A snippet
from the book, Psychopaths – A Guide to Survival by Melinda
Pillsbury-Foster
Eight Psychopaths, Ten Chapters
NOTE: Of course, Craig gets one whole chapter for himself but the other seven certainly know who they are.
Let me say
right now Craig Franklin, my former husband, was not stupid, not in
the least. He continuously informed me and anyone else who he had
known for as long as 90 seconds that his IQ was 180. Therefore,
those looking for a reason the following incident took place must
look for some other explanation. I have a few ideas myself, rest
assured.
The
Incident took place on a Friday evening after I had picked Craig up
from work. He would have liked to drive himself but since he had,
again, had his driver's license suspended for good and sufficient
reasons, this was not possible. Issues of increased liabilities if
he was caught were foremost in my mind.
Despite my
pointing these ominous possibilities to him, and the impact on our
already creaky finances, Craig did not see the need for a license to
drive. It might seem to this was stuffy of me but I understood, all
too well, the problems encountered by individuals who decided to
dispense with these small pieces of plastic and follow the rules,
even when I did not agree with them.
Craig and I
had met at a Libertarian Convention in 1977. Most Libertarians
disagree with the rules, grudgingly perhaps, but because it is easier
than paying the costs of ignoring them.
Craig was
different. If I had known just how different my life would have been
far more serene and less chaotic.
Craig also
thought it should be unnecessary to file a tax return, evidently not
minding a bit this ensured he would never receive an intact paycheck
from his employer, Green Hills Software, Inc. Such is life. If you
are interested in THAT story just real the link.
It happened.
On this
particular evening my former husband, Ron Foster, whose maiden name
was Kellett, had been allowed to come to the house to play Dungeons
and Dragons with the children. They were huddled around the dining
room table peering at small pieces of cardboard when I drove in with
Craig in the passenger seat.
The
disagreement had started in the car just after I picked him up from
his work at Green Hills Software, Inc., then located in Glendale,
California. It had been a long journey home in rush hour traffic to
North Hills. I was tired and still needed to go to the grocery store
and shop so I could make dinner.
But first,
the house needed some picking up. As I walked through the place,
reassembling order from chaos, Craig accompanied me so he could
continue to argue while he gulped down a snack.
As usual,
he had made a bee-line for the refrigerator for some yummy concoction
which would sustain him until dinner was ready. The epicurean
delights he assembled included Cheez-Whiz, purchased just for him
since no one else would eat it. This was slathered, or by preference
extruded, on any kind of cracker or not too squishy thing which
presented itself. Sometimes it joined globs of Ketchup on a thick
slice of meat loaf.
But he
really preferred very large portions so we never knew what would
emerge as his most recent treat. Cheeze-Wiz was a frequent condiment
on all of these constructions. He said it helped hold them together
while he consumed them. This is probably true.
I wish I
could remember what had started Craig off. Despite his claims of
being the most ardent of Objectivists, and being the only living man
to have stalked Ayn Rand, sitting for days in the lobby of her
apartment in New York with orchids at the ready and a math treatise
in his hands, Craig's arguments were never rational.
I kept
picking up and straightening. Craig kept talking in louder and
louder tones.
It suddenly
occurred to me this would be an excellent time to go to the grocery
store. Interrupting the flow of verbiage I told him I was leaving
and went to get my purse.
When I
re-emerged into the dining room a few minutes later the Dungeons and
Dragons Saga had paused. All eyes were staring out the window.
There, next to the back of the car stood Craig clutching something in
his hand.
Ron
laconically informed me, “He took off the gas cap.” Odd, I
thought, dismissing this latest evidence of Craig's erratic behavior
as I walked out, climbed in the station wagon and swung out of the
drive way. In the rear view mirror I could still see him standing
there, gas cap raised inquiringly.
When I
returned about 45 minutes later the D & D had resumed and Craig
was firmly locked in the bedroom. He refused to emerge for dinner,
which I left in front of the door for him.
It seems
after I left Craig had walked back in the house looking perplexed.
He then asked Ron, “How could she drive off when I have the gas
cap?”
The
question had been answered by the six year old in the room.
