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?"
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?"
