Well then, said the psychiatrist, what seems to be the problem? I can’t find Mister Ed, said Blurtso. Mister Ed? said the psychiatrist. The talking horse, said Blurtso. I see, said the psychiatrist, and how long have you been looking for him? I went all the way to California and back, said Blurtso, and he was nowhere to be found, though I did meet Rocinazo. Rocinazo? said the psychiatrist. Yes, said Blurtso, a distant relative of Don Quijote’s horse, Rocinante. I see, said the psychiatrist, and did you meet any other horses? Well, said Blurtso, I looked for Little Joe’s horse, Cochise, on the Ponderosa, but I couldn’t find him. And I would have liked to meet Zorro’s horse, Tornado, and of course the Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver, but most of all I wanted to meet Mister Ed. I see, said the psychiatrist. I think I can make a diagnosis. Really? said Blurtso. Yes, said the psychiatrist, I’m afraid you have a serious case of “horse envy.”
Hmm, thought Blurtso, look how much the grass has grown. The place almost looks abandoned. I’ve never seen it look more beautiful.
Hmmm, thought Blurtso, look at all these things. I lived without them for months and I didn’t miss them. Let’s see who I used to be and what I used to like… yes, there’s my juicer, and my coffee mug, and my recliner, and my infrared sauna… and… my collection of “Mister Ed” DVDs… I went all the way to Hollywood and didn’t find him. A complete failure… oh well… and there’s no pie in the fridge.
As Blurtso made his way across the land, he paused to consider the travelers who had made the journey before him… the young ones in search of adventure, with optimism and innocence in their eyes; the middle-aged ones, discouraged but not defeated, far from family and in search of a job; the old ones, irretrievably detached, free from the weight of hopefulness, and blown from town to town like leaves on the wind. At night, drawn by the glow of a flame, they would gather in silence, reflecting on the trials behind and considering the trials ahead, until one, reaching into his pocket, would pull out a harmonica, wipe it on his sleeve, and softly begin to play…
Are you really a descendant of Don Quijote’s Rocinante?! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! I’ve never met a celebrity before! Do you mind if I walk along? Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! A real live celebrity! I’ll bet you’ve got a million stories! Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! A descendant of Don Quijote’s Rocinante! Do you mind if I walk along? Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy! Will you tell me a story?! Will you tell me a story?! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! A real live celebrity!