The Light-Socket Gal

My notes from the early ninety's describe Marilou as Frizzletop. I called her that because I never saw her without a coiffure that didn't leap from her head in every direction whether it was immediately after washing, drying, sleeping on, or working in the grimy garden.

"Marilou," I once asked, "how can your hair always look so springy?"

Naturally, she didn't know. Her mental condition was such that she went in spurts; sometimes she was coherent though void of memory, at others she was cloudy and a jumble of thoughts and words, but never could she could figure reasons or motives that underlay the simplest things. I asked if she rolled her hair up to achieve that early-Phyllis Diller look and she just giggled. "Imagine," she'd say, "rolling your hair up!" I suggested that she went to a beauty parlor and got permanents and she giggled again. "Imagine, me, going to abeautyparlor!" Then she'd re-giggle and say, "Me, abeauty!"

I never got much out of this brain-damaged lady when it came to the subject of her hair except smiles and giggles, but it didn't matter because she was so naturally entertaining one overlooked her condition. One day I couldn't resist myself. I showed the movie, "King Ralph." Before I turned it on, I explained that when electricity and water meet, sparks can fly. That water is a conductor so the electricity passes through it, and when high voltage hits the human body, it can electrocute it. And when that happens, hair follicles stand at attention. With the stage set, I got the

audience of eager-eyed Residents settled. Which was a miracle in itself since most of them didn't understand a word I'd said. Nevertheless, I began the movie.

When the photographer snapped the picture of the Royal Family, the sparks flew, and everyone's hair shot straight up. I noticed a burst of uncontrolled giggling in the audience. Marilou had experienced instant recognition of like beings and she was delighted. No one other than Marilou understood why, but her reaction was enough. Naturally, it was the reason I'd shown the movie.

Ever after I called her Ole Frizzle Top, the Light Socket Gal. I thought it not only apt but humorous. But I was quickly reprimanded by boss Claudia. It seems that most of the Residents, though incapable of following a thought from step to step and drawing a logical conclusion, might simply assume or accept that if they wanted to change their hair style they had only to drop an electrical appliance in water and add a body part.

I remember Claudia scolding me in her intimidating way. "How could you possibly choose such a nickname for Marilou? Don't you just KNOW that tomorrow morning we might find her and half the population electrocuted, their fingers stuck in bedside lamp sockets or hugging toasters in bathtubs?" That was Claudia.

Naturally, the Light Socket Gal had more going for her than her indescribable coiffure and giggle. A hard-working farm girl whose brain had short-circuited early in life, she was capable of cleaning table tops in the dining hall and pinch-hitting at Juice Break when T.T. was sick or out of town. Typically, both these tasks were always interrupted by spells of uncontrollable giggling and laughter.

I'm reading from my notes now: they say that Marilou explained her

outbursts as reactions to her medication. It took her twenty years to realize that when she forgot to take her daily dose, followed by taking a double-dose the next time to make up for it, the concentration made her burst spontaneously into giggle-fits. When this happened, the Residents reacted as instantly a frightened flock of birds all dashing in the same direction. Marilou's bursts were contagious and raised everyone's spirits en masse.

As joyful as she was to be around, her giggle-fits bothered her on-off boyfriend, whose attention seemed to undulate like the tide with his friend's medication. It seemed that often when he wanted to be serious she would break out, thereby upsetting the mood he was trying to create. Or when he wanted to tell her a joke and she'd skipped a dose, she sat dead-pan wondering what was supposed to be so funny. When she was poker-faced, I attended to other Residents, but I, like everyone else, burst out whenever she did. Sabastian had a hard time adjusting.

I suppose that's why the two never married, though they were engaged sixteen times. Invariably when the ceremony was imminent, Marilou would burst out or go dull, neither being acceptable to the would-be groom. What Sabastian needed most was regularity, not a pastime or a toy. I figured that if he couldn't have a wife, he needed something else that could keep him busy. So I introduced him to the banjo. Marilou, The Light Socket Gal, whose hair-do rightly belonged in the introduction of "King Ralph," was a joy, a woman I will cherish throughout my retirement years.