WRITER’S NOTE: This is not “Why I won’t Leave New York, Part II 

AN AMERICAN PASTRY CHEF IN PARIS…(which, many people don’t know, was the original title and concept of the Gene Kelly movie. But early on, during the table reads, he (and as we know now, quite brilliantly) suggested that they drop the “pastry chef” from the title and then also not make it about a pastry chef. “I think it will have a broader appeal”, Gene was quoted as saying)

OKAY, back to being serious…SO, you sent your kid away to study hard to become a successful, world-renowned pastry chef. He made it through the boot-camp of a program, landed a job right out of the gate at Chez Dessert in Paris. THE Chez Dessert. He’s been there a few years, speaks the language, has even bag(uette)-ed himself a sassy French woman with Moulin Rouge roots and some sort of castle in the countryside.

You’ve visited him a couple times, he’s the only American that everyone in France loves. Le Flavour of France. And YOU…you, you, yes you…you’re proud that he made it big and left Kansas in the dustbowl, the way you never could. And face it -- that vivacious vicarious life which you’re now leading needs to be constantly fed like the tape-worm that it is, right? …

Okay, so THEN, one day, your son calls back to Salina, interrupting your immersion in “JAG” … “I’m coming home to run the Dairy Queen.” “But…but…son…sure the Blizzards aren’t as rich as they used to be, but that’s only because they started using store brand Oreos (Food-Town-eos)…mmm-hmm…of course the community would benefit incredibly but—it’s WINTER! The DQ’s boarded up, for God’s sake -- what’s that you say? …You’re sick of the fast lane…you’re feeling your life has a higher purpose…you’ve already made a filthy amount of money…could have five times as much space for what you’re paying in rent…generally sick of the constant struggle…want to give something back???

ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND!!! (Sure dad’s dropped the “f” bomb a couple times, but now MOM!??) Look – not for nothin’ but that culinary college wasn’t exactly CHEAP, you know…no, of course not, and that’s…I…you…SON, you’ve earned this. Just because you’re on cruise control there, jettin’ through the upper echelon, not feelin’ the rush of acceleration like that first year of bakin’ fancy tarts or “torts” or whatever the fuck (mom’s really lost it now) those unsatisfying half-a-serving Tasty-Cake wannabe gelatinous excuses for a desert you “create” are…just because of everything I just said (go back and review if you need to), you can’t quit now!!! SUCK IT UP!!! (She never said that either) That’s right, SUCK IT UP, PUSSY!!! (Now I’m going to puke) So you’re a little bored. Welcome to LIFE. PLOW ON. Like in the bible. They’re always plowin’ or sewin’ or doing some arduous task that ain’t fun.

We didn’t raise a God Damn gelding, did we? Wait – let me ask your father, “he had balls, right?” (Dad, from the TV room) “Yes dear, they were there the last time I checked. (He was “kidding” but there was that time or two during the night when the future pastry chef was fourteen…he slept through it, no harm done) but I’m in the middle of “JAG.” Tell the chicken-shit I said listen to his mother the way I never should’ve…(under his breath so that mom can’t hear) I think I know who stole his balls.” (Mom didn’t hear) “

So you see, son, your dad says stay the course so that you don’t end up being like his fat marshmallow ass, stuck to the Barca Lounger for the rest of your life.” (Dad in the other room, who’s not deaf, again under his breath) “Honey, I’m glad I banged your sister before she died.” (Again mom didn’t hear) (But she knew) (And don’t think she didn’t have her share of revenge “sweaty-animalistic-slammed-up-against-the-wall-of-the-Motel 6-by-your-younger-handsomer-foreman” type trysts, either…)

(Back to the son in France) “Mom? You and daddy have always been there for me. Like a rock. You stayed together when everyone else’s parents were getting divorced. Because you guys had faith. FAITH…in each other…the sanctity of marriage…hell, in STAYING THE COURSE. You’ve convinced me. I’m never coming back to fuckin’ (he liked this new side of his mom) Kansas. Sionara, suckers! …um…I’ll call you next week. (click…dial tone…)

EPILOGUE: (Mom knew her son was simultaneously right and wrong…she had made him who he was. In fact, it was this and perhaps the greater paradox of life in general that probably caused her, like De Niro in at least three of his films, to viciously (maybe it was some sort of bizarrely manifested elation) slam the phone into the cradle, repeatedly, the bell (they still had a phone with a real bell) ringing in a contorted, carnival-esque way, the bakelite casing a mess of splinters…just then, daddy, who has snuck up from behind, surprise-slams Mommy up against the new Sub-Zero, takes her like, well, her sister and once again consummates their thirty-five year functioning train-wreck of a union…CHUGA chuga CHUGA chuga…) “who’s your foreman, now, sis…” (panting) “I love you.” (more panting) “I love you too… (Sweaty sighs all around, then a bit of primping) …Now let’s go catch that funny last moment of Jag where he says something “witty” and they freeze-frame it. Credits roll.
WRITER’S NOTE: Or is it…?