Polk, my accountant, invited me for Thanksgiving dinner. He has control over my tax return. I agreed to go.

"What time do you want me there?"

"Eleven a.m." he says.

"Eleven. In the morning."

"Yes," he says.

"Eleven is early for dinner. Means I'll have to eat breakfast at 2 a.m., lunch at 7. I won't get any sleep."

"Polk family tradition. New theme. This year."


"Thanksgiving," he says.

"What was the theme last year?" I say.

"Rise. Of the Dark Knight."

I agree to bring mashed potatoes. Polk thought this was a good idea but wouldn't give me a head count. "Polk, how'll I know how much to make?" I say. "Make the amount. You imagine when you imagine. The amount you make." To understand what Polk just said I would need to fall down a rabbit hole and spend some time with the blue caterpillar. I didn't have the time. "Sure," I say. I made two large bowls of mashed potatoes so each would have the company of the others.
Polk lives at the top of a 4 floor brownstone in a spacious apartment filled with art deco antiques. When I showed up nobody else was there.

"Polk, I hope you have more people coming."

"Yes. Alan. Of. Course." he says.

He had more people. Five more people. The Five Crying Mimes. A mime troupe consisting of five mimes who cry. They were his clients. Polk has many clients in the arts community. He's known for  taking on clients who can't afford to submit tax returns. He even helps his clients with loans and meals, sometimes a place to stay. I assumed The Five Crying Mimes were in one of those categories since they looked like they hadn't eaten since last thanksgiving. And they were crying.

Polk introduced me. They cried. One said a mime blessing. They cried. They cried through the appetizers, into the main course, and past dessert.

Then I cried. "Polk, I'm crying."

"Now Alan is. Your time. To give thanks," Polk said.