Something in the Air That Tames Even the Inner Devil

I have spring fever.

I catch it every year at this time when the apple tree blooms. I get dreamy-eyed and simple-minded.

I notice the tree as I pass by the front of the house on my way to the office, and almost instantly turn in the opposite direction.

There’ll be no office today.

Pink and white blossoms shimmer in the sunlight on a day that gleams with renewal. Fresh leaves are clusters of emeralds in the oak trees. L.A. glistens in the spring.

A strange positive feeling washes over me. I am generally not possessed of positive responses. Never have been. Teachers called me uncooperative. My sisters called me a nut.

“It’s because the devil is in you,” my mother used to say. But she said that about everyone, especially Protestants.

“They wouldn’t be Protestants if they understood,” she was known to declare. On the day she died, I asked, “Understood what?” She said, “Get away.”

My wife thinks I’m negative. I tell her it’s my job. She says, “You’re in a positive section now, so be positive. There’s life and love on Mulberry Lane.”

“That’s Blueberry Lane.”

“Whatever.”

*

I am inclined to drift in the spring, like a leaf caught in an ambient breeze. On this day, I drift to the Santa Monica Pier. I sit on a bench and watch the Ferris wheel and smile dimly. The sunlight is golden. I’m happy.

Mothers see me sitting on a bench alone, watching the wheel spin in the air and looking like I am somewhere in the clouds, dancing with angels. They pull their children away.

I see one woman whisper to her little girl and point to me. She is saying, “See, Meredith, that’s what a pervert looks like.” They hurry off.

I take a harmonica from my pocket. I have, to be exact, six harmonicas. This is my M. Hohner. I used to play “Old Black Joe” with some efficiency but then realized it conjured up an image of Uncle Tom. Now it’s “Old Joe, I Didn’t Notice His Color.”

The harmonica is an amazing instrument. No matter what you do with it, it sounds musical. The late Jerry Belcher used to say, “Two sucks and a blow and you’ve got ‘America the Beautiful.’ ” I practice “America the Beautiful.” It is much more complicated than that. Two sucks, a blow, one suck, two more sucks, another blow, four more blows, and so on.

I blow away at “Swannee River.” A homeless man who smells of Night Train and urine sits by me. Night Train is the wine of choice for those who take their beverage from paper bags. As I play, he taps his foot. We are a strange duo. Me playing and wearing a dim smile and Homeless Harry tapping his foot.

“You’re tapping out of rhythm,” I say. He says, “You play out of rhythm!” Then he calls me the a-word and stalks away. Well, staggers away. I say, “Have a happy day!” He gives me the finger.

*

I return to the house humming. My wife says, “You smell like wine and urine. What’ve you been up to?”

I could tell her the truth, but that would never work. I say, “I was kidnapped by a group of terrorists. The Wino Freedom Network. They made me drink Night Train and . . .” Then I say something too disgusting to print.

She sighs. “Be useful. Take the garbage out. It’s beginning to rot.”

I am about to launch into a discourse on Why I Cannot Take Out the Garbage. I hold the record among men for not taking out the garbage: 172 straight days. But today is different. The sweetness of spring has filled my wrinkled heart.

“Yes,” I say, choking slightly on the unfamiliar word, “I will do that. I will take out the garbage.”

She studies me for a moment and then says, “I get it. Another way of trying to drive me crazy. First, it was humming and bobbing your head while you ate, and then it was not hearing anything I said, and now it’s being sweet. Your mother was right. It’s the devil in you.”

“I am filled with spring,” I say. “I am wandering lonely as a cloud. I’m as happy as a spider spinning day dreams. I’m as giddy as a baby . . .”

“You’re having mood swings,” she says. “I’ve always suspected you might be bipolar.”

I take the garbage out. For a moment I stand in the warm sun and play chords on the harmonica. A dog trots up. He’s a miserable old red dog that has been in the neighborhood for years.

I say, “I love you, Old Red Dog. Join me in song. I play, you howl.” He growls and trots away, glancing back uneasily.

I play “Tennessee Waltz.” The sky is blue, the oak trees green, the apple blossoms glorious. I stop playing and doze by the garbage can, smiling.

Ah, spring.

*

Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Thursdays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.