Free Thomas Murphy by Roger Rosenblatt

you know. (Do you miss my uproarious wit?) The movie—it had harvest in the title—was about a World War I doughboy (Colman), who lost his memory in a battle, and was put in a mental hospital, from which he escapes. He wanders into the nearby town and meets Greer Garson, who loves him on the spot, memory or no memory. They marry and live in a typical woolly little English cottage, where he becomes a writer. Have you noticed, Oona, how fuckingeasy it is to become a writer, according to fiction? You just sit down and scribble with some music playing behind you, and presto, you’re Wallace Stevens. So, naturally, Colman is great at it off the bat, and he sells his first piece to a magazine in Liverpool. The editor summons him to Liverpool to praise his work and give him more assignments. As if an editor would ever do something nice like that. Anyway, as he is crossing a street in Liverpool, he’s hit by a car, and at once his memory is restored. Turns out that he’s landed gentry. Now having no memory of Greer Garson or the woolly cottage, he returns to his ancestral home, where he is much loved and a real big shot. His picture appears in the papers, and is seen by Greer, who goes to him but does not tell him she’s his wife, or anything of their former life together. Instead she takes the position of his secretary, and serves nobly. Well, wouldn’t you know it? One day Colman finds himself in Liverpool again, and he is disturbed by vague recollections. I can’t remember exactly how he and Greer wind up at their old wooly cottage, but they do, and when everything floods back to Colman, and Greer is assured that he remembers her at last, and loves her, they embrace. The End. Jesus, Oona. Can you lose your memory just like that? Tell you one thing, darlin’. I’d never forget I loved you. You wouldn’t let me. You’d hit me with a car first. Anyway, that was that. Máire called to check on me, as she always does. A Jameson and a good weep, and so to bed.
    AT TWO in the morning, I appear on Let’s Make a Deal. The host is Wallace Stevens. And here he is, says the offstage announcer. The Manecdote of the Anecdote, the Caviar of the Clavier, the Emperor of Ex Tempore . . . The curtain parts and there’s old Stevens in his tweeds and stripes. He scans the studio audience like a sniper. I try to hide under the humongous sombrero they gave me before the show. Maybe he’ll just see the hat and ignore me. No such luck. Who’s there, under that handsome sombrero? he asks no one in particular. Is that you, Señor Murphy? The audience shrieks and applauds. Stevens drags me to the stage.
    Standing beside him, I look like an orange mushroom. Thomas Murphy! says Stevens, presenting me to the crowd. There is much cheering. Thomas Murphy, ladies and gentlemen! So, what’s it to be, Murph? He points to stage left, where a redhead in a silver dress is posing first before a barrel, then a curtain, and finally a huge black box, a seven- or eight-foot cube. Stevens drapes his tweedy arm over my shoulder. The barrel, the curtain, or the box?
    Box! Box! Box! yells the audience. I’ll take the box, I say, meekly. More wild cheering. Murph, says Stevens, what would you say if I told you that there is one million dollars in that barrel. Will you still take the box? Box! Box! Box! Louder than ever. I repeat, Box. Murph, says Stevens, what would you say if I told you that behind that curtain is a new hot tub (cheers), a new barbecue (cheers),a new car (more cheers), and it’s all for you to enjoy in your new home, the Isle of Capri? And I don’t mean on the Isle of Capri, Murph. I mean, the whole isle. It’s yours! If the price is right. Oh no, that’s a different show. The audience howls. So, what do you say, Thomas Murphy? The curtain or the box? Before the crowd can yell Box Box Box again, I say Box, and everyone starts clapping rhythmically.
    Well, says Stevens,