by Commander SLOAFnow
Every time she needed a good excuse she would get on the phone to Miss Topanga Byrd. Back in the third grade at Macmillan Elementary was the first time that Harriet, or Cookie as she came to be called, needed a good excuse. She forgot the biggest day of her life, the sole reason for going to school, the long-awaited cathartic release of all those tense, grueling hours of clothes shopping with her Aunt Celina. Harriet forgot Picture Day, maybe the only day worth living for in America’s post-Vietnam era.
She came to school dressed in cruddy, unwashed overalls, a yellow Los Angeles Rams tee-shirt, a torn green sweater, purple socks that had lost their elasticity in the cuffs and hung flaccidly around her ankles, mud-stained shoes and finally, a pin which read “I’m not strange–YOU are” that she wore in an ironic gesture.
It didn’t take long for Harriet to figure out that today was Picture Day. She received many unsympathetic, chuckling stares from the kids in the hall. They were all dressed beautifully in ornate clothing arrangements that spoke of the innumerable hours of deliberations, tears and suffering which always accompanied a day like this.
You see, the third grade’s Picture Day was widely believed to have begun the financially successful careers of many well-respected citizens, such as: Skinny Eddie, the Hungarian born master pianist; Webster Macmillan, the homegrown civic watchdog reporter; Anders Frieze, the owner of the Los Angeles Rams; and even my brother, Kenneth, the internationally acclaimed canine chiropractor.
All the third grade students in the country were looking their best today, as they had been doing since 1975. 22 years earlier, and pioneered by Henry Fjord’s grandson, Harvard University began a new and experimental population study entitled “Aryans in America.” In an interview last year with Henry Fjord’s grandson, Timothy, he explained to Webster Macmillan that he “simply wanted to see if there really were any Aryans over here, and whether or not their parents would send [him] a photo.” The university’s sociology department sent out requests to every American family for photographs of their children from the third grade. An accompanying letter claimed that the photographs would be used in conjunction with the F.B.I., in an effort to prevent crimes against children.
It was sometime in 1975 that the study became what it is today. Somehow it had earned an unadvertised-50% off-sale reputation as a clandestine college screening examination, and came to be known as possibly the only chance for America?s third grade academic underachievers to earn a better salary than a schoolteacher. The ugly rumor, still unverified, was started by Topanga Byrd’s uncle, Harold Jaffe.
Harold was a Las Vegas showgirl manager who, as the story goes, once knew Skinny Eddie when he was just a singer in a cocktail lounge at the Stardust Hotel. Harold’s parents, like Skinny Eddie’s, had also sent in his third grade mug shot to Harvard University in the pioneering stages of the study. Of course, they both looked their best.
After graduating from Queens Community College in New York with a degree in International Communications, Harold left for Las Vegas with his second wife, Teri, a dancer. It was there in 1973 when Harold watched Teri fall in love with the lounge singer Skinny Eddie, who charmed her by playing “Rhapsody in Blue” naked. Teri was aroused like a peeping Tom, and did an interpretative erotic dance to the Gershwin classic that was so astounding, Harold was somewhat pleased that he had seen the whole routine through a crack in the wall. He would later become a millionaire by managing their act. They were billed as “Rhapsody ‘n Boobs.”
In the meantime, however, Harold had lost himself to alcohol and depression. One maudlin night he developed a theory that traced all his troubles back to that third grade Picture Day twenty years ago. He didn’t think he was a bad person, but he thought about killing himself that night.’ He didn’t think Skinny Eddie was such a bad person either, but he thought about killing him that night too. Actually, Harold had loved him since the first time he introduced him to Teri. Skinny Eddie said hello and proceeded to rub himself up against his piano like a Fox Terrier in heat.
Harold went on reminiscing like this, alternately loving and hating Skinny Eddie, until sunrise when he reasoned that Skinny Eddie simply must have been allotted better opportunities and a healthier serving of luck in his life as deemed by Harvard University’s assessment of that innocent little cherub’s appearance in his third grade picture.’ Thus began Harold’s ruthless campaign to expose the truth of the third grade’s Picture Day.
So you can imagine how nervous Harriet must’ve been being so poorly dressed and with the hopeful fruition of a financially satisfying career on the line. She fought back her tears and tried to devise a plan by which she could get to her best friend, Topanga Byrd, whose class was already waiting in the cafetorium to be forever imprinted in Harvard University’s “Aryans in America” population study.
Harriet knew all the ladies who baked the seven-inch diameter chocolate chip cookies in the cafetorium, so she hurried to the service entrance and staying close to the walls she felt invisible despite her rainbow attire. Just then, Mrs. Pietralucci, Macmillan Elementary’s principal, emerged from the service entrance with a seven-inch diameter chocolate chip cookie in her hand, as she did every morning after the first bell. Harriet froze at the sight of her and began to mindlessly recite “The Pledge of Allegiance” with her right hand over her heart, as she did every morning after the first bell.
If Harriet knew what I’m about to tell you, then she might even have calmly asked Mrs. Pietralucci for a bite of that chocolate creation, which garnered euphoric whoops from every student and faculty member who indulged themselves. In fact, those cookies had even caught the attention of Webster Macmillan, the homegrown civic watchdog reporter, who wrote about them when he was investigating the recent slump of football’s strongest team, the Los Angeles Rams. Apparently the defensive line had a serious cookie addiction, and the Rams’ owner, Anders Frieze, had been trying all season to sue the ladies in the cafetorium.
Listen: In the middle of her euphoric whooping, Mrs. Pietralucci wouldn’t have minded if the black asphalt playground suddenly turned to soup and swallowed up all the kids, let alone notice that Harriet was not in class nor dressed properly for Picture Day. But as it turned out, the principal had been color blind since World War II and couldn’t see what ridiculous clothing Harriet was wearing.
Born with blond hair and blue eyes, Mrs. Pietralucci was the scorn of her Italian grandmother, a member of an underground revolutionary movement that was dedicated to liberating the Jews from the Nazis. At the urging of her comrades, she called upon a witch doctor to curse her granddaughter’s sight and render it unable to distinguish colors.
Harriet marveled at her luck as she stared bewildered at Mrs. Pietralucci who strolled past her smiling and eating, finally disappearing into the main building. So Harriet still had a chance to reach Topanga Byrd, and with her mind in a haze, she stumbled into the cafetorium kitchen through the service entrance. For a moment she just stood there, transfixed upon the cookie ladies dancing about underneath the scoops of bleached flour that they tossed into the air, lightening their natural hues. Gigi, the Philadelphian, was the first to notice the irony of this little rainbow girl lost within the white clouds.
“Hey, Sunshine! You gonna jus’ stand’ere or come o’er here’n gimme a hug”
Startled, Harriet squinted her eyes to find from where that familiar loving voice emanated. She might have been dreaming as she flew through the skies with her arms and legs outstretched. Gigi then abruptly set her down and listened to Harriet’s nervous speech about not being able to earn enough money to send her kids to college. Gigi was patient and, frankly, acted as though this was the first she had ever heard of Picture Day. Harriet however, appreciated the moment of calm and asked Gigi to fetch Topanga Byrd.
Gigi enjoyed talking with Topanga Byrd because she was always thinking in positive ways. She also spoke French fluently, and Gigi didn’t know another soul with whom she could practice her conjugations. In fact, everyone but me had something good to say about Miss Topanga Byrd.
She had created a mythology about herself at that school, and there wasn’t a person there who would tell you their life wasn’t positively affected by this little angel. Except me. I’m here to tell you that she was the best liar around. Almost as good as alcohol.
Harriet waited impatiently in the cafetorium kitchen as Gigi went on and on in French about Harriet’s dilemma, while escorting Topanga Byrd back into the cloudy cookie kingdom. Upon seeing Harriet’s distressed face, Topanga Byrd rushed to her, hugged her and proceeded to give her a great excuse that would allow her to get home and change. It would also earn her a nickname, force Gigi and the cookie ladies out of their jobs, and give the Los Angeles Rams a shot at winning the Super Bowl.
Topanga Byrd had told Harriet to go to the nurse and claim that she felt ill because she ate part of a seven-inch diameter chocolate chip cookie that was lying unattended in the cafetorium kitchen. Then, she was supposed to fake an awful stomach ache complete with moaning, dementia and hearing loss. Topanga Byrd also told her not to worry about getting the cookie ladies in trouble because they already had financially successful careers. She was right too, especially since the Los Angeles Rams’ defensive line became addicted and started ordering thirty dozen cookies every day.
The show began.
The school nurse couldn’t figure out what was wrong with Harriet, who was doubled over and clutching her stomach. If the nurse asked her a question about where it hurt, Harriet would reply by saying something about eating clouds or her empathy for pianists or simply nothing at all. Utterly confused, the nurse tried to reach Harriet’s parents but there was no answer. Rather than ask Harriet as to their whereabouts, she simply called the second name on her emergency card. It was Harold Jaffe, Topanga Byrd’s uncle, and he was home. The nurse explained what was going on as best as she could, and recommended that Harriet be taken to the Emergency Room immediately. All Harold said was “Thank You” and hung up. The nurse understood that to mean he would be on his way.
Harriet, who heard everything the nurse had said to Harold, kept up with the great excuse and began to plan what she would wear for her picture. In an interview last year, Harriet explained to Webster Macmillan, “Even though I ruined the lives of several respectable Angelenos, our local economy, and consequently our chances of being written up in one those ‘Top 50 Best Places To Live’ surveys, and then, of course, I was chased out of town like that writer. Well, what I’m saying is, I don’t regret it.” Actually, it was this debut performance that Harriet shamelessly went on to credit with inspiring her to go on and become the world famous circus clown she is today.
Harold was nervous. He had been contemplating suicide again before the phone rang. So, he replaced the shotgun barrel that was formerly poised down his throat with his last three low-tar cigarettes and went outside to get the car started. He finished smoking long before the engine could get running, so he resolved to purchase some more on the way to the Emergency Room.
Topanga Byrd’s class had just finished taking their pictures and was headed back to their classroom. They left the cafetorium through the front entrance which had a view of Macmillan Elementary’s memorial statue, by which all students who left school early could be seen waiting to be picked up. Topanga Byrd glimpsed Harriet and for an added effect, she let go a terrible yelp. Then she went on to lead her class in a spontaneous chant that was heard by all the passersby. It went something like this:
We will eat no!
No more cookies!
Harriet!? No!
Harriet!? Cookies!
By lunchtime, the whole school had heard about Harriet, the cookies and the chant. For most of the kids, it was the first time they had ever heard of Harriet Cookies, and they spent the rest of the day wondering why they didn’t hear sooner about this girl with such an odd name.
Harriet didn’t get to hear what the kids would be saying about her until the next day, because here’s what happened: Harold showed up and quickly carried Harriet to his car which he left running. The nurse, who had been sitting with Harriet by the memorial statue, now put her hands to her mouth and silently prayed as Harold headed for the nearest liquor store. He didn’t say anything to Harriet, but he turned on the radio in an effort to relax her.
Meanwhile, Webster Macmillan and Anders Frieze were on their way to Macmillan Elementary with a narcotics dog that the police had let them borrow. They were going to do some investigating in the cookie ladies’ kitchen. Webster didn’t know this, but Anders had brought some drugs from his private stash just in case the ladies were clean.
By the way, Webster was in no way related to the Macmillan that founded the elementary school. In fact, Webster was a self-made homegrown naturalized American citizen. He bought a birth certificate, a social security number, a high school diploma and a baccalaureate degree in journalism from a man known as El Jefe. Webster Macmillan’s real name was Janek Chajmowicz.
The radio announcer said, “I am pleased to now introduce the not so Skinny Eddie, who is here with us over in Studio B. He will be playing his never-before-heard ‘Adios Hacienda! Suite.’ Hit it, Fatso!”
Harold started driving recklessly as the wonderful music fired him up with rage and suicidal tendencies. He began to curse Teri and Skinny Eddie under his breath, and then he suddenly remembered that Harriet was sitting next to him. He looked over at her and she had a huge grin on her face.
Afterwards, the last thing Harold said he remembered, before running a red light and plowing into Webster Macmillan, Anders Frieze and the narcotics dog, who were turning left, was a sense of calm that came over him when he saw Harriet’s mischievous smile.
In the meantime, however, Harold was busy arguing with Anders and Webster about whose fault it was. Somewhere in there, Harold mentioned going to the Emergency Room because Harriet had eaten one of those famous seven-inch diameter chocolate chip cookies. Upon hearing that, Anders handed Harold a signed blank check and told him to use it to pay for his damages.
Just then, my brother Kenneth, the internationally acclaimed canine chiropractor, hurried over to the accident scene with a bottle of potassium-fortified water in one hand. He was visiting me that week and happened to witness the whole event while taking his 220-pound Mastiff, named Kody, for a walk. He stopped Anders and Webster, who were about to start running for Macmillan Elementary, and produced two small pieces of paper from his white coat pocket. In a grave tone he told them, “Here’s my card.”
