File under: Fanny, Fishy, Kahlua, Calamity

Myron may have recovered his lost diamonds in time for the producers’ pow-wow but that didn’t leave him with a more positive outlook on life. Instead it served as a reminder that God can bestow calamity upon anybody and at any time.

“Why me?” whimpered Myron, curling up on his chrome Baleri Italia chaise and staring out at the afternoon ocean from the deck of his 2.3 million dollar pied a terre. “Why am I so unfortunate? And where is that girl with my drink?!”

His sullen Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny, wobbled out the door, carrying a tall, pink drink on a tiny silver tray. Fanny is a squat, grumpy woman in her sixties with doughy features and a wide, lumpy torso that resembles an engine block. She dresses herself in a black skirt, white blouse and a ruffled white apron with indelible yellow stains.  If you look hard enough, you might find a tiny white kerchief folded into the unruly tumbleweed of her coif.

“Here. Drink,” she wheezed, holding the tray under Myron's chin. “Thees might make you feel better, but probably not. Enjoy it, if you can! Ah, but you probably won’t. But try anyway. Vypit, Myron. That means drink up in my country. Vypit. Life is short. Drink up while you may. Tomorrow, who knows, eh? Tomorrow: boom!”

Myron sipped the drink, a frothy mix of vanilla Haagen-Dazs, Kahlua and Pepto-Bismol. Or as he calls it: dinner.

“Cheers,” I said, sipping an absinthe and lighting a new Camel from an old one.

“The most horrifying part of it all,” said Myron, “is that those diamonds were fake.”

“Agh!” said Fanny, who wasn’t supposed to be part of the conversation and didn’t even know what we were talking about. “Well, it figures, yah!”

“How did you find out, Myron?” I said.

“They told me when I showed up at the studio. There were execs and a couple of scary looking thug-types and they were all sitting around a big table. When I set the diamonds down, an exec picked one up and examined it. Then he said, ‘This is fake!’ Well, I nearly had a heart attack but then they all started laughing. You see, as it turns out, this job I did was a test. They wanted to see if I could be trusted! They’ve got new equity and new suppliers. There are new avenues for revenue and they want me to get more deeply involved.”

“You mean more dangerously involved,“ I said.

Fanny gurgled. “Don’t like the sound of it, Myron. Not good. Is shady.”

I hated to say it--so I didn’t--but Fanny was right.

File under: Chocolate Oreo, Cherry Orchard, etc.

When I got home from the clinic today I noticed my yard had been completely dug up by Myron, in a desperate search for those three lost diamonds (See June 29). Fortunately my yard consists of gravel and cactus and a few belligerent weeds that needed yanking anyway and an iron jockey that came with the place and whose face and hands I painted pink out of racial sensitivity. In other words: no big deal.

When I got inside, Nanny called to me from the kitchen. “Master Charles,” she said with her Punjabi accent, “You are just in time for dinner! No smoking in the house! Meryl, my darling, go set a place for your father at the table!”

“Yes, Nanny,” came little Meryl’s squeaky voice, but instead of setting the table she ran into the foyer and wrapped her arms around my thigh. “Dadeeeeee!” she sang. I handed her a small box filled with chocolate-covered Oreos from Madame Chocolat in BH. “Yipeee!“ she said, squeezing the box to her heart. “Guess what, Daddy, I got the monologue all memorized! Do you wanna hear it?”

“Sure,” I said. “But you need to do it with that floppy hat I got you. The one with the faded rose. Otherwise it doesn't make sense.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she chirped. “I’ll go get it!” and she skipped off to her room, ripping into her cookie box.

“Would you care for vindaloo, Master Charles?” called Nanny from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I said, going in.

Nanny wraps herself in an endless collection of silk saris in intoxicating colors. Today’s sari was so purple I could practically taste the grapes. She looked up from the pot of curry rice she was stirring. “You know,“ she said, “Mister Myron spent the whole morning digging up your yard. He was very much agitated and I don’t think he has great fondness for me these days. Not since I put the diamonds out by the curb. How was I to know they belonged to him? I was only emptying out Meryl’s lunch box!”

“Nanny, I’ve told you before it’s not your fault,” I said. “Myron will figure out a way around it. He always does.” Just then a text came across my cell phone. It said: "Chas, if I don’t find those diamonds before the producers’ meeting on Friday, I will proceed to undisclosed location. Fear for life!” Fear might appropriate, considering Hollywood's liberal use of armed gentlemen formerly employed by the Soviet government. Luckily, Myron’s got a tsunami shelter under his home, complete with screening room and popcorn machine, a dozen cases of Pepto-Bismol and enough Valium to last 'til first-responders dig him out from under the mud. If the Russians come a-courtin', that's where he'll be. 

I sat down on the sofa. Little Meryl came twirling into the room wearing a big, straw hat with a pink rose pinned to it. “Listen, Daddy! Listen!” she cried, munching an Oreo. "Are you ready?" She made a wide, heroic stance, just as I taught her, and embarked on a monologue I had chosen from “The Cherry Orchard.” It was a melancholy speech by the sad and delusional Madame Ranevsky, and little Meryl performed it with such a profound understanding of loss and a feel for the futility of self-delusion and the inexorable erosion of the milestones of our lives by the unrelenting march of time, that it nearly tore my heart to shreds. Then she put her hand out for fifty dollars since that’s what I pay for Chekov and Shakespeare, forty for Billy Wilder.

Nanny, who was standing in the doorway, clapped her hands. “Splendid, young lady. Now take off that apron and come eat your dinner. And save those Oreos for dessert. Master Charles, dinner is served. By the way, will you be showing up for Show-and-Tell on Friday? Yes, I hope? I have helped Meryl to prepare something very special.”

I got up and made my way to the dining table. “Sure,” I yawned. “Why not.”

Nanny came close, slowly brushing my chin with the back of her hand, and purred, “I know you think she's too smart for kindergarten but perhaps you could show a little enthusiasm, Master Charles?”

"Whoopde-do." I yawned. "Why not?"

File under: Meryl, Yale Drama, Gingham Loaves

“Mr. Yarborough, have you heard a single word I’ve said?” asked obese Miss Feather. Yesterday was parent-teacher day at my daughter Meryl's private school on the Westside and, since I’d unthinkingly given Nanny the day off, I was forced to attend in her place. Sunlight was angling through the classroom windows, spilling onto orange and green and yellow bulletin boards. And there sat Miss Feather with her dingy, disheveled hair, pasty features and creepily nurturing manner, looking way too much like Kathy Bates in “Misery.” What did she keep in those apron pockets, I wondered. Gummy Bears and a stun gun?

“Of course I heard you, Miss Feather,” I said, prying my eyes open. “Meryl is a good kid, that’s what you said. And I’m very proud of her. And you’re an excellent teacher, one of the very best in North America, and we’re extremely privileged to have you in our midst.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” said Miss Feather, shifting from one gingham loaf to the other. “What I’m saying is that your daughter Meryl is exhibiting behavior that is commonly associated with…”

I glanced out the window at a shady tree with fiery red blossoms like lobster claws. In fact, thought I, that might be the name of said tree. The lobster tree. Yes. And beyond that--holding up a garden portico--were four Roman columns, blindingly white in the too-damn-early-in-the-morning sun. What, I pondered thoughtfully, is the difference between Ionic and Corinthian anyway? Would Miss Feather know? And what about cumulo-nimbus?

"…because Meryl has worn her Halloween costume to school every day since October, Mr. Yarborough. Surely you’ve seen her in her purple sari and foil headdress? Does she refer to herself as The Goddess Lakshmi at home? We’re certain this attention-seeking behavior originates from her need to feel…" she yammered.

And what about Myron, I thought. His attention seeking-behavior is completely out of control, too. I might have to “up” his Valium. Yesterday he said he hears clicks on his phone, that it’s bugged, and wherever he goes, he’s followed by a black-windowed Bentley. If he doesn’t show up with those diamonds at next Saturday's’s meeting with the producers, he says, his life will be worthless. I assured him the producers would take an IOU (That’s how Hollywood runs! Movies never show a profit anyway!!) but I don’t think he was listening.

“…and so if you will come to school and watch our Show-and-Tell hour on Thursday,” Miss Feather continued, “it would be very helpful to Meryl psychologically. Will you commit to that?”

How, I wondered, will Show-and-Tell prepare Meryl for Yale Drama School? Answer: it won’t!

“Will you commit to showing up for it?” said Miss Feather, standing up, grasping my hand and stepping on my foot. “Well, will you?”

“Of course I'd be delighted,” I said, pulling away. “And what joy our little chat has brought me.” I slipped a roll of hundreds--seven of them--into her palm. “I'm sure you've noticed Meryl is much too bright for kindergarten, so if you’d see to it that she gets all A’s, I’d be very grateful. We need a full scholarship to Yale Drama and I hear they look at the student’s whole history. I'm hoping her mother will appear somewhere down the line to claim her kid but I ain't counting on it!”

“Mr. Yarborough,” said Miss Feather, coldly, “this is kindergarten. We do not give out letter grades in kindergarten and if we did, we certainly would not accept bribes from parents.”

“That’s not a bribe, that’s a tip. But suit yourself, sister. I‘ll just take it back.” I put out my hand.

“No you won’t,” she said. “I’ll bring this to the principal and we’ll use it for art supplies. The school graciously accepts your donation.”

“Oh yeah?" I said. "Well maybe I don't want the school to ‘accept’ my donation.”

“Well, maybe we’re going to ‘accept’ it anyway,” she said.

“Well maybe I’ll just have to ‘accept’ it right back from you,” I said.

“Well, maybe I’d like to see you try,” she said, stepping forward.

“Well, maybe I’ll just---hey,” I said, pointing out the window, “isn’t that a cumulo-nimbus?”

“What?” she said, turning to look, which she shouldn’t have. I ‘accepted’ the bills and ran.