Integrity



Ralph Wiggum pulled his rainbow-shaded scarf closer to his throat, winding it in a protective swath around his Adam’s apple.  It felt like twenty below in London - and he couldn't risk coming down with a cold now.

 

The sidewalk outside of his Newark Lane flat was lined with ice, thanks to an inopportune ice storm the morning before, and Ralph skidded against the slick surface, trying to make his way to the mailbox.  The envelope in his hand wrinkled between wooly fingers, and he let out an 'oof!' of alarm when he finally reached the box, colliding belly-first with a mail box.

 

He took a moment to refresh himself, feeling an icy breeze whip across his cheek.  Looking down at the now-crinkled envelope, he wondered why Laura had been so insistent that all RSPVs must come through a videophone or regular mail.  He didn't have the cash for an internet cafe, and his videophone service had been cut off a week before, leaving him with the oldest recourse left in modern communication.

 

Already, he felt sorry.

 

Bart would be disappointed - they were the oldest of friends, after all.  And the Simpsons meant everything to Ralph - it was Lisa who got him into a tutoring program in junior high school designed for "special" children, a program that had nearly been chopped from the school budget before his father had stood up and declared it important.  Thanks to the ingenuity of a thirteen-year-old and the power of a police chief, Ralph had gotten the kind of help he desperately needed, raising his IQ just a little bit below the national average. 

 

In high school, he had been dating Sherri when she became pregnant with Nelson Mundtz's children.  Ralph had offered to do the honorable thing and marry her, but she gently turned him down.  He was alone at the time of his graduation - when he left Springfield High School, he had been at the bottom of the eligible percentile, but Clancy Wiggum had already begun to ferret out possible colleges for Ralph.  They decided on sending him to The University of Berkeley at California, to hone his acting skills in a well-furnished drama department.

 

For Ralph, it had been a long, slow slog through the annals of higher education.  He just barely had the mental chops to make it through his ever-accelerating classes, and in the school's drama productions he was selected to play a villain or the hero's best friend - very rarely the lead.  On graduating, he returned to Springfield, getting a job on guard duty with the Nuclear Power Plant thanks to his father.  It was during this time period that he discovered his old friend Bart was homeless and looking for a place to stay.

 

Bart's post-high school years had not been very kind to him.   He had rejected college - probably to the relief of his financially-taxed parents - while nursing his broken heart over the loss of Jenda.  Bart had temporarily turned to the bottle for comfort, and it was Ralph, who had become practical during his time alone, had insisted he cut out such foolishness.  Bart had tried to launch his own band before finding work with Down With Buildings - it had been Ralph's job to man the phone whenever Bart's four-dollar local infomercial aired.  He smiled, unable to recall a single call coming in during those long Friday nights.

 

Bart had apparently gone on to a respectable career - the words "Attorney at Law" was scribbled in Bart's hand underneath his name on the invitation.  Ralph felt a sense of pride for him, and a sense of shame that they had stopped communicating meaningfully - the last message he had received from Bart was a spammy forward.

 

He couldn't berate himself too harshly for leaving, Ralph reasoned.  He had been told that England was an unmined opportunity for Western actors - the London stage was blazingly alive.  It was there that he had finally gained some attention, in a minor production of Hamlet outside of the West End.  He'd done two productions, Othello and  Death of a Salesman, in the West End.  That had led him to work for the BBC, and he had taped two appearances in the Britcom Izzard and Co.  Ralph was rapidly getting a reputation for being both "That Serious American Bloke" perfect for any Shakespearian role and "That Funny American Bloke," apparently just by being himself in a sketch comedy show.   And thanks to all of that he had landed his first starring role, on the stage of the Globe Theatre, in a production of The Merchant of Venice scheduled to open in March.

 

He would be prouder of himself, if he weren't so torn.

 

Ralph Wiggum was an undeniably American man.  He missed the comfort of old I Love Lucy reruns blaring on the set late in the night.  His body couldn't quite tolerate the high sugar count of British candy.  He couldn't tell a "lift" from a "pulley".  He was never hungry for teatime.

 

"I miss my mommy," he admitted to himself, in a low voice.

 

He couldn't cry too much.  It had been Bart's suggestion, muttered low over dinner at their bachelor pad that Ralph go to England.  He would be happy for him.  He would understand...

 

Ralph's cell phone rang, the opening notes to "Tomorrow" from the Broadway show Annie.  He pressed a button with numb, shaking fingers.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Wiggum!"  It was Rick Santangelo, his agent.  "How is London?"

 

"Cold."

 

"Ha ha!  You card!  Anyway, Ralphie baby, how do you feel about coming to the states?"

 

"America?  I can't go back to America - I'm up for a role in -"

 

"It'll pay good - just a short gig - in Ogdenville.  I swear, I can get you back to London before dress rehearsals start in February.  The director's having a hell of a time trying to get someone to play opposite his new female lead - seems that she didn't want the lead, can you believe that?  She wanted to play the villainess, but he found someone with stronger chops to take the part.  He had to pay her over scale to get her to do the part, but she's that good, so..."

 

"What's her name?"

 

"Don't sound so bored - you probably know her.  Ever heard of Jessica Lovejoy?"

 

Ralph nearly dropped his phone.  Bart had told him long, sad tales of having broken up with Jessica a few days before hooking up with Laura.  "Yeah," he managed at last.  "I've heard of her."

 

"Good - sounds like you know how to handle a strong chick like that.  I'll pencil you in.  The part starts in three weeks."

 

"Three weeks?!  I can't prepare properly in three weeks!"

 

"Aww, come on Ralphie!  We both know you can!"

 

Ralph grumbled.

 

"Can I pencil you in?"

 

"How much does it pay a week?"

 

"Scale."

 

"SCALE?"

 

"Ralphie, I know they took your vidphone last week.  You need the cash.  And you wanted to come home for the Simpson wedding, right?"

 

Ralph felt the English breeze turn stiffer.  He could feel ice crystals rasping across his tongue.

 

"Okay.  Fed-X me a ticket by tomorrow night and I can be there."

 

 

***

 

 

Ralph Wiggum stared at his plane ticket as if he expected it to take flight from his hand.  Heathrow was bustling, loud, and polite - he felt somehow at home in the hubub. 

 

He wished his old friend, Burney, was still around.  But he had stopped coming around when they took him off of his blue pills.  And what kind of advice would he give?  Burn things, Laddie.  He couldn't even afford a match today.

 

Ralph heard his fight number being called and couldn't find the will to move.  There was a future beckoning him to throw the ticket away and run back to London, his safe icebox of a flat and the part waiting for him.  There was daring in the unknown.  A fate he could not quite comprehend.

 

Paused between the future and the past, Ralph took a sharp right turn.

 

Back to Springfield.  Back for Bart's wedding.


The End