In a dark corner snuggled between sloshing burbles of plumbing a large screw-headed boy named Lumpy Pumpkin sat in the massive manner of his name. A hump of flesh, he sat nearly still, but not idle, not vapid, not sluggish, least not in the way his elderly parents spoke of him from above. Crouched in that washroom Lumpy lived counting the foot-drops pacing the veiling, listening to the conversations and classical recitals.

Child specialists predicted Lumpy would be different and advised his needs be indulged. Consistency was important. Lumpy could not endure predictability -- be it teapot or person -- and after several regrettable accidents Lumpy was granted his privacy amongst the boborygmatic pipes, listening to the talk and music filtering down from above.

His mother taught cello. His father fiddled with piano and collected instruments, which were stored in the basement next to the bathroom. Any meal and laundry time they could be heard encouraging Lumpy to bathe (and he would on odd-numbered days) and to play with the instruments. Always they praised whatever they heard the night before, for at night, alone, was the only way Lumpy ever played.

The Pumpkins accepted this and calmly came to accept their son's experimentations with the instruments and effects, his singing, clapping and cheering like entire crowds in the basement. They claimed they didn't mind, so much, and had adequate sound-proofing.

This hobby was proof and reward enough for Mr. and Mrs. Pumpkin. Although professionals may disagree, the Pumpkins felt justified to allow their son Lumpy to live below in the washroom alone with his music for twenty-eight years.

In early 2004, due to an electrical fire, the Pumpkins were forced out. Moving triggered violence in Lumpy. Another unfortunate mishap mandated treatment. Meanwhile, the Pumpkins repaired their house as before with the addition of a makeshift recording studio in the basement.

In December 2004, after months of aid from many dedicated health care workers and lawyers, Lumpy was allowed to return home where he immediately regressed to the basement and did not emerge for another year.

During the year he composed and recored ten LPs of music. The selections here are from the tenth.

-- Richard M. Patel
Lumpy Pumpkin's Psychiatrist
July 2006