Psychobabble

/ Doug Jacquier

This piece was written in response to the weekly photo prompt posted by the Unicorn Challenge.

The house, closely modeled on the Bates Mansion, had gone to rack and ruin since old Ed started to lose his marbles and his self-control, leading to the snickering nick-name of Edmund Lackbladder. His faithful manservant, Bald Dick, did his perennial incompetent best, including crashing Ed’s pride and joy, his air-conditioned mower, into Ed’s personal lawn chair, dating from when he and his wife, Ernestine (nee Snortchortle), and their soccer-mad son, Whirling Eddie, used to soak up the rays on a Sunday afternoon.

In a desultory attempt at gardening, Dick gradually moved the furniture and the indoor plants outside to save them from becoming regular receptacles when Ed was caught short between rooms.

Young Eddie had long gone and fancied himself as an influencer and day trader, which is a middle-class euphemism for unemployed and unemployable. Ernestine had long gone to the Great Couturier in the sky, having suffered from recurring bouts of ennui and an infection contracted after having lip, breast and buttock implants, giving her the appearance of the Michelin man with bee sting lips.

Ed’s advanced Alzheimer’s was a health hazard for the female nurses that visited to check on him. To Ed, they were all Ernestine coming home from shopping and they were universally welcomed with heightened ardour and lowered trousers.

But most days, Ed sat skeletally in his mother’s rocking chair on the front porch, gazing at the flag he’d asked the nurses to raise, so he could remember the country where he lived.

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