North

1

"You want to build a rocket

"and send a man

into outer space,

"don't come to me.

"If you're looking for someone

"to perform a delicate

brain operation,

"I'm not your man.

"But if you have any questions

"regarding the quality

of a fine pair of pants,

that's what I know.

I know pants."

Ohh, I had a day.

Let me tell you.

Then he says,

"what about chinos?"

Talk about slaves

in ancient Egypt.

Dad.

"I know chinos."

Mom?

Those slaves were

in Disneyland.

Dad?

I grew up on jeans.

Being whipped while building

a pyramid's no bargain.

Overalls...

now he's insulting me.

Those slaves didn't have

to book the himmelmans

nonstop to Boca during easter.

"Einstein knew arithmetic, Pavarotti

knows singing, and I know pants."

North was positive

he was having a coronary.

"Do you know who I am?

As a rule, 11-year-olds

don't experience

cardiac events.

"Let me remind you who I am.

But for north, this was

a very stressful time.

"I'm number 6!"

North was having a difficult

time with his folks,

and it was putting a damper

on what was

in all other respects

a very successful life.

How successful?

Look at the year he'd had.

Photosynthesis...

the process by which

carbohydrates are formed

in the chlorophyll

containing tissues of plants

exposed to sunlight.

If I were a rich man

diguh diguh diguh diguh

diguh diguh diguh diguh dum

all day long

I'd biddy biddy bum

if I were a wealthy man

hey!

Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!

An outstanding year

by anyone's standards.

But did north's folks

appreciate how special he was?

Hardly.

"I was inspecting pants before

you even started wearing them,

Mr. Vice president-only

because-your-father owns-the-company."

God forbid the himmelmans

should stop over in Atlanta.

"I've forgotten more about

belt loops than you'll know.

See this rash? Himmelman.

There's no ointment for this.

"Let me remind you

who you're talking to...

"only this year's recipient

of the coveted

Mr. Inseam award."

Well, that shut him up.

Dad... You know what that

stupid Rachel did to me?

I saw blood in my stool

this morning.

Aah!

Are you o.K.?

What's the matter, son?

Here, loosen his pants.

No, no, I'm o.K.

I'm all right.

I'm all right.

I'm o.K.

But north wasn't o.K.

This parent thing

was starting to affect

every aspect of his life.

It's turning into the wind.

What sense does that make?

It's not... uh...

Maybe it's showing us

where the wind was.

What are we supposed to do

with that information?

To be...

Or not to...

line?

Be.

Oh.

Be.

Ball 4.

That's six in a row.

Time out.

How ya doin'?

I don't get it.

A child is born,

he's given a life,

but then...

He's appreciated by everyone

except the folks

who gave him that life.

It's just not right.

Uh, let me rephrase

the question.

How's the arm?

Mr. Blankman,

I've got some problems

I have to work out.

Problems? You?

North?

So while everyone speculated

as to what could

possibly be bothering

last season's

most valuable player,

north left the field

and headed straight

for his secret spot.

Yes, north had a secret spot.

You know the kind of spot

I'm talking about...

a place that's just

ordinary to everyone else

but for some reason

is special only to you.

No matter where it is,

it's the spot where you can go

and feel away from everyone

and everything,

the spot where you can go

and do your best thinking.

The one place where you can go

to reflect upon what was,

mull over what is,

or just sit back,

close your eyes,

and change the world

into whatever

you wish it could be.

It's my guess even north

couldn't remember

when his spot first revealed

its special powers to him,

nor did it matter

at this point.

What was important

was whenever he sat

in that huge armchair,

he looked like any other kid

waiting for his parents to

finish their easter shopping.

He was sitting on that spot

the first time I saw him.

Why don't they like me?

What did I do wrong?

You o.K., kid?

Yeah.

Good, 'cause I only got

a 10-minute break,

and my back is killing me.

The last thing I need

is to listen

to somebody else's problems.

You hungry?

No, thanks.

Good,

'cause I'm starving,

and this is my last carrot.

So, who are you?

I'm north.

Seen your name on maps.

Very impressive.

Who are you?

I'm the easter bunny...

third floor, toys.

At least until Sunday.

Then what do you do?

Whatever I want.

Independently wealthy.

4th of July,

I might be Uncle Sam.

Christmas... maybe Santa claus.

My life's a holiday.

How about yours?

Not lately.

I had a bad game today.

How bad?

I walked nine panthers

and hit my coach's wife

with a wild pitch.

That's bad.

You got something on your mind?

Well?

What is it?

Thought you didn't want to

hear anyone else's problems.

You always believe everything

strangers tell you?

Come on, spill.

Aw, you wouldn't understand.

Try me.

It's my folks.

Yeah, what about 'em?

I don't know.

All they care about

is themselves.

Selfish folks. That is rough.

They don't know

what a good thing

they got in you.

Exactly, and they're

the only ones.

You should hear what the

other parents say about me.

North's room is always clean.

North always looks both ways.

North never spoils

his appetite.

North flosses.

Holy mackerel. Your folks

are sitting on a gold mine.

Tell me about it.

You realize, of course,

you're not alone.

What do you mean?

Look, kid, just because

I'm in a bunny suit

doesn't mean I haven't stumbled

across some basic truths.

The feeling of being

insufficiently appreciated

is a common childhood lament.

I'm not common.

Course not,

but I'll bet you that even

Wolfgang amadeus Mozart...

who wrote a symphony

by the age of 3...

had some evenings there

with an angry parent yelling,

"stop banging

on that damn piano."

But Mr. Mozart's dead

and I'm alive,

so I'll bet you that right now

I'm in more pain than he is.

Hard to argue with that one.

At this point,

I'd even settle

for Mozart's parents.

Unfortunately, you don't

get to make that choice.

The one thing we cannot control

is who our parents are.

You're dealt a hand,

you're stuck with it.

It's not like baseball, where

you can become a free agent

and try to get a better

deal with another team.

Another team...

This is real life, kid.

The rules are different.

I got to get back upstairs.

You want my advice...

and I know

you didn't ask for it...

go home, make up, and goodbye.

And that was it.

Nothing special.

I just left him there

in that secret spot of his,

just him and his thoughts.

Free agency.

What a scoop!

A kid becoming a free agent,

then offering his services

as a devoted son

to the highest-bidding

set of parents.

It's brilliant, north,

simply brilliant!

This still isn't for sure yet.

This could be my Watergate.

Winchell, you put out

a two-page leaflet

with a circulation of 90.

Might land me a pulitzer.

I told you this as my friend,

not as editor of the

school newspaper.

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