Perry hated staying at home and listening to his phone ring. He certainly didn’t feel like writing. He couldn’t even bring himself to read the trades—there was something about the whole industry that seemed unsavory. The closest he got to show business were his daily chats with the lord of the gym, and since both of them were spending enormous chunks of their lives at 24-Hour Fitness, those talks were becoming more frequent.
Until he started hiding out at the gym, Perry never realized how little Peter actually did. His workout routine was surprisingly sporadic. A few minutes on this machine, a few minutes on that—not really enough to turn one into a Men’s Fitness cover boy. But you could probably drive an SUV through Peter’s
arteries. He played racquetball every day and read the Los Angeles Times, The Hollywood Reporter, and Variety on a stationary bike.
Perry wasn’t doing much more. 24-Hour Fitness was a refuge. He didn’t much care about getting buff or even prolonging his life. “With a life like mine, why would I want to live forever?” he said when Peter suggested he crank up the speed on the treadmill.
At least the gym was already paid for. Perry had plummeted from imaginary riches to actual poverty with dazzling speed. Cable game shows pay next to nothing—bank tellers make as much—and he’d get union scale for the Dire Straights pilot. Well, half of union scale—cowriter Nancy would get her 50 percent. Minus agent’s commission, that left Perry with slightly over seven thousand dollars, which was pretty much his Visa card balance.
Even though Perry had never made big money, he had always worked steadily, landing one job after another. His steady income and clever use of credit gave him an admirable lifestyle for a twenty-six-year-old. He’d never had those long bouts of unemployment that Tim did, as Tim sulked around his apartment, trying to make sense of his life. Now it was Perry’s turn to brood.
Peter was making his rounds, and Perry watched him chatting it up with two overly muscled black guys in the Pump Room. With tattoos and knit caps, they looked like gang members, the type who first got turned on to bodybuilding in the prison yard. Peter waved at Perry to join them.
“Want to play some two-on-two with these guys?” asked Peter. “Let’s show them that white guys can jump.”
In a blatant attempt to lure a younger crowd and make use of its infrequently used racquetball courts, 24-Hour Fitness had thrown up a backboard and net in the one of the courts and invested in a few basketballs. Perry and Tim had tested it
out when the net was first installed, but Tim got discouraged at Perry’s skill and quit after fifteen minutes.
Perry had nothing to lose by playing a quick game. It might even be fun. He jogged up to the front desk and got a ball. They took turns warming up. Watching these two slow-moving behemoths lumber around the court, Perry was feeling pretty damn confident.
It turns out that in basketball, like life, speed isn’t everything. The last thing Perry remembered as he drove quickly to the hoop was a massive dark elbow. Things went black, and Perry would later learn that his head had hit the wood floor with a crack so loud, Peter’d thought he might be dead. Blood gushed from his flattened nose. He heard Peter warn the others away from touching him, “I wouldn’t get his blood on you, guys—I know his last girlfriend, and she was a bit of a slut.” The paramedics, who were used to making stops at 24-Hour Fitness to haul off the occasional elderly angina victim, were there quickly.
Thanks to a phone call from Peter, Tim was at the hospital by the time Perry was aware what was happening.
“So, you weren’t getting enough sympathy?” Tim asked.
“My head hurts,” moaned Perry.
“Gosh, I wonder why,” said Tim, pulling up a chair.
“Have you talked to the doctor?” asked Perry.
“Yes, you’ll live. But you have a slight concussion and they’re going to do something about that broken nose.”
“Well, it’s not like it was my best feature,” said Perry resignedly.
“Apparently, nothing is so bad that it can’t get worse.”
An elegant gray-haired doctor entered. “I’m Dr. Mark Lyons. I’m your plastic surgeon. We’re going to go in and repair your nose shortly, but there are a few things we should talk about first.”
“Shoot.”
“The damage to your nose is extensive, but it’s a relatively easy job to fix. Often, when people find themselves in your situation, they want to take advantage of it. As long as we’re doing the reconstruction, we can re-create the nose any way you might want. Have you ever given any thought to what type of nose might look best on you?”
Perry thought for a moment. “I want his nose,” he said, pointing at his brother.
The doctor looked at Tim, who was suddenly painfully aware of the prominent Newman nose that had been passed on for generations.
“Really?” asked the doctor.
“Oh, thanks a lot, Doctor,” snorted Tim.
“I’m just making sure,” said Dr. Lyons. “It’s all a matter of personal preference. The nurse will be down to prep you in about twenty minutes. You’ll be able to go home tonight, but you’ll need someone to stay with you.”
Tim waved his hand in a volunteer fashion.
“You owe me,” said Perry.
“I owe you?” asked Tim. “I’m the one who’s going to be sleeping on your couch tonight.”
“But I saved you from being the ugly Newman boy. I could have gotten a new nose, a nice Kevin Bacon number, and then when people saw us, they’d say, ‘Oh, look, the twins. The cute one and Tim.’”
“I think people already say that.”
“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself today, Timmy. Today is my day for self-pity. You just stand there and say, ‘Thank you, dear brother, for not leaving me with the biggest nose in the family.’”
“Thank you for not leaving me with the biggest nose in the family,” said Tim, “which, in our family, would be saying a lot.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
“I can’t have a nose job. I can’t have people thinking I had a nose job. It’s just too …” Perry was stumped for the right word.
“Too homo Jew mama’s boy?” suggested Tim helpfully.
Perry laughed until it hurt, which didn’t take long at all.