it at the park. People will come from near and far to purchase my product. Especially here, where it is always hot. I will call it Pedro’s Pure Texas Water.”

“So…”

“I will purchase said water at a local supermarket, strip off the labels, and write ‘Pedro’s Pure Texas Water’ on the bottles. No one will know that I purchased the water locally, so maybe I’ll call it ‘Pedro’s Exotic Elixir.’ Yes. I can see it now. Absolute genius!”

The next day found Pedro trundling along with a large cooler. He sat down on a park bench, opened the cooler, and placed a homemade sign next to him. He had indeed stripped the bottles of their brand labels, writing ‘Pedro’s Exotic Elixir’ in bold, black lettering with a Sharpie. People came by to peek inside the cooler and immediately left. No one wanted to buy water with no label and Sharpie scrawlings.

Pedro soon attracted the attention of the park police. They sauntered over and checked out Pedro’s business. One of them asked Pedro if he had a vendor’s permit.

“My good man, this is America. We have no need of such things, for the free enterprise system is guaranteed us by the U.S. Constitution. Please leave, for you are a blight on my business.”

One of the policemen grabbed Pedro’s cart and started taking it away.

“This is public property, sir. You have to leave,” the older policeman said. “I won’t cite you for no vendor’s license…”

“Mr. Authority Figure. I am a private citizen, which means I am part of the public. So, ipso facto, this park is private property. And you! Sir! Unhand my wares! I will have no recourse but legal action if you persist in this low-bred behavior.”

Unfortunately, Pedro started waving his arms around and caught one of the policemen behind the ear. Pedro was handcuffed and whisked away to the county jail. A call was placed to his father.

**************

“Release me! Release me, I say! Your hobnailed boots will soon be loosed from my throat! I have legal representation, the best in the land! I state unequivocally…”

“Buddy. Shut up,” a voice in the cell next to him said.

Pedro was tired of shouting, so he did as he was told. He sat on the bench close to the voice’s cell.

“My name is Pedro.”

The man in the next cell looked at Pedro.

“I’m Stu. Say, you don’t look like a Pedro.”

Pedro sighed.

“My given name is Peter O’Tule.”

“Like the actor?”

Yes,” Pedro huffed, “like the actor. And since I have grown quite tired of hearing that, I changed my name to Pedro to avoid that particular association.”

“I see. You still don’t look like a Pedro,” Stu said again.

Pedro glared at the man.

“No, I don’t suppose I look like a Pedro, but Pedro is the Spanish equivalent of Peter, and since we are in Texas, it felt like the thing to do.”

“Go back to being Peter, Pedro. That suits you.”

Pedro nodded. What else was there to do with such an imbecile?

**************

“Three days.”

“What? Why?” Mr. O’Tule was confused.

“He will be held three days for a psychiatric evaluation. He has exhibited, uh, let’s say, erratic behavior.”

Mr. O’Tule leaned back, relief evident on his face.

“Oh, that. Sure. Keep him a week if you want to.”

The doctor eyed Mr. O’Tule with concern.

“You don’t seem to be too upset by this situation, if I may say so. It can be a serious matter.”

“If I could afford it, I would institutionalize him,” Mr. O’Tule said blithely. This concerned the doctor even more.

“That’s a sobering thought, Mr. O’Tule. Wouldn’t you miss your son?”

Mr. O’Tule shook his head slightly.

“Well, sure, but he’s happiest when he’s taken care of by you people. That’s all I want, you see. His happiness. This world here, he just don’t belong.”

The doctor nodded in agreement; he was certain that he had not met a person more in need of regular psychiatric help than Peter O’Tule. The boy was certifiably bonkers, he thought to himself.

And so it came to pass that Peter O’Tule became a ward of the state and placed in psychiatric care at the Ft. Worth facility. The water incident had decided his fate.

**************

Pedro O’Tule paused a moment before sending his fingers flying over the keyboard. On and on it went, with little pause. Peter’s eyes shone. He licked his lips. He rubbed his cramped hands. All of the nurses were watching him.

“What you reckon he’s writing this time?”

“Lord knows. The last one was about how the Vatican stole Jesus’ body and has it hidden away somewhere in their tunnels and they have black masses around his body. It hurts just reading even a little of that trash.”

“Makes him happy.”

“Yeah. The man ain’t no trouble at all. Hasn’t been for the twenty-five years he’s been here.”

“Twenty-six ain’t it?”

“Lordy! Just had his anniversary, I forgot.”

“You think he misses his daddy?”

“He did at first, but I think he’s already forgotten that his daddy passed on last year.”

“He wrote a beautiful eulogy for him. Read it out well, too. I remember that you made him a cake for after the funeral and he ate damn near the whole thing that night. Gave us all a piece though, didn’t he?”

“We all got a corner. That was sweet.”

The nurses made their rounds, checking on the other people in the institution and gathering back at the pharmacy window when they had finished. A manuscript lay on the table in front of them. They all looked at each other and sighed before breaking out laughing.

“Whatcha gonna tell him this time?”

The head nurse looked at the manuscript with a tinge of sadness in her voice.

“I reckon I’ll tell him it sold three million copies and that everyone wants to meet him.”

“Think he’ll believe it?”

The head nurse smiled wanly.

“He always does.”