Oliver Jones

                                 Oliver Jones

                                                               By

                                                    Frank Imbragulio

 

                     You've heard, no doubt, of Oliver Twist,

                      in Dickens'doleful tale;

                     But have you heard of Oliver Jones,

                     who swallowed a big blue whale?

 

           Jonah,  rocking complacently in that old whale's belly, felt

pretty smug and confident that he was the world's first. Of course, he was followed many years later, by Pinocchio, and that took some of the excitement out of that! But who would have dreamed that a tiny, ninety-pound lad would reverse this entire process?

            Oliver began life in a routine, ho-hum sort of way swallowing things that babies normally swallow; first, milk and air, giving rise to random burps; then safety pins off his diapers, thumb tacks off chairs; his baby bottle, the diapers themselves, and ultimately, the chairs. Well, nobody ever actually saw him swallowing these things, but the objects would be gone, and he'd just lie or sit there, grinning happily.

          When he was four years old, he already weighed eighty-nine pounds, having ingested any number of weighty objects. His parents were usually too busy to be concerned, making more and more money in order that he should never know want. But, always, on Oliver's birthday, they went together, as a family unit, to some posh restaurant or other. Tonight, it was to be the Stork Club.

          Oliver ate practically everything on the menu, as Belinda, his mother sat quietly chewing a salad, and Malcolm, his father, daintily ate a filet mignon. As they were leaving the restaurant, the maitre d' came up to Mr. Jones and said, "Please excuse me, sir, but I'm afraid there has been a mistake; the amount is incorrect."

          Oliver's father looked at the check. "Seven hundred thirty five dollars, and ninety-six cents," he said. "It looks perfectly all right to me. After all, our son did eat quite a lot of food."

"I'm sorry, sir; it is not enough," the poor man said apologetically; "you see, the boy ate the napkins, the tablecloth---and two of the chairs, and finally, the table itself."

          "Are you certain?" Mrs. Jones asked haughtily.

          "Quite, Madam."

          "But, did you actually see him eating them?" Mr. Jones asked the dumb-founded maitre d'.

          "Well, no---not exactly—"

          "There you have it!" Mrs. Jones said triumphantly, and would have stormed out of the place in a fit of pique.

          "It's all right, Jessica," Mr. Jones said calmly. "How much?"

          "We feel another four hundred and fifty dollars would take care of the damages," the unhappy man said.

          Jones peeled out five more hundred-dollar bills and handed them stiffly to the maitre d.

          Throughout this entire procedure, young Oliver had stood by, soberly and quietly.

          "Oliver, dear," his mother said now, "wasn't there a potted palm behind you just now?"

          "Come on, Belinda, for God's sake. Let's get out of here while I still have a little cash on me," Malcolm was getting desperate.

          Their limousine was waiting for them at the curb and whisked them homeward.

          "Now, Oliver," his father began, "I do not mind however much food you eat, just as long as you don't waste any of it. But this habit you have acquired of swallowing everything in sight has simply got to stop!"

          "Yes, Father."

          "You know, of course that one simply does not go around in polite society, swallowing the neighbor's furniture and linens."

          "No, Father."

"If you're hungry, you need only ring and one of the servants, will see that get a tray."

"Yes, Father."

"And see to it that you don't eat the tray, too!"

"Oliver," Belinda asked, "Did you eat the table and chairs back there?"

"I honestly don't know, Mother. I may have done."

"Well, no harm done. actually. If you're that hungry, I suppose you really must eat. But I really do wish you'd limit yourself to pate de fois gras, and the likes. It's cheaper in the long run."

"And infinitely easier on the digestion, I should think," his father added.

"Yes, Father," Oliver agreed quietly.

"After all, Malcolm, he is a growing boy!" And Belinda even managed a lop-sided sort of smile as she made this profound statement.

 

II.

            Mrs. Belinda Jones walked into the entrance hall of their palatial manor. She was grandly attired in a chic navy blue suit, blue pillbox hat with a light veil, matching shoes, and was carrying a blue suede handbag. She had spent the entire evening at a benefit bridge game for Starving Children's Relief. Jarvis, the butler met her at the door.

            "Madam, there's something that I feel I should speak to you about."

            "Yes, Jarvis, what is it? Well, hurry up. I just have time to change before Mr. Jones gets home, and we have to go out again."

            "It's about Master Oliver, M'am."

            "You mean he didn't eat his lunch?"

            "Or his breakfast, nor his dinner last night for that matter. In short, the boy has stopped eating altogether!"

            "Why wasn't I informed of this sooner?"

            "I didn't like to bother you, Madam. You're always in such a hurry."

            "Not so much of a hurry to deal with a situation like this, Jarvis."

            She started up the stairs. "Oh, and thank you, Jarvis," She realized that she had not the faintest idea where Oliver might be at this particular time of the day. "Oh, and Jarvis---"

            He was starting for the butler's pantry, but turned and asked, "Yes, Madam—"

            "Do you any idea where Master Oliver might be right now?"

            "I rather imagine that you will find him in his room, Madam."

            She continued up the stairs; suddenly very weary. She approached the door to Oliver's room. It was closed, so she started to open it and go in. Then she thought better of this and stopped to knock on the door.

            "Who is it?" his voice sounded very weak and far away.

            "It's Mummy, Dearest."

            "Come in."

            "Now, Oliver," she began, walking briskly across the carpet, "What's this I hear about your not eating?"

            "Oh, I dunno. I'm just not hungry anymore, I guess."

            "Nonsense. Everybody gets hungry now and then. When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

            "My birthday."

            "But, darling, that was almost six months ago! Wasn't it? You mean to tell me you haven't eaten since that night at the Stork Club?"

            "No, Mother."

            "But this is insane! You simply must eat!"

            "No. I won't. I'm tired of embarrassing you and Father with my voracious appetite."

            "You never embarrassed me. And I'm quite certain you never embarrassed your father, either. You're just have a normal boy's healthy appetite, that's all."

            "Do I?" he asked plaintively. "People are always accusing me eating furniture, pot plants and all sorts of unusual and unnatural things. They look at me as if I were a freak."

            "And, do you eat these things, Oliver?"

            "Mother. I've told you. I honestly don't know."

            "Then, dear, I suggest that you learn to concentrate more on what you are eating.  Have you tried chewing each bite slowly and carefully one hundred times before swallowing it?"

            "I never chew at all. I just swallow everything I put in my mouth all at once."

            "But, that's abominable and monstrous! You must take the time to chew your food, Darling,"

            "No. I'm simply not going to eat at all any more."

            "Well. We'll talk more, later, after I have a talk with your father."

            "Yes, Mother.

 

III.

 

            Malcolm tugged violently at his bow tie. He hated these accursed things and never got the hang of tying them properly. And Belinda was going on and on, driving him crazy about some nonsense involving Oliver/ She expected him to believe Oliver had eaten nothing at all since his last birthday!

            And on top of all of this, he was still very upset about his terrible golf game of this afternoon, at the Country Club.

            "You simply must have a talk with the boy, Malcolm. He is absolutely incorrigible."

            "All right; now would you please ring for Simmons, will you dear? When dif you say Oliver had last eaten?"

            "Not since that night at the Stork Club," she said as she rang for the valet.

            "But that was over three months ago!"

            "More like six, to be more precise."

            "Well, I cannot believe that. Anybody would be dead by now if he had not eaten any food in that length of time."

            "But he did eat rather a sizeable meal that evening, if you remember," Belinda said, trying for once, to sound practical.

            There was a knock at the door, and Simmons walked in. He helped Malcolm to get the bow tie done properly; then proceeded to brush off the dinner jacket and placed it on the bed, ready for Malcolm to slip into it; then he polished the black patent leather shoes and placed them beside the bed.

            "Will there be anything else, sir?" Simmons asked/

            "I don't know what to make of it," Malcolm said, signaling for Simmons to go.

            "Perhaps if you had a talk with the boy," Belinda tried to sound optimistic.

            Malcolm thought for a moment, really giving the matter his complete concentration for a change; then said, "I have a better idea. I'll have a talk with—No, let's both have a talk with Dr. Jungfreund."          

            "Splendid!" and she clapped her hands together in girlish glee. "If anyone knows what to do in this case, Sigmund Jungfreund is the man."

 

IV.

 

            Siegmund Jungfreund shuffled the papers around on his cluttered desktop. The Jones was rich and well dressed; well educated and well spoken. But they were typical of rich Americans. He peered at them now, over the rims of his little half-moon spectacles.  "Classic. Yes, that's what it is. The classic and clear-cut case of the child crying out for attention and love. And that is what the child needs: attention, and attention—but especially, love. The same thing every child needs."

            "But we love him to death!" Belinda exploded, "I positively could not live without him."

            "And when was the last time you told him this?" the doctor asked her.

            "Why, I don't have to tell him. He knows it. We give him everything any child could possibly want."

            "How much time do you spend with him each day?"

            "Look, I don't have time for that, and he knows it," Belinda said in her own defense.

            "And you?" to Malcolm.

            "Every day! I try to be with him at least four or five times a year."

            "We take him out for his birthday, no matter how busy we are. Except that one time, dear—remember?" Belinda said.

            "And he is five years old?" Jungfreund asked sadly.

            "No, he was six last week, and refused to let us take him this time," Belinda volunteered this information.

            "Your little boy needs you every day. He needs to be held; hugged and kissed—yes, kissed! He needs to be told that you love him. And more importantly than all of this, he must be made to know that you love him.

            "Dr. Jungfreund, we're just not a demonstrative family," Malcolm Jones said.

            "Well, you'd better start being one- and soon. Or your son is likely to die."

            "Die?"

            "Yes. No doubt the medical doctors will say it is from anorexia/"

            "What's that?" Malcolm asked.

            "Starvation, isn't it, Doctor?" Belinda asked.

            "More or less. But he will actually have died of a broken heart."

 

V.

            "Oliver, we want you to know that we love you very much, and that from now on, things are going to be quite different around here." This was the longest speech Malcolm had ever made to his son.

            "OK. Father."  Oliver said, utterly without enthusiasm.

            "Son, we want you to eat again. You can eat anything you like. Anything at all!"

            "But I'm not hungry, Father."

            "Nonsense, Son, everybody gets hungry if he hasn't eaten in a while. Now I want you to promise me that you'll eat heartily this afternoon. We're going to take you to "Seaworld". Your mother and I. Wouldn't you like to see the porpoises, giant sea turtles and the other aquatic creatures?"

            "I suppose so, Father."

            "And while we're at it. We'll eat lunch at Delmonicos, or anywhere you choose.  I want you to have anything your little heart desires."

            All of a sudden, Oliver felt himself growing extremely hungry, for the first time in many months.

            "Anything?" Oliver asked.

"Yes, my Darling- anything!" Belinda sounded so happy. She could see that he was beginning to see that they were sincere, and to believe them.

"I would love to see the sharks and porpoises. And the big sea turtles, too."

"And they've even got a big blue whale," Malcolm added to the excitement.

"Oh, Boy!" Oliver said, laughing for the first time in ages. "Let's get going. I'm starving!"

And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.