Ringo getting hot at the pizza bench

Ringo was a problem child from the time adoring faces peered into his incubated crib on the day of his birth and prophesized that he would one day become President of the United States. Not only did he lack any interest in the nation’s top job, Ringo didn’t want to be employed at all. He was flat-out allergic to work. When, later in life, he discovered that a disease known as chronic fatigue syndrome existed, he immediately claimed that as his affliction. Subsequent medical tests for auto-immune disease proved that was not the case, leading us to conclude what we had assumed all along — that our brother was simply lazy. Exertions of all kinds were avoided so fervently that he expended more energy evading work assignments than would have been required to actually complete the task.

Happiness would have been to spending his life sitting in front of the TV set watching sports programming and sponging off the Marciano family welfare system. Alas, parents and siblings organized several career interventions that consisted of hounding and shaming Ringo into eventually agreeing to work in the safe and forgiving bosom of the family business.

Oddly enough, Ringo was Ginger’s polar opposite. While his older sister sought public attention and eternal youth, Ringo was an artless and tortured soul who made no bones about the fact that he didn’t like his fellow man, preferred anonymity and wanted to die young. It annoyed him that our family had good genes. Heredity suggested Ringo’s expiration date wouldn’t come due until his early-80’s, not accounting for advances in medical technology. Measures were taken to counteract that by pursuing a lifestyle designed to precipitate his demise. He ate to excess, overslept, didn’t exercise, never visited doctors and prayed for the Grim Reaper to pay him a silent and painless visitation.

Ringo’s philosophy was simple: Life on planet Earth was the fire and brimstone of biblical lore, and he was fully engulfed in the conflagration. He found comfort in the Catholic religion’s promise of heavenly rewards heaped upon the deceased. With such bliss awaiting us in the afterlife, he reasoned, why prolong the journey? Suicide was contemplated and threatened when he wanted the family’s undivided attention and solace. We called upon wisdom of Father Benito Saragusa, head priest at Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. The preacher read grave scriptural passages to Ringo that warned of the seriousness and eternal consequences of taking one’s own life.

Such revelations didn’t do much for Ringo’s mood. Frowned upon by the Almighty, Ringo dropped suicide as a viable option (though he continued to play the topic as a conversational trump card).

In a family rife with hot tempers, Ringo had the most volcanic temper of us all. Having to work or disruptions to his clockwork-like daily routines were two excellent reasons to go ballistic. Nothing sent Ringo into intergalactic orbit more readily than disagreeing with his premise that he was “different” than the rest of humanity. Ringo insisted he was abnormal — handicapped, in fact, the victim of a chemical imbalance that severely limited his capacity for happiness. He often made mention of his “handicap” in hopes of provoking us into disagreement so he could let loose with one of his King Kong-like shouting fits and then storm off for a nap or communion with his television set. Whatever Ringo lacked in happiness hormones was more than made up for in vocal chords. He had a yell that could tear roof off most wood-frame structures. We avoided hearing loss by learning to ignore or simply humor him by wholeheartedly agreeing with his hypotheses.

@copyright 2016/Mike Consol