I’ve never understood the appeal of Christian Lacroix

The screening room at Paramount was nearly full when I got there. Several hundred people had shown up to see Director X’s new film, and more than a few of them were my patients.

A well-known, nympho talent agent was seated near the front, in a low-cut blouse, and she motioned for me come sit beside her. In her lap was a divinely inspired, quilted, black, buttery leather handbag with a detachable cross-body strap and silver ID frame. It could only be Chanel.  My daughter, I thought to myself, would adore that. (My little Meryl is very sophisticated for a four year-old.)

“Charles, darling!” cried the nympho agent, “I heard you were coming. I’m dying to see what this new film is about. I hear it’s a departure from this guy’s standard, commercial fare! I’ve never understood the appeal of this man's films!”

“And I’ve never understood the appeal of Christian Lacroix,” I said, gazing at her shoes.

“What?” said the agent. “Oh, these silly things? I wore them for a lark. Aren’t they too perfect?” She leaned her knees from side to side so that the black satin, vulgarly jeweled shoes would shimmer.

“Three and a half-inch heels and double ankle straps are perfect if you‘re going to the Hookers’ Ball,” I suggested, helpfully.

She set her hand on my knee. “Darling, anywhere I go is the Hookers’ Ball!”

Director X had stepped onstage and was introducing his film. “This movie,” he said, “is a little different from my others. In this film I examine the inner workings of my own mind. And I have to say, I’ve been helped in this process by my acupuncturist and consigliore, Charles.”

Several heads turned toward me and there was a smattering of applause, which I found embarrassing.

“One day,” he continued, “I was feeling very sad, and Charles said these words to me, which I’ll never forget: ‘The only real problem is, you’re a poem.’  A poem! We’ll, I thought about that and..”

A poem? Had I told him he was a poem? I didn’t remember that. But then, I’ve told lots of people they’re a poem. It’s just a thing I say during a session, a handy space filler.

Hello, you’re a poem, how’s your hemorrhoids?

The talent agent nudged me. "Charles, darling,” she said, “you told me I was a poem.”

“I did?” I said, as the lentils stirred in my gut. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, sticking out her lower lip. “And I thought that you meant it.”

“Well I did,” I said, suppressing a belch.

“Then how come you told him he’s a poem?”

I was getting nauseous and didn’t feel like arguing.