If you think people suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder are odd, then consider the case of Randy Boyle. Going beyond the weirdness of doing everything in a series of threes, Randy did everything in a series of fours, and anything “4” became his obsession. To him, his OCD was a shield from harm.
It started in second grade one day after school, when the bullies stalked him out the door after the final bell rang. “You can run home to Mommy, but we’re goin’ to pound the shit out of you, tomorrow,” the main bully threatened. “See ya in the morning, Crybaby!”
For breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Boyle made pancakes. Randy was served four. His stomach, doing cartwheels, was not hungry, and he could only choke down four bites, each chewed four times, before he excused himself with, “Delicious, Mother. Thank you.” Then he trudged the Long Green Mile to face those who were waiting to pound his face in.
The bullies were there, alright, gathered ‘round the flagpole like vultures ‘round his soon-to-be-carcass. When the main bully greeted him with, “Morning, Boyle,” Randy could already feel the welts, cuts, and stitches that would be administered to him in just a few more minutes. He took a deep breath—and walked on through the double-doors, unharmed.
The bullies followed him in—and went straight to their desks, quietly. There were no further threats that day, during or after school, Randy’s underdeveloped mind rationalized, because he had been protected by the food he ate that morning.
So, from that morning forward, all the way through middle school, Randy followed this breakfast routine: four pancakes. Four bites with four chews each. An under-his-breath, Delicious, Mother. Thank you. As long as he didn’t deviate from this morning meal, his face would remain in place. And his OCD was planted.
In high school, his mental condition got worse. He asked each teacher if he could sit in the 4th row at the 4th desk, because he remembered in middle school when he was assigned desks willy-nilly and how he struggled learning, until 8th grade math. Mr. Harris assigned him that spot in his seating chart—and gave him a B+! If he knew an answer in class, he had to pump his arm up and down four times—once, he only raised it twice, gave a wrong response, and was humiliated by the laughter that followed.
Randy’s backpack had to carry exactly four Bic pens, four textbooks, four spiral notebooks, four sticks of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, and four band-aids, just in case the pancake ritual wore off. He requested locker 44, vigilantly sanitizing the germs away on its lock and metal handle just like he did the handles in the boy’s bathroom. In the lunchroom, he chewed his grub four times—not three, not five—before swallowing, because he wasn’t going to take the risk of choking to death on “whatever this mystery meat disguised under cold and lumpy gravy might be.”
The high school bullies let him be, mostly, thank god; and although the cool kids sometimes made fun of Randy over his strange habits, he always shook off their snark, reminding them that before the great Oglala warrior Crazy Horse went into battle with the Americans, he would wear a little stone behind his left ear. This talisman guaranteed his protection going into action that no bullet would ever touch him. You know he died? Stabbed in the back with a bayonet at Fort Robinson, Nebraska. If such a mind-sets is crazy enough for Crazy Horse, then it was crazy enough for him.
When Randy Boyle turned sixteen, he got his driver’s license on the first try by reading the motor vehicle safety pamphlet four times; and, of course, by sitting at the fourth desk in the fourth row at the DMV when he took the written. He celebrated his new-found freedom by buying a Jeep Cherokee 4 X 4.
Instead of just going out and getting his left ear pierced with a little stone stud for divine protection, Randy developed his own rote routine that would guarantee him getting from Point A to Point B and all the way to Point Z and back again, safely: gently kick the driver’s side tire four times, while whispering to himself be safe, four times. Standing at the door whispering, be aware, four times, before hopping in. Buckling up, sitting firmly in the bucket seat and taking four deep breaths. Turning the key and whispering be responsible four times before popping the clutch.
He graduated without a bruise, got a union job at a factory on 4th Street, and a house across the tracks, just outside of town. At work, he requested Line 4, position 4 because, “that’s what I’m best skilled at.”
After work, he drank with the crew over at the Four-Leaf Clover, with conditions: enjoy four beers from the fourth bar stool, perform the Jeep benediction in the parking lot, then drive home. As long as he religiously adhered to his Rule of 4s, there was no chance for a DWI. Life was good, safe, and secure.
Randy Boyle was only 44 years old the night of the accident. He had been at the Clover and was headed home. The last thing he saw in this life was the fourth car of a five-car Amtrak train.
His final millimoments of consciousness weren’t life’s highlights, but Randy trying to remember what went wrong after he left the tavern: he gently kicked the driver’s side tire four times while whispering to himself, be safe, four times. He stood at the door whispering, be aware, four times, before he hopped in. He bucked up, sat firmly in the seat, and took four deep breaths—-“FUCK ME!! I ONLY TOOK THREE DEEP BREATHS!!!! he realized before things went all black.
As state police were cleaning up the bits and pieces of Randy Boyle and his 4 x 4 that had showered the intersection, one lamented to another, “If the poor guy woulda just had a couple more seconds . . . “
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