Arthur Ponder had always been a quiet man, which made his sudden mania all the more alarming to the neighbors of Mulberry Lane. For thirty years, he had tended his petunias, nodded at mailmen, and returned library books on time. Then, one Tuesday, he painted his front door a screaming shade of vermilion and began speaking in rhyming couplets about the moon.
And for one glorious, terrifying week, Mulberry Lane believed him. Until the men in white coats came—not for Arthur, but for the mayor, who had started painting the fire hydrants to look like strawberries. madness mania
Arthur stood at the head of the chaos, harmonica in hand, eyes wide with a terrible, joyful clarity. “You see?” he whispered to anyone who would listen. “Sane was the cage. Mad is the open field.” Arthur Ponder had always been a quiet man,
“The moon’s a button loose tonight!” he’d shout at the butcher. “It spins its thread of silver fright!” And for one glorious, terrifying week, Mulberry Lane
And then came the music.
At first, the town smiled nervously. Poor Arthur. A touch of sun, perhaps. But by Friday, his mania had infected others. Mrs. Gable, the widow who hadn’t laughed since 1987, was seen cackling as she mowed her lawn in figure-eights. Old Mr. Henley stacked his garden gnomes into a pyramid and declared himself “High Gnome-issar of the Unmown Grass.”