The Voices In Bobby Litman’s Head

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

Bobby Litman had graduated at the top of his class at the University of Toronto Dental School in 1980 or so. and was thought to be one hell of a dentist. I couldn’t say, I mean he wasn’t my dentist, primarily because I always thought he was an ass. He had spent the last decade jumping from one therapist to the next with absolutely nothing to show for it. It had got to the point where he would sit there for the fifty minutes without saying a thing. Not one solitary word. It was just another brutal fifty minutes of the never ending torment that had been running through his mind like a Jay Ward cartoon for as long as he could remember. Even the voices in his head seemed to have had enough, I mean they were quarrelsome and difficult to deal with at the best of times, but lately all they seemed to do was scream at each other. He knew that it was time for a change and to make amends for some of the things he had done, but after all of those years of the mind numbing torture he was pretty sure that it couldn’t get any worse if he just took matters into my own hands, even though he believed that handling it himself was one of the things for which he needed to be forgiven. In any event, he was certain that he had to do something different.

“Alright.” he told the voices one evening, “everybody out, and grab yourselves a seat over there.” He could hear them groan with contempt as they took their places on the sofa, They had always been melodramatic, but it never occurred to him, not for a moment that those voices in his head were cartoon characters. And yet there he was, looking into the vacuous eyes of the cast from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.

“Well, this is weird.” he thought.

“Really?” the squirrel asked. “Who the hell did you think was in there?” To be honest, Litman had never really thought about it before. He didn’t think it really mattered, I mean up till then his life had pretty much seemed like a free fall through Frostbite Falls, anyway. Early one spring morning, after a few cursory goodbyes, he set off on his quest to find whatever it was he had been searching for, certain that the toons in his head would probably not make it back.

“Is this going to take long?” the moose in the Wossamotta U football jersey asked. “There’s a big game coming up.”

Litman had spent much of his life living in fear. It had become so much a part of him that he often found himself embracing it, even though it was suffocating him. He had no idea when it started, but he had been spending so much energy in dealing with his fear of dying, that he simply didn’t have the strength to live his life. At best he merely went through the motions. It was no surprise to any of us that, with all of the failed relationships brought on by betrayal and deception, the only ones still speaking to him were the voices in his head. He headed north, and emulating Tom Thompson, tried to seclude himself in the forests and lakes of Algonquin Park, hopefully without meeting the same demise.

He checked into a cabin at the Killarney Lodge on the shores of Lake of Two Rivers. He spent his time sitting on the private dock, contemplating the demise of the toons. He was filled with mixed emotions about it, I mean while he wanted them gone, he did seem to have some strange attachment to them, particularly the little Pottsylvanian spy. He seemed so hapless and hopeless, and I guess Litman could relate to it all. He was sure that he would miss the two little guy. The truth was however, that he didn’t really think he could do harm to any of them.

There was a young woman who came to make up the cabin every morning. She was reasonably attractive, and they had become friendly, making small talk whenever they saw each other. Litman wanted her the way the Mountie wanted Nell Fenwick, and the way Nell Fenwick wanted his horse. His mind filled with various scenarios that ended with him getting her into his bed. He would fantasize about the things he wanted to do to her as he reached down to play with himself. “Ah, hell.” the squirrel said. “Hold on tight everyone, he’s at it again.”

“Don’t worry about it.” the little dog with the glasses said. “If we look at the history, this shouldn’t take very long at all.”

The young woman who made up the cabin everyday arrived early in the morning to find Litman in bed with his hand wrapped tightly around his still erect dick and half his head missing. There was blood splattered everywhere. It was obvious that he was dead. The local police were contacted, and the ensuing investigation and Coroner’s report revealed that he had died of Hyper-Cerebral Electrosis. Basically, his brain exploded as a result of the circuits becoming overloaded by his body’s own electricity. It was the weirdest thing any of us had ever heard, but we knew that. Bobby Lipman had been murdered by the voices in his head and not surprisingly, the toons were nowhere to be heard.

About a week or so after Lipman’s death strange sounds were heard in the forest and along the shoreline in front of the cabin that he had rented. The young woman who made up the rooms reported that she had often heard voices near the cabin and what sounded like a football game being played nearby. Shortly after the funeral, the voices that had once lived in Bobby Lipman’s head completely disappeared. The moose in the Wossamotta University football jersey went on to become a star college quarterback and after fading from the public eye, returned years later with a series of educational videos as Mr. Know It All. The squirrel, a wonderful wide receiver in his own right, wound up hosting a syndicated television show when it was discovered that he could in fact fly. The little dog with the glasses, although wanted in several countries, continued to travel through time and space in his ‘WABAC Machine’ with a young boy named Sherman. As for the little Pottsylvanian spy, he was sent back to Pottsylvania after losing the big game to Wossamotta U., where he spent the remainder of his life trapped in a loveless relationship with the nagging and frigid Natasha Fatale. As for Bobby Litman, he was buried in the family plot back in the city, and I suppose that he had, at last, found the peace he was always searching for.

 

Interview With The Umpire

 

Sitting in Grossman’s Tavern one Saturday afternoon in 2010 amid a two day peyote pleasure cruise, Fielding Goodfellow, sat down for an interview with himself.

How would you feel if I recorded this interview. It would be far more accurate than just taking notes.

I don’t know about that. Can it be used as evidence against me?

Do you plan on saying something incriminating?

I usually do. My entire life is incriminating.

In that case, I’ll keep everything incriminating out of the article.

Okay then. Go ahead.

When did you decide that you wanted to be a writer.

I never wanted to be a writer.

But you are a writer.

Really? Well that’s surprising. Am I any good at it?

Some people think so. So if you didn’t plan on writing, what did you want to do?

Bang the Glasser triplets.

I meant for a living.

Bang the Glasser triplets.

You seem preoccupied with sex. Even in your work you seem to dwell on sexual activity.

I think its more of a vocation that a preoccupation.

Is it the same with drugs?

Oh no. I’m quite preoccupied with hallucinogenics.

In ‘The Misadventures of Mister E’ you state that reality is merely a byproduct of the elite imposing their will on a society that is totally unaware that there can be a different reality.

I said that? Well, that’s fucking brilliant.

You did. Were you referring to the alternate realities created by drug use?

That and the Rocky & Bullwinkle show. Both are equally effective.

Rocky & Bullwinkle?

Its beyond mind bending.

I read that in your college years you were quite a political activist, attending numerous protests. What specifically were you protesting against?

I was never a political activist. And I  never really protested against anything. I have no time for isms. They’re built on a tenuous web of deceit, and encourage cognitive masturbation. The proliferation of isms in the last two generations has rendered society helpless to the depravity of well tanned, casually dressed hipsters. Except of course Ikeaism.

Ikeaism?

Yes. The distorted belief that buying furniture in pieces that you fucking assemble yourself at home is a good idea.

In an interview in ‘Literary Life’ you said that you have an addictive personality. What did you mean by that?

What I actually said was that I have an addicted personality.

Is there a difference?

There is always a difference. Addictive is the susceptibility to become addicted, while addicted is merely an enthusiastic devotion. I have gone way beyond susceptibility, and am currently an enthusiastic devotee.

I see. So you’re an addict?

Not even close. I use hallucinogenics in an attempt to find the flying lizard I lost in 1970. And as for sex, I can take it or leave it, although I prefer to take it. There are things that keep us happy and things that keep us sane and then there’s sex, which does both.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

That makes two of us.

So, if you weren’t writing, what would you be doing with your life?

I think I’d be an umpire in the women’s nude volleyball league.

I don’t think there is one.

Are you sure? Then who decides if the point is good?

No, I mean I don’t think there’s a women’s nude volleyball league.

Well that’s a let down.

Typically Fielding Goodfellow.

Really? I thought I surprised myself.

We should do this again sometime.

Definitely. I may even be sober next time.

I hope not.

Ya. We’d just wind up sitting in silence, staring at the barmaid’s tits.

You’ve been staring at her tits all afternoon.

I know. But we’ve been talking.

Well, thanks for your time.

My pleasure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, I see myself as more of a pilot. Flying people to the places they need to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

if you couldnt have been a writer, what would you have done with your lfie?