Free I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It by Rita Rudner

appears. Jimbo wears many colors and not all of them live comfortably side by side. I was explaining the concept of finding all the straight pieces first and building a frame and Molly and Elise had begun handing me the straight bits when a small, round boy came and stomped on all we had accomplished.
    I looked around to see if I could find someone who looked concerned enough to be his parent but could spot no one. The little boy then reached over and grabbed a piece of the puzzle out of Molly’s hand. Molly, not having brothers or sisters to practice on, did not fight back. She just looked at me with sad blue eyes and said, “Mommy?” I looked around again but still could see no one responsible for the child. I took the piece of puzzle back from the little boy and gently said, “We’re putting the puzzle together now, but in a minute you can rip it apart.” Elise’s father said nothing. In retrospect, I think he knew better.
    It was then that he appeared from behind the green slide. His dark brown eyes matched his socks. It was a sartorial pity that his shorts and shirt didn’t behave in the same way. He scooped up his little boy, shot me an eye bullet, and turned away.
    “Do you know him?” I asked Sean.
    “No, he’s new in town, but I’m getting some strange vibes. He could be a psycho-dad.”
    “What’s a psycho-dad?” I asked, putting Molly on the one slide she could manage by herself.
    Before Sean could answer, Molly was met halfway down the slide by the same small, round boy climbing up the slide. They crashed into each other midway, which resulted in crying on both ends. Psycho-Dad again appeared, this time from behind the rainbow barrel, and scooped his child off the slide. Once more, he shot me a malevolent stare.
    This time I just had to say something.
    “I’m sure the child going down the slide should have the right-of-way, don’t you think?”
    “No,” he said deliberately, and walked away.
    Sean, who had witnessed the collision, chimed in, but only after the coast was clear.
    “Don’t get involved. Just stay out of that kid’s way.”
    I took Sean’s advice and continued on with the serious business of rolling hoops until it was parachute time. Then something happened that I just couldn’t ignore.
    There are roughly thirty balls in the class, all different sizes and colors. Molly’s favorite color is yellow, which makes sense because Mommy’s favorite color is pink (she’s already trouble). Molly was sitting on my lap in the parachute circle and we were singing about the frog and the lily pad when the small, round child appeared again.
    He proceeded to rip the yellow ball out of Molly’s hands. I could stand it no more. I took the ball back and said, “There are lots of other balls. Please go get one of them.” Tubby ripped the ball out of Molly’s grasp again. I took it back again. Just then, Psycho-Dad appeared from behind the basketball hoop, grabbed his child, and snarled menacingly, “Don’t you ever handle my son again.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me. Don’t you ever touch my son again.”
    “I didn’t touch him. I just took the ball back. And by the way, where were you when all this was happening? Smoking behind the trampoline?”
    “I was right here.”
    “Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you tell your son not to grab things?”
    “He’s a baby. He grabs things. What’s your problem?”
    I looked over at Sean. He was shaking his head. I could see the conversation was going nowhere, so I joined into a chorus of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and tried to be very adult about the whole thing.
    After class, Molly and I were on our way out the door when I noticed the man waiting with his child outside. Was he waiting for me? I didn’t know, but I decided to approach him first to try to smooth things over. Being a performer, I really hate when people don’t like me.
    “Look, this is silly,” I began.
    “You’re aggressive,” he interrupted. “You were