Thoughts on photo of Typhoid Mary

I just can't make up my mind about her. Again and again they traced typhoid outbreaks back to Mary Mallon; and, each time, she slipped from their grasp and found work in yet another kitchen. She could not stay away. She kept returning to the only thing she knew.

I can't decide if she was psychotic or merely atavistic--a dark angel or simply a confused worker bee told to stop working--but in any case, her powers of denial were profound. You don't see that kind of thoughtless determination in the world anymore.

Anyway, they tracked her down one last time and stuck her in quarantine, of course. You can see here there, staring at the camera from one in a long row of beds. And, I'm sorry to bring this up, but I can't help noticing: Typhoid Mary is kind of hot.

I don't mean febrile. I don't mean running-a-temperature hot. I mean just plain hot. Sure, she has the covers pulled primly up to her chest, and she's wearing at least three layers of clothes, including a robe, for god's sake. But there's a fire in Mary Mallon. Some people might think her expression says, Back off. But this is no wilting flower. This woman killed three people and infected fifty more. She is not afraid of life or death. She's been stuck in that ward for weeks and months and years, and she just wants someone to climb on that hospital bed with her, take down that pinned-up hair, pull open that robe, and feast on that comely Irish immigrant's bod.

And don't get me started on that chick in the next bed.

And let's not forget the man who was pulled over for speeding

Partial list of people we're being asked to pray for by the radio station I listened to last week while driving through North Carolina (an organ playing solemnly in the background and an extremely long pause between each):

* The daughter who has been stealing from her mother. We pray that the little girl sees this is wrong.

* The woman who is in a predicament. We pray that she finds a solution.

* The woman who wrecked her car. We pray that her husband has the courage to tell his mother what really happened to the car and that there are no serious insurance ramifications.

* The man who broke his foot.

* The mother who wants to see her son find employment. (Read: When's that kid of Ethel's going to get damn job.)

This program followed a painfully old-fashioned radio play (possibly recorded in 1971, if not 1743) dramatizing the story of Samuel and Eli that had so many pedophilic overtones in it I thought the dial had somehow landed on America's Most Wanted. Such was my incredulity over these proceedings, by the time I crossed the state line I whipped out my cell phone to relay my experience to the folks back home. I didn't pay attention to my speed, nearly swerved off the road as I flew past a cop, and was smote by the Lord with a speeding ticket in Emporia, Virginia....where, by the way, they put the D.C. Sniper to death last night.