Play Date

4 Inspiration.

OMFG. The kids' party place is a primary-colored mini fun park run amuck. The parent to nanny ratio is almost one-to-one. Somebody has to look after the rug rats.

Riley, wearing a thin wool suit, and Paige in a silk floral print dress, stand in stark contrast to the parents whose experience with projectile bodily fluids dictates durable, washable khaki. Riley almost forgets he holds a birthday gift. When the valet speeds away in Riley's Maserati, their world goes into s-l-o-w motion.

Children with gnarled expressions chase each other non-stop, bobbing and weaving like tiny hockey players, body-checking every person and thing, spraying fluids in all directions.

Staffers with horrifying, exaggerated smiles struggle to wrangle the youngsters, enticing them with balloons and banjos and dancing and other noise-making activities.

A proud mom snaps a photo of her child having a photo moment with the nanny. Dad looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, especially banging his mistress.

A little boy writhes on the ground in a tantrum. His teeth- clenched father points his phone at the boy, shooting video.

"This will look very special on your permanent YouTube record," dad warns.

It takes only a moment's witness of the spectacle for Paige to kiss Riley on the mouth.

"What's that for?" Riley asks.

"For not making me pop one of these out," Paige says.

"I see Mary," Riley says, pointing to a tent. A river of pre-adolescent chaos rages between them and their destination. Riley grabs Paige's hand. "Let's go for it."

Guarding their dry-clean-only clothing, they brave the unpredictable waves of cherry-goo-covered children, somehow reaching their destination unsoiled.

"Mary!" Paige calls out. Hal's wife Mary spins around to face them, a distinct WTF on her face.

"Hey-y," Mary's pronunciation, if used in a text, would be an invitation to come over for sex. "Hal didn't mention you two were coming." She and Paige air-kiss. "Welcome to the madhouse." Paige is a little overwhelmed.

"You're a braver soul than I," she tells Mary.

One energetic urchin chases after another, wielding a water balloon. He hurls the balloon but totally misses his target. Instead, the H2O missile lands square on Riley's crotch, soaking his pants. Mary gasps and reprimands the youngsters. Kind of.

"Channing! Stockard! What you're doing is very special, but that's outside play. Thank you very much." She turns to Riley. "I'll get a towel." Riley keeps his cool.

"It's just a little water," he assures Mary. Paige knows better.

"Those slacks are one-hundred-percent wool."

Five minutes later, Riley's pants have shrunk, the cuffs up over his ankles, the crotch tight around his package. He trades Mary the gift he's been holding for the towel she's produced.

"For the birthday boy," he says.

"That is so sweet," Mary gushes. "I'm going to run this over to the gift salon. Hal's on the far side of the bouncy house, tending the adult bar." And off she goes.

The Japanese hipster photographer in flood-length pants, no socks, and docksiders Hal hired to document the party snaps a shot of Riley. "Bold choice," he says about Riley's look. "I'd never have thought to go with socks."

Riley and Paige head to the bouncy house, pressing on through the clusters of gabby parents and waving to familiar faces. Their advances to their former colleagues meet stares of disdain. Or it could be smug satisfaction that Riley and Paige, who had risen to greater heights than anyone else at this party, have fallen from grace into a pit of unemployment—payment for their sin of success.