"Maria Maria diarrhea, Maria Ouija, Maria gonorrhea, Maria Korea. . . Aha!" Jason sang.

“Oh Dad, stop it,” Kit screeched. She winced and put her hands over her ears.

Jason's esteem was momentarily bruised. Then he recalled Mylanta's sage words from volume 10 of the Oneness trilogy, “If people tell you to stop singing, it is only for the comfort of their own ears. In this they are greedy. For you, on the other hand, nothing more matters than the joy with which your song fills your heart.”

“It's annoying,” Kit "kiterated," which is their special verb for something maniacally repeated. She usually "kiterated" until she had her way.

Now, though, Jason was unstoppable; he hummed his own off-key and nasal hum and mouthed random words.

“Da-ad, it's hurting my ears,” Kit said.

Over the mountain, Jason drove from Studio City, humming and babbling all the way, occasionally taking one hand off the wheel to make a notation, ending up finally at Beverly Hills Elementary School, where he intended to park Kit. Children pounded the tether ball, squealed and sprinted after lunch.

“I'm ashamed to go to school in like this,” Kit motioned to her pajamas. “Other kids will laugh and point, dad.”

“Listen, you wouldn't be here in stripes if you had hopped out of bed in the morning,” Jason said.

“I'm sorry dad,” Kit said as she started bawling. “Mommy got home late from the set last night. She was with a famous director. They made a lot of noise and woke me up. I couldn't sleep.”

Reluctantly, Jason drove on, seeking to digest this rancid morsel of new information. Gas was getting low. He drove like he was going somewhere. Like the circus acrobat in the moment of sailing through the air, he gambled that it would all work out and a destination would materialize.

Sure enough, the dust-caked Nissan took them to the porte cochere of Suzanne's apartment. Once inside, Kit immediately headed to her mom's bedroom and turned on the cable TV. Once he was in Suzanne's kitchen, an avalanche of words came to Jason. He scribbled away:

"Look around my class. . .

too many Marias!

I fall on my ass,

trying to sort them all.

Maria Lopez, Maria Sanchez,

Maria Gomez. Who can recall?

Your mama thought,

there was one Maria too few.

Then you came along,

named you Maria, too.

Oh, too many Marias, too many Marias!

Who could conceive a better alias,

Maria Sanchez?

'Aw, teacher, I'm Maria three, mother of three.'

Let me guess. . . Marias.

Too many Marias, too many Marias!

Makes my head swim.

I can never win.

Let me go back, teach in Korea.

Oh, Eureka!

Let me call each of you YOU!

Now there's an idea!"

Jason put down the pencil and grinned to himself, imagining the final verse, a call to send a dozen Marias, young and old, plump and slender, running toward him and trampling teacher:

"Well, I could still get my kicks,

Maria, you. Yeah, YOU.

Come up to the chalkboard

and give me a kiss. . ."

Out it spewed in one blue blaze of inspiration. After “Two Many Marias,” he started in on a ditty-themed “To Two Too.” He scribbled on a second paper towel, head thrust down between his shoulders. In the midst of fevered inspiration, a throat cleared behind him.

His gaze shot round, and there stiffly stood Candy, the nanny/roommate, emerged from behind the rice paper screen. She looked at him with sleepy, accusing eyes, arms crossed.

“You wake me up,” hissed.

Jason looked back. His reverie fled before the hard visage of that blond Medusa.

(to be continued)

Grady Miller is now twittering as GradyMiller at Twitter.com

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