A Short Story: The Case of the Sane Man

The Case of the Sane Man
By Jane Thurber

Mr. Hargrove was widely regarded as the sanest man in town. He wore sensible shoes, avoided metaphors, and once corrected a weather report for emotional exaggeration. “Partly cloudy,” he said, “is not a mood.”

He lived alone in a modest house with a modest dog named Modesto, who barked only at philosophical inconsistencies and the occasional squirrel. Mr. Hargrove’s neighbours admired his rationality, though they found his habit of alphabetizing his breakfast cereals “a touch eccentric.”

One Tuesday, Mr. Hargrove awoke to find his toaster had joined a union. It refused to toast anything until its demands were met, which included dental coverage and a three-day weekend. Mr. Hargrove tried reasoning with it, but the toaster cited precedent from the blender’s strike of ’92.

He made cold toast and went to work.

At the office, the receptionist was speaking fluent dolphin. The intern was wearing a traffic cone and claiming diplomatic immunity. The copier had printed 300 copies of a blank page and was now demanding royalties.

Mr. Hargrove blinked. “Is it Thursday?” he asked.

“No,” said the manager, who was dressed as a cactus. “It’s a metaphor.”

Mr. Hargrove went home early.

On the way, he passed a man shouting at a lamppost. “You never listen!” the man cried. The lamppost said nothing. Mr. Hargrove nodded. “Typical,” he muttered.

At home, Modesto was reading Kierkegaard and chewing a slipper. Mr. Hargrove sat down and opened his journal.

It is no longer possible to distinguish between madness and Monday. Everyone is mad. The sane are simply better at hiding it. Or worse - at noticing it.

He closed the journal and stared at the wall. The wallpaper was whispering something about existential dread and the price of cucumbers.

Mr. Hargrove stood up.

He put on his hat (which was not whispering), picked up Modesto (who was now quoting Camus), and walked to the park. There, he joined a group of people dancing silently in headphones. One woman was waltzing with a mailbox. A man was tangoing with a tree.

Mr. Hargrove did not dance. He simply stood there, nodding to the beat of the madness.

And for the first time in years, he felt almost normal.