A Hollywood Healing!

I may not be a psychotherapist, but I like to cure my patients’ psychoses whenever the opportunity arises. And I don’t do too badly for “winging it!”

This morning, I was stopped at the parking level entrance to my office, honking and flashing my lights at the red BMW in front of me. The driver had waited ‘til he drove all the way up to the ticket dispenser before he rolled down his window and stuck out his hand. Everybody knows you’re supposed to drive up with your hand already out the window, as it’s more efficient. Well, I was honking and flashing my lights and gunning my engine and yelling, “I’m late for my ten o’clock patient, you goon! Get out of my way!”

The driver stuck his head out the window, looked back at me and smiled a boyish smile. “Oh hello, Charles!”he called.

It was my 10 o’clock patient, an award-winning actor. “Hello Timothy,”I said. “How are you today? Think it’ll rain?”

“Golly,”he peeped, with a sideways tilt of his small, round head. “I sure hope not! I get awfully depressed when it rains. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Lot’s of people are like that, Timothy,”I said. “It’s your reaction to a shift in barometric pressure and it affects your brain chemistry. Don't worry about it.”

“Really?”he smiled hopefully.

“Yes,”I said. “Although you do have a tendency toward moodiness, so maybe it’s something we need to look at. It might have to do with the time your uncle fondled you and…”

A battered, old U-Haul exited from the opposite side of the gate, revving its motor loudly. Timothy looked at me, cupping his hand to his ear, as if to say, “Huh?”

I shouted louder this time, “It might have to do with the time your uncle fondled you! How’s the filming going on your new movie?” Four women carrying Clinique shopping bags stopped and gawked. “Move on, ladies!”I added, like the fierce protector that I am. “This is a private conversation!”

“It’s going just great, Charles!” Timothy called, as the U-Haul creaked away. “The director has no idea I’m sleeping with his wife!”

“That’s excellent!”I said proudly. I had realized early on that I could help Timothy by encouraging his self-exploration, and now he was making good progress. Two more ladies passed by with Clinique bags stuffed full of goodies. “And how’s the bed wetting, Timothy?”I said.

One woman mouthed these words to the other: “He wets his bed?!”

“Keep moving, ladies!”I shouted, leaning out the window and waving my hands.

Timothy’s eyes brightened and he craned his neck. “Oh my God, I forgot to tell you, I've almost completely stopped wetting! Those electroshock treatments you sent me for, they seem to be kicking in! I wasn’t so sure at first!”

“Excellent,”I said. Was there a sale at the Clinique counter that I didn’t know about? Three more women passed by with shopping bags ready to burst.

Timothy’s face darkened. “The only problem is, I get ringing in my ears and sometimes I forget where I am. And I’m having trouble remembering my lines.”

I waved reassuringly. “Don’t worry, dear boy. That’ll pass. It affects everybody differently. By the way, who is the President of the United States?”

He paused for a moment. “Gosh, I ... I ... I don’t remember!”

“Well,”I called, “I want you to think about it and tell me, the next time you come for your session. That’s your homework. I believe that just about covers it for today, Timothy!”

He smiled brightly. “Boy, we covered a lot, didn’t we?” he said.

“Yes we did,”I said. “Now pull that ticket from the machine, OK? Do a U-turn and then drive out, and they won’t charge you when you leave. I’ll see you next week at the same time.”

“But I wanted to ask you---”he started.

“That’s all we should work on today, “I said. “I don’t want to overload you.”Besides, there was obviously a sale going on at the Clinique counter and I had 40 minutes to check it out before my next patient showed up. I was almost completely out of T-Zone Shine Control. Who knew when it would go on sale again?

“Huh? Well OK, Charles. I’ll see you next week. Bye bye! And thank you!”Timothy drove off.

“Be good, be well, be safe!”I said. I’ve been trying out different send-offs and I kind of like that one. It seems to cover it all!

Electroshock for Outed Actor

Über-Agent stood at her office window this morning, gazing through wispy clouds, high up in Century City, and asked herself, “How can I torture Chuck today?” Then, crushing a Red Bull between her breasts, she picked up the phone.

“Chuck, my boy,” came her raspy voice, “I’m sending my client to you for emergency acupuncture. The tabloids have gotten wind that he’s been picking guys up from Craigslist, and we simply can’t have this foolishness. It puts his marriage in a bad light and my job in jeopardy.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Well, I sent him for Heterosexual Recovery Therapy yesterday. He did a session several years ago, but it must have worn off. Anyway, it's electroshock and it left him loopy so I need you to get him back in focus for his media tour.”

“You mean there's a shrink in L.A. who will do that procedure?” I said.

“Who said shrink? It's a buddy of mine with an electro-shock machine and a Playgirl calendar.”

“A buddy?” I said.

“Okay, my mechanic,” said Über-Agent.

“How did your mechanic get a hold of--”

“Craigslist, okay? You gonna help?”

Forty five minutes later, a handsome actor, well-known for his swagger and cheeky bravado, shuffled into my office, pulled by his tiny wife. He looked pale, confused, unsteady.

“Please sit,” I said. “Your agent tells me you’re a little bit out of focus. Is that true?”

The actor looked at his wife, with her sparrow print blouse and primly crossed ankles and long, denim skirt. Then he turned his bloodshot eyes my way and cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Forgetful.”

“That must be annoying,” I said.

“And how! I put two backstage passes for Cher in my jacket pocket yesterday and now I can’t find them.”

“Backstage for Cher?” I said, wondering how he scored those tickets. “I looove Cher!”

“Oh, me too!” he said.

“You’ve got to find those tickets!” I said.

“Or I’ll just die! If I could only remember!” he said.

“If you could turn back time!” I said.

“If I could turn back time! If I could find a way...!” This musical snippet from the immortal Cher repertoire sprang out of us and hung like a storm cloud over his wife, who said:

“Oh dear god,” and stared miserably at a pineapple boba stain Delphinia had left on the carpet and which will be deducted from her paycheck.

“What else?” I said.

“I can't seem to 'get it up' for the life of me,” he said. “It's very frustrating. For my wife.”

“Did you try staring at a picture of Cher?” I said. “That always works for me.”

“Oh boy!” he said. “Wasn't she was fabulous at the 2010 VMAs?”

“I'll say!” I said.

“There she was in that iconic black jacket and the sheer body stocking with glitter scattered just everywhere!” And the wig, oh my god, I thought I'd die when I saw that fabulous—oh-oh!” He patted his groin merrily and winked. “I believe I've just given myself a you-know-what!”

I was pleased that his libido was returning, although his wife didn't seem very encouraged. She frowned at the boba stain and mumbled. “We're ruined.” I wondered if electroshock and an Audubon calendar would cure her mood.

I gave the actor an encouraging smile. “I believe acupuncture can help you.”

“Oh?”

“I've got experience in this area,” I said.

“Great. And I've got you babe!” he said

“People say your hair's too long!” I said.

“Let's start this treatment!” he said.

“Then we'll go find those Cher tickets!” I said.

“A-hem,” said his wife, and stood up. “Does that window open wide enough for me to climb out?”

“No,” I said.

“Well then, do you have a knife or something I can kill myself with?”

Pleased that she was at last joining in the fun, I said, “If you go look in the kitchen you’ll find one, but I think they’re all plastic. But you know, Delphinia hasn’t cleaned the fridge out in six months, so anything you eat in there would probably do the trick.”

As she wandered out the door, her husband turned to me and slapped my knee. “You're such fun!” he said.

“No you are!” I said, already anticipating a successful treatment.

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“No you are!”

“And the beat goes on!”

Über-Agent Pays in Cupcakes

Commando is a well-known, über-agent with a roster of clients that stretches from here to Betty Ford.

“Everything about me is über, Chuck,” she once bragged, kissing her own bicep.

This seemed an odd remark for a woman with a $20 flat-top from Supercuts, but I soon learned Commando speaks the language of extremes. And so, she’s just as likely to proclaim a client’s snobby, little art house flick, “The Most Ground-Breaking Film of the Past Fifty Years,” as she is likely to proclaim her coke-head tattoo guy, “The Greatest Portrait Artist Since Rembrandt.”

I was emergency-called to Commando’s Century City office today and was greeted by her latest assistant, a terrorized, young woman with frizzy, brown hair and a Band Aid stuck on her forehead. There was no point learning her name, I could see that. As any Industry assistant can tell you, when your boss throws a fit, your job is secure; when your boss throws a Brancusi, your days are numbered.

Commando roared from her inner office, “Get in here, Charles! Stick some pins in me quick, before my damn head explodes!”

Commando had kicked off her boots and lay on her sofa, looking up at me. “Ya know, Chuck, the pressure of this adoption is making me insane. It’s very stressful!”

“I didn’t know you’re adopting,” I said.

“Oh you bet I am, Chuck. And you’re the one who inspired me. There you are, a single parent -- I wouldn’t call your friend Myron a fully committed partner -- who manages to juggle career and fatherhood successfully. And what a great kid you’ve got. What the hell’s her name, anyway?”

Commando was referring to my daughter Meryl, who entered my life during an Oscars party five years ago. My caterer had brought along a woman skilled in the production of unbearably greasy baba-ganoush, which was bad enough, but then the woman ended up giving birth under my chocolate fountain just as Annette Bening was cheated out of Best Actress by Hilary Swank.

The woman begged me to keep the baby till Thursday while she arranged for friends to come get it, as her husband didn’t want any more kids. That was five years ago. My caterer later confessed the woman had rejoined her family in some remote Indian village, which makes me wonder: why baba-ganoush? Isn’t that Greek? In any case, while I’ve accepted the role of father, I know little Meryl’s mother could show up at any moment looking for her kid and wondering why I named her after “The Most Versatile Actress of the Past Fifty Years.” So I try not to get too attached to the little cupcake muncher in the flowered pinafore.

As I swabbed Commando with alcohol she unleashed a deep sigh. “Is it fun being a parent?” she said.

“That depends on whether you enjoy waking up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep because of all the crying. Your own crying.”

“Well, it would be worth it to me,” she said, lacing her fingers together and resting them on her stomach. “It’s for my job. It’s all about the nanny network. You could stick a few more needles in my scalp and I wouldn’t complain.”

“I see,” I said.

The nanny network, in case you didn’t already know, is more powerful than any other professional network in L.A. The idea is this: you enroll your child in the best school and on the best teams and then throw parties for your kid at every opportunity. The really important families will send their nannies along with the kids. During the fun-making, your nanny sits in the kitchen with the other nannies, where they all pump each other for gossip on behalf of their employers. More than a few Hollywood deals have been incubated in the nanny network.

“Parenthood is more trouble than you think,” I said. “I’m here to warn you.”

Commando rolled her head to one side and gazed out the window, up at the sky. Then she turned to me. “So, what if I just borrow your kid once in a while? She could pretend to be my daughter and I’d give parties for her at my place. I’d pay you for the favor. There’s some potential clients whose kids are taking acting classes on the West Side. I’ll enroll her in those classes and then give some parties and invite everybody. She could pull it off, right? You keep telling me what a great actor she is. And who knows, maybe I could sign her with the agency, if she’s any good.”

There was no point pretending. “Yes,” I said “she is a great actress. You should see her Blanche DuBois, her Lady MacBeth, her Joan of Arc. Playing the part of your daughter would be a cinch.”

“You know,” said Commando wrinkling her freckled nose, “my headache is all of a sudden gone! You’re a genius for thinking of this. Bring your kid to my place next Saturday and I’ll enroll her in acting school. I’ve already written you a check for the favor.”

“She’d enjoy that,” I said, pulling out the pins. “I’ll put the money toward her Yale Drama School fund.” Commando handed me a check. It was for twenty five dollars. Okay then … toward cupcakes.

File Under: Conservative Values Applied Liberally

Mrs. X is the wife of a nationally syndicated Conservative TV host (you can’t avoid him!).  She came to my office this morning with a serious problem: she caught her husband cheating. She had read his text messages and was terribly upset.

Mrs. X needed to talk before her acupuncture treatment.  She sat on my sofa, crossed her lovely, toned legs and wiped away a tear.  She said, “I was so surprised when I found that romantic message on my husband's phone, I nearly fainted!”

"What I’m hearing,” I said, “is that in the process of snooping around on your husband's cell phone, you were shocked to find exactly what you expected.”

Mrs. X said, “This is unforgivable behavior from a man who lectures to the entire nation about Family Values!”

"What I’m hearing," I said, "is that you can’t tolerate him being a complicated and imperfect human being."

Mrs. X stared at her shoes and frowned.  They were gold buckled Gucci pumps from three seasons ago and frankly, I would have frowned too.  She said, “And worst of all, he’s been carrying on with our nanny.  How unimaginative!”

"What I’m hearing," I said, burping up a delicious risotto con fungi porcini from Il Cielo, “is that you had hoped your husband would show more imagination than you do.  By the way, are you still carrying on with your pool boy?”

“What?” she said, hearing me for the first time. “What did you say, Charles?”

“I said, how is it going with you and the pool boy?”

“Oh Jesus!” she said.  “Thanks for reminding me! I’m supposed to meet him at the house at one o’clock.  I’m giving him a brand new BMW and I need to get there early to surprise him. Gotta run! Sorry!”  She stood up and bolted out the door, tossing a wad of cash my way.

“Take your time!“ I called to her, hoping Mrs. X wouldn’t get to the house too terribly early. I'd hate for her to catch the pool boy with the nanny.

File Under: Vixen, Vodka, Violence, Etc.

A young vixen from a big-screen, sci-fi three-parter called today for an appointment. After reading this blog she decided I could help with her knee, which had been twisted while skiing.

“I’ll do my best,” I said. “Acupuncture might help.”

“And will you write something wonderful about me afterwards on your blog?” she asked, coyly.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But I don’t use names.”

She said it sounded like fun and could she come right over.  I said yes, which meant that I’d have to forego taking Meryl to “Revenge of Kitty Galore.”

Nanny tells me little Meryl was disappointed that I missed her Show & Tell last week, but Meryl seems fine to me. In fact, when I came home last night the little prodigy recited Katherine Hepburn’s rousing second-act monologue from “Long Day's Journey Into Night,” the one where Mary Tyrone chastises her husband for his thoughtlessness and throws her teacup across the room, only Meryl was holding a glass of milk, so it went flying (another stain on my chinchilla throw!).   Anyway, Nanny thinks I should spend more time with the kid, hence the movie date. What’s more, when I have my meeting next week with Meryl’s teacher, Miss Feather, I need to tell her I’m an attentive parent without it making my eye twitch, which always happens when I exaggerate.

Now I’m going to tell you something I probably shouldn’t which is that I think that I’m an OK dad--despite what anybody thinks--especially considering I didn’t ask for the job and had only seen the kid’s mother in passing (see July 8).  In fact, my caterer Cecile perpetrated a nasty trick if you ask me, leaving the baby in my care after her employee gave birth at my Oscars party. What happened to the kid’s mom, I'd like to know?  Cecile says she probably returned to India but we may never find out. Soon after the baby was left in my care, Cecile sent an Indian nanny for me to interview, and she’s been with us ever since. I’m always mindful that little Meryl's mother might show up and take her back. So why should I get overly attached to someone who could be legally swiped from under my nose?

In the meantime, sci-fi Vixen needed help with her ligaments. “Come right over,” I told her. “I‘ll try to help.” I called Myron and instructed him to take Meryl to the movie.  Myron isn’t busy.  He’s waiting anxiously for his next assignment, which is sure to be a big one, judging by the harrowing test he endured with the fake diamonds (see June 29).  Myron refers to himself as an Investment Specialist to the Film Trade but really, smuggler is more like it.

Vixen said she was nearby and would show up in twenty minutes. Half an hour later, she called to say she was forced to stop at Judith Lieber when a pair of jeweled violet sunglasses in the window practically screamed out, “Take me with you!”

“I simply had to have them!” Vixen gushed. “I’m sure you understand!” She begged me in her well-practiced baby voice to wait another fifteen minutes, which I agreed to do.  Twenty minutes later she called to say she was absolutely famished and had stopped La Scala for a quick vodka penne, where she was deluged with paparazzi.  Could I possibly wait another twenty minutes, “pwitty pwease?”

I was about to suggest we reschedule our appointment when a man’s rough voice came on the line. “Hello?” he said. “Who is this?”

“The acupuncturist,” I said, hoping it wasn't a jealous boyfriend that had grabbed her phone. “We're just making an appointment for--”

“Sir, I’m sorry but she’s in a rehab facility right now and the afternoon therapy group has already started. She’ll have to call you back later.” I could hear Vixen screaming and cursing in the background and then the phone clicked off. I thought to myself, if I hurry home I can get Meryl to the movie in time, but then I remembered that Myron’s got it covered. And anyway: Penne? Vodka? Why not.

File under: Lapdog, Hand That Feeds You, Etc.

A welter of screen writers blew through my office this week, leaving behind a trail of flattened Red Bull cans and the cloying scent of “Why Me?” This wasn’t surprising: patients often move in herds. One week I may treat a half dozen producers from the Paramount lot and the next a swarm of deposed Bulgarian royalty and their jeweled lapdogs. You never know.

But this week it was writers. William the screenwriter pretty much crawled into my Westside treatment studio today, complaining of depression, shoulder pain, wrist pain and an overpowering sense of doom. He set his leather satchel on a chair and climbed onto the treatment table, folding his slender legs into half-lotus. His clothes were so threadbare and his shoes in such despair that I decided to give him his treatment free of charge. 

From under long, dark, curly, unwashed hair, William sent me a bloodshot, hound dog look. “I’m in an abusive relationship,” he said, sipping his energy drink.

“Oh?” I said, sanitizing my hands and opening a box of needles, then sanitizing my hands again.

“That’s right,“ he said. "But that‘s to be expected! Hollywood has always abused writers and it always will. It denigrates us and leaves us feeling worthless. We’re the lowest caste of society."

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“My agent destroyed my script! It was the beautiful story of a young mute girl in an Irish orphanage at the turn of the century, a girl with psychic abilities.”

“How did your agent destroy your work?” I said.

“She had me change the girl to a boy, switch Ireland to a ghetto in Brazil, and made me change her special talent to soccer. And for what?!”

“I understand your frustration,” I said.

“Do you?” he said.

“This kind of crap happens all the time in this town,” I said. “So now, after all your hard work, after all the concessions you’ve made, you’ve got nothing, not even a promise. You toil all day on your writing project, then you go to your waitering job in the evening, barely scratching out a living,

“Not exactly,” he said, sadly. “We sold the script. The movie’s being made. Big names attached. Would you like to see a picture of my new Lexus?”

"You mean you're crying about abuse even though you've sold the script, and probably sold it for a fortune?" I was getting irritated.

He shifted nervously.  "Well, yeah.  But I mean it's about the principle of the thing.  The way I see it, life is over in the barest blink of an eye, so we might as well be appreciated and compensated fairly for our talents, don't you agree?

"Now that you mention it," I said, "I guess you're right." And in the barest blink of an eye, my rate went back up.

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.