Tim immediately noticed two things about the offices that housed the Hollywood Today Web site staff. First, everything about it seemed temporary, as if the entire operation could move out overnight, leaving only a Sparketts cooler and some rented furniture. Second, everyone was either young or old—there was no one in between. The Dilbert-style cubicles were occupied by energetic twenty-somethings, bouncing around the office on a Mountain Dew high. But in the glass-encased offices with the nice views of ugly Culver City were the older guys—fifty plus, Tim figured. Maybe they were younger, but they looked so gray and beaten, it was hard to tell. He had seen something like this once before, when he took an ill-fated job as an associate editor on a small start-up
magazine in West Hollywood. The staff consisted of two worlds—young up-and-comers, eager to make their mark, and older losers, editors who couldn’t hack it at established magazines due to some personality flaw or substance-abuse problem. They had resumes, though, and seemed experienced, so they inevitably landed the good jobs at new magazines—until they were found out and sent on their way. Why should new media be any different from old media?
Simon James was old even for old media. But he was also well regarded. For nearly forty years, he had been one of those semifamous editors in New York, the number-two guy on a big magazine, the one who did all the work while his boss, who had a wardrobe allowance, attended all the parties. Writers loved Simon. Everyone loved Simon. He was so loved, in fact, that when he came up with a concept for his own magazine, a meglomaniacal Hollywood studio head had been more than happy to finance it out of his own pocket. So Simon moved west, published one issue of his dream magazine, and was promptly fired by the mogul, who appointed himself editor. The magazine died after the next issue, and Simon, too embarrassed to return to New York, began living a modest life with his severance package, and taking the occasional minor publishing job—the only kind that seemed to pop up in L.A. At the moment, for instance, he was running Hollywood Today , a Web site dedicated to covering the entertainment industry.
“I can’t pay you very much,” he told Tim after poring over his clips and asking a few extraordinarily perceptive questions. “We might have some fun, though. Do you want the job?” Tim didn’t care much for Hollywood Today, but he was in awe of Simon James. He was also unemployed, broke, and bored. It was the easiest decision he’d ever made.
Tim waited until dinnertime before he called to tell his parents
the good news. That way, they could each be on an extension and he’d only have to tell the story once. He prepared himself for their reaction. He’d been unemployed for too long, existing on freelance scraps and the odd extra hundred-dollar bill from Dad. He girded himself for an overly enthusiastic response from his mother, who had enough training in the disturbed sciences to understand—however slightly—the power of positive feedback.
“That’s great news, Timmy,” said his mother. “This has been such a wonderful day, what with your good news and your brother’s good news. Syd, let’s have everyone over for dinner Sunday to celebrate.”
“Perry’s good news?” Tim asked. “What’s Perry’s good news?”
Was it because they were twins? Was it something that affected all siblings? Was it the fact that his mother was partly crazy? Tim had always wondered why whenever one brother did something, it was always immediately linked to the other. Ann could seldom mention one without an instant comparison. “Perry loves golf, but Tim prefers watching TV.” “We always count on Tim to program our VCR, but Perry knows the best restaurants.” “Perry has a wonderful girlfriend, but Tim has always been a loner.”
“Perry has some exciting news, too. I’m very proud of both my boys,” chirped Ann.
“So am I supposed to guess about Perry’s news? Or should I assume I’ll read about it in the papers?” asked Tim.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” said Ann in a sing-songy voice that made Tim’s skin crawl.
“For God’s sake, Ann, it’s not that big,” interjected Syd.
“It could be,” insisted Ann.
“Oh, Jesus—he’s not marrying Nancy, is he? How long have they been going out? Three months? He barely knows her.”
“She’s an extraordinary girl, Timothy. And she’s very ambitious. She even reminds me a bit of myself. But no, to put your selfish mind at ease, they’re not getting married. Yet.”
“It’s stupid,” said Syd. “They’re forming a production company together. It means nothing.”
“You’re so negative.” Ann sighed. “You just wait until they have a hit series on the air. Besides, I think it would be fun to have your own production company.”
Suddenly, no one seemed all that excited by Tim’s news, not even Tim. He lingered on the phone line after the good-byes and his mother’s final click. Thanks to his father’s unrepaired deviated septum, he could hear breathing.
“Hi, Dad,” he said.
“I realized I didn’t congratulate you,” said his father. “I’m sure this job will work out well.”
“Thanks, Dad. You want your two hundred dollars back?”
“Keep it,” said Syd after thinking a few seconds. “But you buy the Koo Koo Roo this Sunday.”
They hung up, and Tim immediately called his brother.
“You make me sick,” Tim said.
“Very funny. I take it you talked to Mom.”
“So what’s behind this new production deal? Since Don Simpson is dead, she’s picked you?”
“You know Nancy. She thinks her real talent is producing.”
“Repeat after me,” said Tim. “Producing is not a talent. Producing is what the people with no talent do.”
“My feelings exactly. That means she’ll be perfect for it. But don’t ever tell her I said that.”
“Then why did you do it? Why does every straight couple in Los Angeles feel the necessity to form a production company? Gay couples don’t do that.”
“I look at it this way, Timmy boy. If I lived in Butte, Montana, and had a girlfriend, she’d want some way to cement the deal. She’d probably make me buy a dog, and we’d consider
it our dog. It would be a sign that we were a couple and were one step closer to marriage. Since this is L.A., I don’t have to get a dog, which is great, since I can’t handle the responsibility. Instead, I get a production company. It’s certainly better than moving in together. I’m not ready for that. We’re still getting to know each other.”
“What is this production company going to do?”
“We’re going to have stationery,” said Perry, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s the key attraction. It will take Nancy a month to get the stationery she wants. Meanwhile, even shopping for stationery will make her happy, and Mom’s happy because she thinks I’m one step closer to marriage.”
“If Mom only knew the real you, then I could be the favorite,” said Tim, laughing. “You know that, don’t you?”
“You’re just jealous. Admit it—you’re a sad, petty little man who lives in my shadow,” said Perry with mock superiority. “You’re just thinking, Poor me, I don’t even have anybody to form a production company with. I’ll go through my whole life without stationery.”
“I’d rather have a dog, thank you very much,” said Tim. “And now that I have a job, I might be able to afford one.”
“A job? A real job? My, my, aren’t we the competitive one.”
“I got my job this morning,” countered Tim. “When did the megamerger take place?”
“Lunch—at Pane e Vino,” answered Perry. “You win.”
Tim filled Perry in on the new job—about Simon James and the odd mix of very young and very old at Hollywood Today. There were good things about having a writer as a brother. At least he knew the cast of characters and understood the game. There were bad things, too, and they were painfully obvious, all involving potent sibling rivalry that never seemed to dissipate.
As the conversation wound down, Perry’s mind wandered
a bit. “So Mom was really impressed by the production company, huh?” he asked.
“Yes.” Tim sighed. “She really was.”
“She doesn’t have a clue, does she?”
“Not the slightest,” said Tim.