I watched the Mahr podcast featuring my idol Woody Allen, and it prompted me to reread his Apropo of Nothing, which I had first devoured when it was published in 2020.

  The autobiography burst into life this time, inspiring a dream in which he reassured, with certain reservations, that I should keep doing what I was doing vis a vis my writing.

  “You think I think I’m a genius? I depend on others for that moniker. Me? I’m a schmendrick for whatever Sun Yi needs me for.”

  “Does it make you happy?” He asked, with what I thought was a wandering eye toward the door.

  “Yes,” I said, thinking I was making a psychic connection. “There are mornings when I wake up from a sound sleep and can’t wait to open up the laptop.”

  “The laptop?” I thought I detected a note of disappointment.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said quickly.

  “Of course you do; this is your dream.”

  “I meant I get your aversion to modern writing methods.”

  “It’s not an aversion. Whatever works.”

  I smiled knowingly at his movie-drop. He deadpanned that he wasn’t being clever.

  “You’re going to be waking up soon,” Woody then intoned soporifically. “Shouldn’t we be getting to a point here.”

  “I think I’m you,” I blurted.

  “I get that a lot,” he said jaundicedly (my word). “Especially from people like you. And it’s ‘pedantically.’ Jaundicedly isn’t a word.”

  “I was just just trying…”

  “I know. But the Knicks típ-off in ten minutes, so can we, you know–”

  “Cut to the chase?” I asked, anticipating a director’s cliché.

  “I was going to say, ‘the point.’ I try to avoid clichés. You’d know that if you’ve watched –”

  “Anything Else?” I offered cleverly.

  “No.”

  “Everything You Always Wanted–”

  “No.”

  “Play It Again–”

  “STOP!”

  “ I was just trying…”

  “I know what you’re doing,” Woody said, looking around for his bucket hat, which I’d stashed behind some Wonder Bread and a jar of Hellman’s Mayonnaise I was sure he wouldn’t notice. “But I’m here to tell you, to just stop trying.”

  “Really?” I said. He must have noticed the despondence that no doubt reminded him of a Bergman film he’d watched on Netflix recently.

  “No, and stop putting quips in my lane,” he said testily. “I meant to stop trying in the sense that you’re aware of you trying.”

  I tried as hard as I could. “Huh?”

  “You’re good,” Woody said. “And I’m good. Stop trying to be me.”

  “But you’re a genius,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said and spotted his hat. He seemed to effectuate a dry heave as he reached for it. 

  “Exactly?” I was feeling slightly nauseous myself.

  “You think I think I’m a genius? I depend on others for that moniker. Me? I’m a schmendrick for whatever Sun Yi needs me for.”

  “I feel the same when it comes to me and Carol,” I said

  “And that’s what makes us both geniuses. Just stay in your lane. And one more thing” as he donned his hat, turning the label of the mayonnaise jar out of his sight.”

  “What’s that?” I asked fervently.

  “Don’t wake up,” he said, and he was gone. Only the wan smile on the face of a vanishing cat remained.