Kids and the Kidding Kidders Who Love Margot Kidder

Karen called me into the office. I rolled in a chair since her office was now institutionally bare and had all the charm of Brett Kavanaugh's whipped-for-farting face. Desk, computer, filing cabinet, single shelf with single book on it. The door was shut.

"Do you think they're listening to us?" I said.

"I'll turn on the fan!" Karen rasped.

"No, I mean from downtown. Like, hidden microphones, or something."

Karen looked around in a panic. "Do you think?"

"I'm kidding. On that topic, Justkidding told me she's getting a divorce."

"She is?!?"

"She was just kidding. After that she said my shirt and t-shirt ensemble made her want to throw up. She said I looked like Robin Williams in One Hour Photo. Then she said burn."

Karen grimaced. "There's too much kidding around here."

"Are you kidding? There isn't nearly enough!"

"Greg, do you know why I called you in here?"

"You wanted to talk about the book that your therapist wanted you to read and that you now want me to read and give you the gist of?"

Happiness is... not reading this book

Karen glanced at the lonely, unhappy book on her shelf. "No," she said. "I don't care about that anymore. I wanted you to know your timecard was off today. You forgot to punch out for lunch."

I gasped.

"I'm serious."

"So instead of talking about how we can reduce stress and be happy in our lives, you want to discuss a missed punch on my timecard."

Karen stared at me. "Yes," she said.

"Baby steps, I guess."

"It's so important to remember to punch out for lunch. You gotta do it. I'm getting pressure from downtown. So you just gotta. Will you remember to do it? I don't want to nag, but..."

"And yet, here we are."

Silence.

"Okay," I said, standing up. "I'd promise to be better at that, but... you know."

"Wait! We're not done yet. What is this?"

Karen showed me the interview questions I had written answers to that morning. During the storytime evaluation, I had used my own special script, the kind autistics invent to cope with the world or by people who are extremely bored.

"We better hope HR doesn't see this in the candidate's file. What if they do? How will they know what you thought of Zach's storytime performance?"

"I was actually being complimentary. See that squiggle? That means, Super. And those dots? Good job! I was saying. They'd just have to get a good translator. Me, preferably."

"This is so important, Greg. You can't be joking around about this."

"It's just storytime. Also, I don't care. A deadly combination."

"It's not JUST storytime! We need to find the best possible story time person! We gotta. It's so important that we get the very best person to read to the children. And to think about them."

"Pff," I said. "Anyone can do a storytime."

"Oh? Can you?"

"Sure. It's easy. Just make up some stupid rhyme, jump around, and then finish with construction paper."

"You couldn't do it."

"I could! Like... Here. I'll start with a song. (Sung to the tune of The Dead Milkmen's "Punk Rock Girl.")

Lincoln's dead,

Shot through the head,

Doc said,

Head full of lead.

Then I'd have the kids pantomime getting shot in the head--throw your head forward, kids!--and we'd finish by making stovepipe hats and moles. Voila."

Karen turned to her computer. "Did you get that?"

"Hey," I said. "What the--"

"I'm just having downtown monitor our conversation."

"What!"

Karen grinned. "JUST KIDDING," she shouted.

"Oh... ha, ha." I sank back in my chair. "Heh. This place is great." I turned to my blog audience. "Isn't it? ISN'T IT"

"What are you looking at?"