Ira Glass

"'Maybe he is, Paul, but if you would just come inside and talk to him for a little bit, I think we might be able to persuade him to change back into Timothy.'"

You're his friend, Paul.

I asked him if he'd like to talk to you, and he said yes.

I'm not his friend, Mrs. Gladfelter.

I swear to God, I can't do anything.

Paul, Timothy is in trouble.

He needs your help, and I need your help too.

Now if you come right this minute and get up out of that dirt, then I'll forget that you didn't come in from recess.

If you don't come back inside, I'll have to speak to your mother.

She held out her hand.

Now come on, Pa, please.

And so I took her hand and let her pull me out of the ravine and across the deserted playground.

aware that in doing so I was merely proving the unspoken corollary that my mother had left hanging the other morning in the air between her and Mrs. Stokes.

There was a song about me, too, I'm afraid, a popular little number that went, What's that smell-o?

Paul Covello.

He's a big fat hippo jello.

He's a snoop.

He smells like poop.

He smells like tomato beef alphabet soup.

Timothy Stokes, I knew, as I followed Mrs. Gladfelter down the long, silent hallway to the office, hating him more and more with each step, was my only friend.