File Under: Arc for Art's Sake

It was six p.m. and I needed a sugar fix so I jumped in my car and headed toward Vanilla Bakery on Wilshire.  Making my way through traffic, I got a creepy feeling and it grew creepier and creepier, like disembodied fingers massaging my neck.  And as I pulled up to Vanilla I realized the reason: I was being followed.  A black Escalade with tinted windows and blinding hi-beams had been close on my tail for the past six blocks and as I backed into a parking spot by the curb, it sidled up next to my car.

This, I thought, is not a good thing.

Then I remembered Myron’s suspicion that his new bosses were following him around in black BMWs. I had assumed this was the paranoid delusion of a man who had missed his matutinal meds, but it turned out he was right. After all, Myron is now in the business of escorting valuable goods into the U.S. for the purpose of underwriting film projects. Why shouldn’t the bosses put a tail on him and his friends? I called Myron on his cell phone but it went to voice mail so I called the house. His grouchy Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny answered.

“No, Meester Charles,” she wheezed, “Meester Myron is not here. He vas called avay dis afternoon. He is having a meeting with der hoodlums he now vorks for.  I hef not met these people but the whole ting smells bad, very bad. Like donkey goulash.  Very bad smell, yah! Smell is bad, taste is worse. If offered, do not eat!”

“I’ll remember that, the next time I’m at Spago,” I said.  If Myron’s goons were following me around, it probably wasn’t to get my autograph.  But since I had nothing to hide, there was nothing to worry about.  I opened my door and as I did the front passenger window of the SUV slid down.

“Mister Yarborough,” came a woman’s stern voice.  It was Miss Feather, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher. “Mister Yarborough, come here,” she commanded.  I went up to the window, half relieved and half anxious.  I had blown off our parent/teacher meeting again last week after promising to change my ways and become an “involved” parent.  And now, since I had ignored her numerous calls, she had gotten in her car and followed me. With gray hair pulled together and choked into a bun atop her head, Miss Feather sat primly in her seat, shooting disdain over the rim of her glasses. “Come closer,” she said. “We need to talk!” I came closer and, no sooner had I set my hands on the door when she swatted my knuckles with two great cracks of a wooden ruler.

“That’s for your unexcused absence on Friday,” she said.

“But Miss Feather, I had to go to a very important--”

“No excuses!” she said. “I expect to see you in my classroom at 5 p.m. sharp, next Friday for our parent/teacher meeting. Understood? Are you aware that your daughter showed up at school dressed as Joan of Arc this week and started a bonfire in the trash can?”

“She did?" I said.  "What’s wrong with that?  We all started fires as kids.”

“At your reform school?”

How did she know about that, I wondered.  “Look, it’s just a little trash can fire,” I said.

Miss Feather’s face grew red. “She was standing in it at the time.”

Damn, I thought.  What a towering talent!  Meryl is only five years old and she’s already got Method Acting down cold.  Yale Drama School will be lucky to have her.  “Okay,” I said, pulling back from Miss Feather and heading toward Vanilla.  “I’ll see you on Friday.”

“You’d better.”

Brilliant, I thought, brilliant.  Meryl gets a bourbon cupcake and fifty bucks for this one.

File Under: Arab Princess, Peppy, Pins

I had just stuck a dozen pins in the Arab princess when somebody called out my name. It was the mailman, standing in the waiting room. He had a certified delivery, a scented, orange envelope addressed in large, childlike letters.

“Take this quick,” sneezed the man, waving the envelope at me. “I’ve got chemical sensitivity and this thing is toxic!”

It contained a letter from Miss Feather, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher, scribbled on pink paper.  “Dear Mr. Yarborough,” it said, “I look forward to our parent/teacher conference this Friday. May I suggest you actually show up this time?  Despite your previous behavior and whatever limits of imagination you possess, I believe you are capable of grasping the importance of your participation in the education of your child.” Well, BLA BLA BLA it went, ending in this directive:

“For our meeting, you will need to bring two #2 pencils, sharpened. Pens are not allowed and will be confiscated.  A snack will not be provided, so eat a hearty breakfast.  If you need to make pee-pee during our meeting you will have to hold it, so I suggest you plan your morning accordingly.  Lastly, may I suggest you pack up your peppiest attitude and display it enthusiastically upon arrival? Anything less than a peppy disposition will trigger severe consequences.  Cordially, Miss Feather”

Maybe it was my imagination, but I didn’t see anything cordial in that letter. Still, I knew I’d better show up for our meeting since I had missed a few here and there and our last rendezvous (see July 17) didn’t go so well, due to her being a jerk (If she reads this, there’ll probably be severe consequences).

Now it was the Arab princess’ turn to call out my name. “Charles,” she cried hoarsely, “come quickly!”

I ran into the treatment room to find a bent pin protruding from her outer ear.  Pulling it out, I asked what had happened, although I knew the answer. She had, despite my warning, decided to talk on her cell phone.

Now here’s the deal with Arab princesses that I've met: they’re used to being surrounded by domestic servants and--until you prove you are otherwise--they will regard you as such. This means that if you tell them not to talk on the cell phone during their acupuncture treatment, they’re going to do it anyway. The other side of the equation is this: once they trust you and understand that they’re getting good value for the money, they are the most faithful and generous patrons you could hope for.

“You pushed that pin in with your cell phone, Princess,” I said.

“I know, I know, I know,” she said, waving away my accusation with the back of her hand. “Take these out. I’m done for today.”

Now it was the Chniese delivery guy’s turn to call out my name. Well, It wasn’t my name he was calling out, exactly. It was, “Shrim fry rye, shrim fry rye! I gottee shrim fry rye!”  My lunch had arrived. I paid him and went back to the princess and finished removing her pins.

“Mmmmm,” she said, seductively batting her large, dark eyes. “Shrimp fried rice sounds delicious.”

“Well then,” I said, with my peppiest disposition, “I think you should have it.”

As she walked out the door I handed her the aromatic package and--as she was used to getting whatever she wanted--she took it without a word of thanks, tossing a wad of bills on my desk.  Well, I thought, we all have our own way of expressing gratitude, some better than others.  And hers is pretty good.

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: Twigs, Trauma, Tranny, Nanny

I’ve been in Atlanta for the past two days, helping a film director in distress. I had treated him successfully a year ago in L.A. for sciatica and now he was experiencing cramps, vomiting, nausea and “the runs.” He was also in the middle of a big-budget shoot. The director refused to take medication, so the studio flew me in and put me up at the Four Seasons overnight (How will the accountants code that?).

At first I thought the director’s ailment might be stress-related. He complained that the star of his film--a gentleman with a well-publicized history of "eccentric behavior" (code for major drug habit)--had just gotten out of rehab. The star was medicated beyond the ability to give the necessary high-powered, comic performance. Worse yet, whenever the director took the star aside to give him notes, the star’s posse came along, vetoing all his suggestions.

Anyway, I figured out that his nausea, vomiting, etc. started when he commenced an affair with a Puerto Rican tranny named Jezebel, whom he was keeping in a hotel room adjacent to his own and who was dressing the director up in diapers and feeding him milk from a bottle. I suspected the director’s ailments were due to lactose intolerance, so I told Jezebel to give him soy milk instead. Problem solved!

When I got home, Nanny was standing inside the door wearing a yellow sari and a frown. “Why gone so long, Master Charles?” she said sternly. “Do you know that you missed your daughter’s Show & Tell yesterday? I went in your place and made up a lie about your absence. I told them you had jury duty. But the teacher, Miss Feather, didn't believe me. I don’t think she likes you very much! She wants to have another meeting with you.”

“I had no choice," I said. "Working is the way I keep this household together (code for lay off). How did Meryl's presentation go?  Has Myron come by? He doesn’t answer my texts. His producers’ meeting is this afternoon.”

“Haven't heard from him,” said Nanny, wringing a hand towel like it was my neck. “And Meryl’s Show & Tell went very well for her, but even better for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” I said.

“She recited a poem in French that I taught her. It was by Verlaine.  I was so proud of her!  While all the other children had brought their parents' Golden Globes and AA medallions, Meryl brought a poem.”

“And so, why did this go better for me?” I asked.

“Well, I’ll translate for you from the French. The poem goes: ‘Here are some fruits, some flowers and some leaves…’ As she mentioned each object she took it out of her Madame Chocolat box. She took out a tangerine, a daisy and then a twig.”

“Yeah, so?” I said.

“The next line was: 'and here is my heart, that beats only for you.' When she said the word, heart, she took from her box a diamond as big as a pine cone and--”

“She’s got the diamonds?!” I said. “But you put them out by the curb!”

“She had found them and was keeping them under her bed.”

“She found them? And nobody looked under her bed for a whole week? Aren't you supposed to search your kid's room regularly for dope?”

“She’s only five years old,” said Nanny. “And she’s your child, not mine.”

I texted Myron: “Found diamonds.”

He texted me: “Thank God!” (code for Thank God!)
**********************************************************************
                                                                                                  Photo: Craig Russell

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.