For Want of Woody

A Woody Allen fan gets his fix - in dramatic fashion

A new Woody Allen film had just opened and the critical word was that it was his best yet.

Sure, I could have seen it that night - but such was my zeal for his work at that time that I had to see it now, as in the first showing, as in that afternoon, as in instead of writing my Geography exam.

How to engineer this: the replacement of the writing of this exam - for which I had barely studied anyway - with the experience of sitting alone in a darkened theatre with Woody?

"It's my grandfather, sir," I began, "he's had a heart attack and nobody quite knows what's going to happen. I have to go and see him. It might be my last chance."

The Geography teacher stared at me, a blank expression on his face. I knew, of course, that, like all teachers, he had heard them all - and that he was well aware that I had shown no aptitude, hitherto, for the subject that he taught, and would therefore probably embarrass myself by writing his exam. "Well," he countered coolly, "you'll have to talk to the principal about this."

The principal? Oops! I didn't expect to land myself in that kind of trouble.

I had failed to pull the wool over the Geography teacher's eyes - and now I was expected to pull it over the principal's?

Still, this was Woody we were talking about; it was worth whatever consequences were coming to me if I failed.

I entered the principal's office. His ice blue eyes, through the small cloud of smoke created by the pipe he dramatically puffed on, finally located me. "So," he began cynically, "Your grandfather." He'd been primed. "Yes, Sir." I answered. "Must be in pretty rough shape if you have to see him during an exam."

On and on I went, ad-libbing detail after horrifying detail. The doctors - what doctors? - had told my mother he had minutes, no, make that seconds, left.

"Well," he began philosophically, preparing to throw me a curve, "death is a funny thing. You never know. Could be taking a turn for the better right now. Could be chasing nurses as we speak." Chasing nurses?Jesus! Had my story been thatunconvincing? "Why don't we call the hospital, see how he's doing," he suggested.

"Unfortunately," I faked, still attempting to appear my most despondent, "I don't know the room number."

"Well somebody does. Your mother for example." And with that, he began to dial my mother's work number.

I was sunk. Despite my best efforts, the old bear had bested me. The Establishment wins again!, I lamented internally - until, much to our mutual surprise, tears the size of falling chestnuts began to stream down my face. They continued, unstoppably, until my face was shiny with them. As a result, he began to think that I was telling the truth. To affirm it, he handed the phone quietly to me.

"You talk to her." As in, if this is real and I'm about to play hard-ass with a woman on the brink of losing her father, that's a public relations disaster.

"Hi, Mom", I began, then went on, making the still falling tears audible, until she finally asked me what was wrong. "Grandpa," I offered quietly, "is he still in the hospital? Is he going to pull through?"

She was a sly enough devil herself to recognize what I was up to: the kind of ruse worthy of the woman to whom I was speaking, she of the extra-marital affairs and the can't-go-to-work-today hangovers. "You've got something you want to get out of, don't you, Danny" she deduced. "Uh huh", I offered humbly. "And you're crying? In front of the principal?" I gave her the same uh huh. "Oh Son", she said proudly, cognizant for some time now of my showbiz aspirations, "You'll make such a good actor."

I got out of the exam and saw the movie.

A full decade after I left that school, it became the city's first high school for the performing arts.

I'd like to think I set the precedent.