by Phoebe Kate Foster

On Mondays, Milo draws shoppers' portraits at the mall. He doesn't make much; Van Gogh was misunderstood, and so is he. On Tuesdays, Chloe sits in the park and writes poems for people. She does a steady business -- everybody wants to tell someone "I love you" or "I'm sorry" or "I miss you." On Wednesdays, Jason performs mime acts on street corners. He wishes he could do something else, but he doesn't have much choice, being a mute. On Thursdays, Gloria turns tricks -- we sincerely hope she doesn't give us a disease. Pete panhandles on Fridays and usually drinks away whatever he's made. On Saturdays, Francesca sets up shop at the flea market and does tarot readings. It costs her clients quite a bit because it costs her quite a bit, too -- she seldom likes what the cards reveal. Cory's the bad boy of the lot: he picks pockets and shoplifts and gets into fights. And Lucy -- well, poor thing, she doesn't do much of anything except cry, and have visions of Jesus and Satan and the saints, and pray for the rest of us.

On Sundays, Holly dresses up as her namesake and attends the get-together at the Fairview.

She strolls in wearing her little black dress, oversized sunglasses and broad-brimmed hat that trails a tail of white silk scarf (madly chic albeit from Goodwill) and sashays over to the table where the three of them sit. "Hello, daaah-lings."

Groucho Marx glances up and wiggles his eyebrows at her. "All the sweet talk in the world won't get me to fork over fifty bucks for the powder room, Miss Golightly. I never forget a face, but in your case, I'd be glad to make an exception."

A stuporous but predictably antisocial Lenny Bruce mumbles, "The role of a comedian is to make the audience laugh, at a minimum of once every fifteen seconds." He frowns at Groucho. "I don't hear anyone laughing, you cocksucker."

Abraham Lincoln intervenes. "Now, now," he says gravely. "With malice toward none, with charity toward all," but nobody takes him seriously because he's wearing a silly red-and-white striped top hat.

"He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don't let that fool you," Groucho cackles. "He really is an idiot."

"Trés distingué chapeau," Holly compliments Abe. "Who's your haberdasher, daaah-ling? Dr. Seuss?"

President Lincoln touches the hat and looks abashed. "I claim not to have controlled events," he sighs, "but plainly confess that events have controlled me."

"And I'm still Lulamae Barnes, running through a briar patch, stealing turkey eggs," Holly admits. "Only now I call it having the mean reds."

"A child of five would understand this," Groucho snaps. "Send someone to fetch a child of five."

"I won't say ours was a tough school, but we had our own coroner," Lenny mutters, then adds, "All my humor is based on destruction and despair," and utters a string of blistering obscenities.

"Humor is reason gone mad," Groucho explains, waving an invisible cigar.

President Lincoln stands up and clears his throat. "I happen temporarily to occupy this big White House. I am a living witness that any one of your children may look to come here as my father's child has," he announces and sits back down.