Irritability Quotient: The New IQ

 Irritability Quotient: The New IQ

By

Leo de Natale

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

The term IQ, Itelligence Quotient, was coined in 1916 and originally called the Stanford-Binet test. It quickly became known as the IQ test and the gold standard of a person’s intelligence. A score of 130 or higher placed an individual in the rarefied air of genius.

          Today, we are dealing with a new IQ test, the Irritability Quotient, that measures the psychological mayhem created by the pandemic Covid 19 virus.  Unfortunately, there are many Americans who are scoring higher than 130 and instead of numbers, colors are used.  Yellow is low; Red is high. Rich or poor, male or female, the virus has affected us all financially, emotionally and psychologically.  Below are examples of  Plague-induced IQs.

Boston, MA December, 2020

“I want six crabcakes, a pound of haddock and four lobster rolls,” stated the 60-ish woman in a no-nonsense tone.  Her hair was disheveled; her clothing frumpy.  Her physical appearance matched her miserable personality.

          “Do you want those packaged separately,” replied the polite young man behind the glass-enclosed counter.

          “Of course I do,” she said sternly. “Everything should be in an individual bag.”

          “Okay, ma’am” the employee said. “Are you looking forward to the holidays?”

          Silence.  The woman stared straight and didn’t utter a word.   This dyspeptic lady was, like all of us, masked.  You couldn’t see her face but her body language and frozen posture suggested a hatchet-faced harridan bearing a perpetual scowl.

          A young woman waiting behind the lady was observing the interaction.  My, she thought, this person must be having a bad day or is suffering pandemic depression.   The employee, probably 19-20-years-old was well-mannered.  He was tall and thin.  His voice was pleasant.  There was probably a smile hiding underneath his mask.  He tried making small talk with the elderly woman.  Silence.  He finished preparing the order.

“Will there be anything else you need?” he asked with alacrity.

          Silence.  As she grabbed her fish and headed for the cash register, he said “Thanks for coming in and have a nice day!”  Silence.

          “Gee, some people  apparently  don’t appreciate good manners,” the young woman said good naturedly.  “A little kindness goes a long way, especially in these days. Sorry you have to put up with that behavior.”

          “No worries,” he said.

          A moment later, Mrs. Sourpuss, on her way to the cash register,  heard  the banter and quickly  returned to the counter.

          “I don’t like your sarcasm!” she said to the young man. “You’re here to wait on customers, period.  “I’m here to buy food.  I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to.”

          She then turned 45 degrees to the young woman.

          “And you, you have no right to chime in on a private conversation” she yelled with a bellicose voice and  pointed an arthritic finger. “You disgust me.”

          She abruptly returned to the cash register.

          The young woman was blushing with embarrassment.  How dare that woman talk to me, she thought.  The hag finally left the food store.

          “I’m sorry I created this scene,” she said. “No one should be treated that way.  I felt bad about how she treated you.”

          “Thanks, m’am,” he replied. “She’s a regular customer.  Nobody likes waiting on her.  She’s flunking life.  No worries.  Now what would you like to order?”

Plymouth, MA January, 2021

          Forty miles south of Boston, Joe Vagerney, a retired mathematics teacher, was strolling along an old railway spur with his girlfriend.  The colonial town had converted the spur into an unpaved biking and hiking trail.  The weather is always chilly near the Atlantic Ocean.   On this day, however, the temperature was above freezing.  The ground was thawing.

          “Let’s walk on the grass on the side, Judy,” he said. “It’s too muddy here.”

          The masked couple walked along the side  and saw a woman approaching them.  The closer she came, the more obvious it was they wouldn’t be practicing social distancing.  The woman stopped six feet in front of them and stared.

          “You’re on the wrong goddamned side of the path”, she bellowed.  “Get out of my way!”

          The woman had an obviously elevated IQ.

Vagerney, a tall Irish-American, wasn’t shy and shouted his retort, “Hey, lady, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.  Don’t be such an asshole.  You could have asked nicely, but we’re staying here.  You walk over to the other side.”

          Whether or not it was a case of two against one or Vagerney’s  intimidating eyes and body language, the woman sheepishly slid across the  path and continued walking.  She stopped and turned around and yelled, “Fuck you, too!”

          In less than a year, the pandemic had people raging against each other regardless of physical location or region.  North, south, east or west, it made no difference.

Manhattan Winter, 2021

“Oye cawled in a prescription this morning,” Mrs. Emily Joule said in her thick Brooklyn accent. “Are the drugs ready?”

“Well, let’s take a look here,” Joel Fumpton, the mustachioed pharmacist replied. “Yeah, we have your statin drug, your metformin and your lisinopril.  We call those the three musketeers – you know cholesterol, diabetes and hypertension.  So many people are in that category.”

          “Look here, Mr. Frumpton,” she said.

          “It’s Fumpton,” he replied.

“I don’t care how your name is spelled, you don’t have to insult me with that remark!” she retorted. “You think I like having to take these fucking drugs?”

          “Please, Mrs. Joule.  Such language,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to come off snarky but it’s just that those medical conditions are so common. I probably fill that Rx probably 20 times a day.”

          “Well I didn’t like it, you fat slob,” she yelled.  Her IQ was in the red zone.         

Joel Fumpster was seething but decided he’d made enough mistakes during the conversation.  And who was she to make comments about my physical appearance?  Sure, I’ve put on some tonnage since the coronavirus reared its ugly head.  Most people have, he mused.  I’ve probably packed on an extra 20 pounds.  All those Baci chocolates!

But she should talk.  Her ass was wider than Broadway.   At age 65 she belied her age – she looked ten years older.  Fortunately, no one can see her mustache or smell her foul breath underneath the mask.  For several years Fumpton had been subjected to the halitosis and hirsutism.  Occupational hazard.     

New York City, the country’s jewel,  experienced a bad  2020.  The pandemic wreaked havoc on its inhabitants and institutions.  Bad governance, summertime riots, failing local businesses – especially restaurants—had taken its toll.  Mask wearing enforcement was  ubiquitous but enforcement arrived too late.  The nursing home fiasco caused many unnecessary deaths across New York State and especially in Manhattan.   

          Employees in the banking and financial industries had experienced the “new normal”: virtual work and accompanying isolation.  People weren’t commuting into the city; everything was done at home.  The city was dying due to a lack of tourism.  Nobody was dining in the posh restaurants.  Theatre business, movie-going ground to a halt.

The Irritability Quotient had become omnipresent.  A surly woman upbraiding a fish store employee, a Brooklyn harridan berating a pharmacist or a grumpy hiker are homely examples of a country physically and emotionally brought to its knees.   Levels of rage.  Vary and civility had been thrown out the window. 

          “So, what can be done about what’s happening to our city?” asked Jack De John, a local radio talk show host.  “How can we make people lighten up?”

De John was New York’s most popular radio celebrity.  His show was known for discussing the serious and mundane.  A philosophy major at New York University and former standup comic, he was always interjecting insult humor into his discussions.  Many of his guests were  entertainers  — actors, singers, television  celebrities —  enjoyed his Don Ricklesesque putdowns.  He had been a Borscht Belt comedian during the waning days of the Catskill comedy circuit.  And most surprising he was Italian, not Jewish.  His real name was Giacomo Di Coglione.

          On this particular day it was an open mike format.  Anyone could call the show.

          “Okay, we’ll be letting our audience answer the question,” he cheerfully said.  “Joey, from Queens, what’s on your mind?”

          “Yeah, Jack, you remember that movie ‘The Joker’?” a young man said. “He had a great line.  He said ‘What this city needs is a good enema’.  What do ya think?”

          “Are you thinking about mandatory prune juice or a Fleet for everyone in the city?” De John retorted.  “Maybe you’re right, Joey, we could ‘wipe’ the city clean of this crappy situation!”

          “Okay, who’s next?” he said. “Shelley from Scarsdale.  What’s on your mind?  How’s things in Westchester County?”

          “Things are great here,” she said. “The virus isn’t allowed in Westchester.  You know we’re special here.”

          “Well, that’s a given,” he replied. “I’ve always thought you people were aliens.  Nothing bad ever happens in Westchester.  Isn’t that right, Shelley?”         

“You’re absolutely right, Jack” she said. “But we’ve got a secret weapon here.  We’re all becoming Italians!  We’re hanging cured meats – proscuito, mortadella, and capacola – from the ceilings along with Parmigiana and  Mozzarella cheese balls.  And our secret weapon: garlic.   That stuff emits the evil eye.  We’re safe and well fed.”

          “Maybe it’s the garlic breath that’s making you guys virus proof, “ De John opined.     

As if on cue, the radio crew played The Tarantella and De John did his best Italian accent- “’Ey whatsa for you?  Meengia, what a bunch of stronzos!  Bafungool!”  He was able to revert to  his  strong Bay Ridge accent.

          Irritated Italian-Americans flooded the radio station with complaints from Queens to Bayside.  They called De John a racist and bigot, two overused terms during the past four years.  One wag said he’d drown De John in a vat of Progresso tomato sauce.  He’d be the meatball di tutti meatballs.

          “We’ve been getting some heat from the Italian community,” De John said.  “I was trying only to create levity.   You’ve probably heard this before but some of my best friends are Italian, including myself, Signore Di Coglione.”

Tucson, Arizona Fall, 2020

          “I can’t believe what this goddamned virus is doing to the ranch,” said Allen Falstaff, owner of the Twin Peaks Ranch.  “We’re  gettin’ cancellations every day.  And it’s our busiest season.”

Twin Peaks has been one of the most successful dude ranches in the Southwest. The busiest season was March through May 31 and before the Arizona heat becomes oppressive. Ranch guests vv normally arrived in droves from the East and Northern Midwest states. Thanks to Falstaff’s Norwegian daughter-in-law, the ranch had cultivated a European clientele. 2020 was the year when massive revenue was lost. Travel restrictions had decimated foreign visitor bookings.

Hot, sunny weather, horseback riding and relaxation had lost their allure. Through much of the spring season the infection infection rate was low compared to other regions. The image of staff and guests wearing those damned masks had Allen asking what’s wrong with this picture? The infection rate would increase as the year progressed. There were fewer bookings for the fall season and the image of employees wearing masks in the still hot months of September and October destroyed the dude ranch cachet.

“The guests are gonna arrive with untanned skin,” Allen said. “With those masks, they’ll leave with their faces having a bikini tan.”

Allen’s two sons, Steven and David, started brainstorming and  approached their father with a twist on mask usage.

“Dad, we think this will lessen the aggravation,” Steven said. “When the guests ride the horses, we’ll supply them with Twin Peaks bandanas.  We already practice social distancing – riders have to maintain a horse’s-length distance while riding in the desert.  The bandanas will make them look like the bad guys in old Western movies!”

“Hmm. That’s not a bad idea,” the father said. “But they’ll be hot as hell and you can’t walk around the ranch with those goddamned things.  They’ll have to resort to the regular blue masks.  The ranch is literally and figuratively awash in horseshit!”

Allen Falstaff

Like Mrs. Joule,  Allen’s I.Q. was in the red zone.

 State governments weren’t making life easier.  In the Northeast and California the shutdowns were killing businesses.  Restaurants were closing, many to never open again.  More waitstaff employees were losing jobs.  Governors were restricting hours of operation and seating capacities.  Such draconian measures had a ripple effect.  Food brokers and liquor distributers saw dramatic drops in sales.  The clothing industry was also feeling the effects.  People were working from home.  Who needs new suits or shirts?  Necktie sales plummeted.   Shoes costing $300-$500 weren’t selling.  People were working from home padded around in slipper and sweats.

And everybody’s Irritability Quotient reached epidemic numbers but hope appears to be near.  The massive Federal government push for vaccines has borne fruit.  Hopefully the nation will have a cure and perhaps by year’s end we’ll have conquered the curse and lowered everyone’s IQ.  Fish lady? Maybe not.  Some people are miserable with or without Covid 19.