Mary And Max Page #4

'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

till they spurt out their "vag-eye-ners"

with blood and tinned spaghetti.

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.

But love was not like Max's

Rubik's Cube. It could not be solved.

No matter how he analysed it,

the results were negative.

Beat it, creep!

He felt love but couldn't articulate it.

Its logic was as foreign to him as...

as a salad sandwich.

The stars made more sense.

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.

Max had recovered.

And life was balanced, safe

and symmetrical once again.

But Mary still lingered in his mind.

Half of him wanted to write to her

immediately.

The other half didn't want to end up

a mental patient again.

At least there was always Mr Ravioli

to be friends with.

He was a much safer option.

He wondered what Mary was doing

right now.

But she was far from content

and struggled on by herself,

saving her money for a rainy day.

Life went on as usual for Max

and even though he opted

for order and stability,

misfortune was never far away.

Luckily, his manslaughter charges

were dismissed

because he was labelled

mentally deficient

and unlikely to have a motive

for killing a mime artist...

Oop.

..unlike most people.

From then on,

Max cooled himself differently

and things went back to normal

until after his 48th birthday,

when his numbers finally came up.

Welcome

to the New York Lottery

and these are tonight's

winning numbers

Max was sensible

with his sudden wealth

and had bought a lifetime supply

of chocolate

and the complete Noblet collection.

Two of his life goals had come true.

But he still had a lot of money

so decided to give it to lvy...

..who was also very sensible...

..until her own numbers came up.

Ivy willed everything

to the local cat shelter,

whose owner relocated

her kind donation to his bank account,

his wife's new breasts, a Ferrari

and enough fuel to get to Mexico.

Despite achieving all his life's goals,

Max still felt incomplete.

Mr Ravioli just wasn't

cutting the mustard anymore

and seemed more interested

in his self-help books.

Mary had given Max

a taste of real friendship

and there was just no comparison.

She missed him too

but no longer saved to see him.

She now saved

for a different reason.

One day Mr Ravioli got up,

left and never came back.

Max sought Dr Hazelhof's advice.

He told Max that true friendship

is seen through the heart,

not through the eyes,

and that it was time he wrote to Mary

to reveal his true self, warts and all.

Max understood.

Dear Mary Daisy Dinkle,

there is something I have to tell you

which will explain

why I have not written.

Each time I received one of your letters,

I had a severe anxiety attack.

This is because recently,

while I was in a mental institution,

they diagnosed that I have a new thing

called Asperger's syndrome,

which is a neurobiological,

pervasive, developmental disability.

I prefer "Aspie" for short.

I will now list some of the traits

of an Aspie.

No.1 - I find the world

very confusing and chaotic

because my mind

is very literal and logical.

the expressions on people's faces.

When I was younger, I made a book

to help me when I was confused.

I still have trouble with some people.

Ivy was hard to understand

because of her wrinkles

and because her eyebrows weren't real.

am hypersensitive...

..clumsy

and can get very concerned.

Ivy said this is a good thing.

And finally No.5 -

I have trouble expressing my emotions.

Dr Bernard Hazelhof says

my brain is defective

but one day there will be a cure

for my disability.

I do not like it when he says this.

I do not feel disabled, defective

or I need to be cured.

I like being an Aspie.

It would be like trying to change

the colour of my eyes.

There is one thing

I wish I could change, however.

I wish I could cry properly.

I squeeze and squeeze

but nothing...comes out.

I cry when I cut onions

but this does not count.

Anyway, do you like the word

"cumquat"?

It is a type of fruit.

Do you have

a favourite-sounding word?

My top 5 are ointment, bumblebee,

Vladivostok, banana

and testicle.

I have also invented some new words

"confuzzled", which is being confused

and puzzled at the same time,

"snirt", which is a cross between

snow and dirt,

and "smushables"...

..which are squashed groceries

you find at the bottom of the bag.

I have sent a letter

to the Oxford Dictionary people

asking them to include my words

but I have not heard back.

It is now time for me to go

to my Overeaters Anonymous meeting.

There is a woman there

called Marjorie Buttersworth

who confuzzles me.

She kisses me without my permission

so tonight I have decided to rub onions

under my armpits to repel her.

Your friend in America,

Max Jerry Horowitz.

PS. Please find enclosed

some chocolate-covered ants

I found at the deli.

PPS. Not much has happened

since I last wrote

except for my manslaughter charges,

lotto win and lvy's death.

Mary was thrilled

Max had finally written

and suddenly had a fabulous idea.

A-ha!

Mary and Max's friendship

was resuscitated

and her tears were the best gift

he'd ever received.

Inside Max's head

his brain was smiling.

Loaded up with bizarre forms

of chocolate,

their letters flew thick and fast

between the continents.

Max learnt to read Mary's letters

with caution

and at the slightest tingle of tension,

he would stop,

take his medication

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