“Junie,” he whimpered.
“Larry, baby, take a deep breath. It’s just a draft, baby, right? Just a draft.”
She settled Larry in a chair, leaving him sniveling into his handkerchief, motioning for Vicki, a thin, pert blonde with ironed straight hair, to comfort him.
Junie, Morris, Robert, and Karen conferenced in the fourth-row center section.
“I thought everyone is supposed to act normal when a production first starts,” Karen said.
“Maybe it’s a full moon,” Robert said.
“Okay, kids,” Junie said, “everyone’s a little nervous in the beginning. But it’s all about protecting the actors, right?”
“And the director,” Morris said.
Larry rushed back to center stage.
“Bobby, you said this was my part, my part! An homage to O’Neill like never before. This isn’t straight O’Neill, this is satire O’Neill. I can’t die in the second act. I have no face time! What am I going to tell my mother?”
Vicki patted Larry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lar, SVU is having an open casting call next week.”
Larry moaned in response, burying his face in her shoulder.
Karen felt her cheeks flush warm. “He’s still working every night,” she whispered to Robert.
“The part is one quarter of what it used to be.”
“Is he afraid he won’t get another job?”
“No, he’s afraid he’ll die in the rent-controlled closet he lives in.”
“I thought he lived near Lincoln Center.”
“He lives behind Lincoln Center, Karen. It’s not the same thing.”
“Look, kids,” Junie interrupted, “I thought I was producing a comedy.”
“I thought I was directing a comedy,” Morris cut in.
Junie patted Morris’s shoulder. “This Guy Walks in to a Bar is O’Neill on Prozac, that’s what we said, right? Hickey’s not a hopeless murderer. He’s a reformed existentialist, a self-made Tony Robbins type, embracing the corporate culture. That’s funny. Larry discovering Hickey’s his father and offing himself in front of Hickey to highlight the existential theory that life is meaningless and absurd? Not funny, kids.”
“Yes, not funny,” Morris said, glaring at Karen.
Karen leaned over to Robert. “Why does he always look at me when he says that?”
“We’re doing rewrites, Larry,” Robert called out as Larry’s sniveling grew louder.
Larry rushed off the stage to throw his arms around Robert. “Thank you, Bobby,” he whined softly. “I can always count on you.”
A ring tone of the Village People’s “YMCA” sounded and Junie flipped open her phone.
Robert peeled Larry away from him, inspecting his shirt.
Morris looked squarely at Karen. “It is not funny.”
Karen shrank back, huddling against Robert.
An hour later, Karen and Robert got off the subway near their apartment in Greenwich Village.
“Maybe you should do this by yourself.”
Robert stopped short. “No! We work together. We’re a team.”
“Maybe I just can’t write comedy now. I mean, look at my role models. How can I write about positive relationships when my mother had adulterer spray-painted on my father’s cars?”
“All of them?”
She nodded. “Even the one idling while he was having lunch. He came out of the Four Seasons and had to ride through Midtown like that. It was on the eleven o’clock news.”
Robert pulled her in for a squeeze. “Didn’t you tell me that Taoism sees the irony, the whimsy of life, and that you should approach your work with a sense of play?”
“I’m not feeling very whimsical lately. I’m feeling realistic.”
“Comedy and reality don’t mix, babe. Comedy takes reality and shows it for what it is: ridiculous. And you’ve seen plenty of the ridiculous over the years. Trust me, you have an endless well of material. You just don’t realize it. That’s why Larry can’t drop dead before the second act.” Robert brought her to a stop and turned her to face him. “Did you tell your parents we’re getting married?”
Karen stared at the ground. Robert ducked his head in an attempt to meet her eyes. “Not yet,” she said.
He pulled her into an embrace. “Remember when we met? I was with a friend at the playhouse and he introduced you. Oh hey, this is Karen, he said, like he hadn’t just changed my whole life. I see this beautiful girl with raven hair and almond eyes and she’s warm and gentle and gives off such a peace—”
“That’s very good.”
“Thank you. I’m a writer. Don’t interrupt, I’m on a roll. And I thought, I am going to marry this girl. Now, let’s see some of that peacefulness. No parent thinks any man is good enough for their daughter. And your parents’ insanity isn’t a part of our life. Now, you’re brilliant, you’re beautiful, and I predict we will write a hilarious comedy.”
Arms around each other, they walked home.
Chapter 7
The gloom of the conference room was interrupted by an LCD unit casting a blinding white light, projecting a pie chart onto the screen. Parker stood next to the screen. Seated next to him, his protégé and fund manager, Darryl, a tall, lanky young man with a clean cut, Ivy League face, a shock of blond hair falling forward onto his forehead, watched Parker’s every move.
Across the table sat Stanton Perry. In his late fifties, Stanton was thick but trim, with a handsome, rugged face. His elbows rested on the arms of the Italian leather chair, fingers interlaced, in an attitude of prayer, staring at the screen with half-closed eyes.
Two small, wiry, cheerless men sat behind Perry, briefcases at their feet. Parker knew the suits were the research wizards, pocket-protector boys, little MBAs who would spend their middle age boring the shit out of the next generation of MBA students at Harvard. He had his own drone on the payroll to make it look good. They sat around with their mathematical formulas but they didn’t know shit about money or how to use it; Ivy League pricks. They didn’t understand a thing.
“Stanton, you asked for this meeting,” Parker began, barely concealing his annoyance. “I hope you don’t mind my being blunt.”
“Not at all,” Stanton replied.
“I’m not really in the market to take on new clients now. I’ve got four-and-a-half billion in capital, one hundred and seventy-five billion in assets. I’ve got futures contracts worth three hundred billion alone. And all you’re bringing to the table is one hundred fifty million.” Parker gave an exaggerated sigh and a bored glance around the room. “That doesn’t show a lot of faith. I mean, I’m personally invested. My family’s in the fund.”
Stanton smiled. “Really? I heard the mean average income in South Amboy was sixty thousand a year, before taxes. That doesn’t leave much to invest.”
Parker forced a tight smile. “My wife’s family, my wife, and myself. We both know I’m not some asshole taking people’s money, and if the wind blows south you draw dick while I’m lying on an island with my two percent