"talk to my agent!"

"I had never been to the big house.  Gloriana and the gorilla always came to me.  But I knocked at the door.  A frightened, bewildered Hispanic maid in uniform opened it.  I gave my little talk: 'I'm Augie Kleinzahler from down the street and I would like Mr. [Buddy] Hackett's autograph, please.'  The maid, looking stricken, disappeared, and next up was a woman I took to be Mrs. Hackett.  She said something mildly discouraging but I didn't budge, knowing better than to return home without a result.

I immediately registered the cause of their apprehension when the famous entertainer himself came waddling to the front door.  He was barely taller than I was, and I was seven years old.  He was red-faced and breathing moistly and with some difficulty, like t toy bulldog on a sultry day.  'Whu da you want, kid?' he asked in on of America's most distinctive voices.  I identified myself, told him where I lived, and asked for his autograph.  He glared at me, incredulous, for a few moments (I could sense the wife and maid cowering inside) and said, 'Fuck you, kid; talk to my agent!' and slammed the door in my face.

I stood there briefly, considering my options, then turned and walked down the long driveway.  It was a pleasant summer evening, fragrant, the maples in leaf and the air filled with cries of terror from the nearby amusement park.  I found my parents where I had left them, on the back porch, reading.  My mother looked up from her book and smiled.  'Well?' she said.  'He said, "Fuck you, kid; talk to my agent."'  My father went back to his book.  My mother, for what seemed a long time, stared at me over her reading glasses.  'Well,' she asked, 'did you at least get his agent's name and phone number?'"

-- August Kleinzahler, Cutty, One Rock