It wasn’t just the awkwardness he felt from Tim but also the awkwardness—resentment, even—Perry felt from the world at large that was so bothersome. Tim’s reaction was easy to understand—what brothers aren’t plagued by sibling rivalry? It wasn’t as if things were going great for Tim. The guys at work, the other writers who were busy trying to sell their screenplays … well, of course they’d have mixed emotions. Suddenly, everyone was behaving differently, and Perry had barely moved into his new office. His parents acted as if he was already rich, old friends hinted around for jobs while making sarcastic asides about his dumb luck, newer friends pretended they’d been friends for years, and, in the most surreal moment, his agent called—just to say hi.
It didn’t matter much what time you showed up at 24-Hour Fitness: Peter—the lord of the gym—was there, wandering from machine to machine, playing racquetball, drinking a Snapple at the snack bar. Mostly, though, Peter chatted. Stout, muscular, and in his early fifties, he introduced himself as a TV producer. While he used the present tense and he did maintain a small office at one of the studios, his career seemed to exist well in the past, during the golden age of variety shows, back when Dinah Shore was a singer, not a dead lesbian icon. When Regis Philbin was lucky to be a sidekick. Back before Donny and Marie had emotional problems they happily shared on Entertainment Tonight. Back before Cher had tattoos and Sonny took ski lessons. Peter hadn’t had a show on the air since the eighties, but he’d apparently made good money while he could—he drove an elegant Mercedes and had plenty of free time. In any given three-hour span, he might work out for twenty minutes. However, he knew everyone and picked up on every speck of gossip.
“I can’t figure out why Nancy would hire the likes of you to work on her show,” said Peter.
“She has no choice,” said Perry. “I’m the brains of the operation. I wrote the script.”
“Yes, and we all know how powerful a writer is in Hollywood,” said Peter.
Perry laughed. “It’s just a commitment to do a pilot. There are no guarantees,” he said, mentally knocking on wood.
“That’s a good way of looking at it,” said Peter. “It’s a great first step—not that many people get to do pilots. There are a lot of people involved in pilots who find themselves back waiting tables when the pilot doesn’t sell.”
“Or writing game-show questions.” Perry nodded.
“What’s your role now that the script is written?”
“Nancy and I will be the show runners. We’ll start casting
in the next couple of weeks and shoot the pilot as is. If it goes, it goes—and then I’ll have a TV show, I guess.”
“Be careful,” warned Peter. “Lots of things can go wrong. You’re going to be dealing with a lot of people who will be looking out for themselves. You have to watch out for yourself, okay?”
And Nancy, thought Perry. I have to watch out for the two of us. Especially now, since Nancy had been behaving so oddly. Instead of bringing them closer, success seemed to be a big distraction. They’d had dinner only once since the fateful meeting—Nancy was constantly busy—and their phone conversations were hurried and unsatisfying. When he’d try to talk, she’d sound annoyed and impatient, always eager to get back to Heather. She was rushed when they talked business and she had no time whatsoever for any of that mushy stuff that’s part of a normal relationship. Perry sometimes feared that while he was looking for a girlfriend, Nancy wanted to be more of a business partner. The sad thing was that Perry often doubted whether she was all that suited for either role.
When he got back to his apartment, there were eight messages waiting for him. One was from Tim, who said he had convinced Simon James to do a small feature on Perry’s new show for Hollywood Today. There was a forced cheerfulness in Tim’s voice, but Perry was impressed that, as envious as he was, Tim was still capable of a brotherly gesture.
Of course, there were two calls from Nancy—her voice racing, her tone urgent. “Heather has some more really good casting ideas. I really want you to hear them,” she said in her first message. “I can’t make dinner tonight—sorry, hon,” said the second message. “Heather needs me to go with her to the Garden of Eden tonight. She has to see her ex and it’s freaking her out.”
Mom had called, announcing a special Sunday dinner
(“Your dad is taking us all out to Casa Vega,” she said excitedly), and Dad had called in his typically car-centered way (“It occurred to me that you might be thinking of getting rid of the Civic, and I wanted to remind you that I can get you a good deal on an Accord, or, if you wanted, an Acura”).
The remaining three calls came from friends, who had heard it through the grapevine. It was male bonding at its best—not one of them could actually muster congratulations without sarcasm. Paul, his basketball buddy, had it down.
“Whoa, they’ve lowered the bar. A comedy? You’re only funny when you play basketball, and you get your biggest laughs when you get hurt. You, sir, are the Steve Guttenberg of writers—a no-talent who succeeds where we hardworking artistic types fail. So congratulations, and don’t forget all those times you promised me a job. As luck would have it, I’m available.”