“Now you’ve met Mom and Dad,” said Tim, eager to do a party postmortem with Sandy. “Does that explain Perry and me?”
“Nothing explains you,” said Sandy. “But your parents seem normal enough.”
“Even Mom?” asked Tim, slumping in the guest chair in Sandy’s cube.
“Well, there might have been a bit of self-absorption there,” admitted Sandy. “But I’ll bet she was a really devoted mom. I’ll bet you two were spoiled rotten and the entire focus of her existence. Without you and Perry, she’s just lost, that’s all. She’ll never find a project that interesting again.”
“That’s pretty close to the truth,” agreed Tim. “She was
never happier than when we were little. She’s just in limbo until Perry gives her grandchildren. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.”
“Oh shut up.”
“I just believe in full disclosure. She wasn’t examining you as merely daughter-in-law potential this weekend. She was pondering how much you’d let her baby-sit your kids.”
“Yes, Mr. Full Disclosure. The man who won’t even tell his parents that he’s gay.”
“I’ll tell them. Eventually.”
“Eventually? Do you think they don’t suspect?”
“I know they suspect. They never hint about grandkids with me. And once, Mom asked if I’d like to be buried with them. They were buying a cemetery plot, and they were thinking of accommodations for three, not two. And not four. Perry was on his own.”
“Good God, what did you say?”
“I told her I wanted to be cremated and have my ashes scattered in the fountain at Universal City Walk,” said Tim. “She never mentioned it again.”
“So why don’t you just talk about it? It’s clearly not an issue with them. They certainly didn’t seem unnerved by Antonio.”
“I’ve never found the right time. I didn’t tell them when I was in high school, because I kept thinking it would change. It was too soon. I wasn’t sure myself. Then later, I was too self-conscious. Every time I went somewhere with a guy, I thought they’d be thinking I was having sex. And that just creeped me out. Now it’s almost too late. I mean, why now? Why didn’t I tell them before? It’s almost insulting.”
“And they never asked?”
“Nope, not ever. Probably for all the same reasons I never told them.”
“Why did you tell Perry?”
“I don’t recall ever telling him, to tell you the truth. He just always knew. We still don’t talk about it much.”
“How did I get involved with you two, anyway?”
“A little late to ask that one, I’m afraid,” said Tim. He stood up on the chair and looked across the room to Simon’s glassed-in office. “Have you noticed that Simon’s office door has been closed for days now? He just sits in there and broods.”
“I noticed. What do you think it is? Is he sick?”
“I don’t know, but I need to spring something on him, and I’ve been waiting for the right time.”
Sandy stood up and peered over her cubicle wall. Simon was turned in his big swivel chair, with his back to the glass, staring out the window at downtown Culver City.
“I’m trying something different for my column. Instead of a profile.”
“What is it?” asked Sandy.
“Sort of a humor thing. You can read it, if you want. It’s under ‘PowerHair.doc’ in my folder. But I’m going back to work. I don’t want to watch while you read it.”
It didn’t take Sandy long to read the thousand words.
“Have you gone insane?” she said aloud, sitting at her computer, knowing that Tim was just half a wall away, waiting.
“I’ll take that as a negative,” said Tim, crestfallen.
“Are you crazy?” she repeated. “Are you attempting complete and total self-annihilation?”
“Is it that bad?” Tim’s voice was meek. “You didn’t think it was funny at all?”
Sandy was exasperated. She stood and looked over at Tim.
“It’s funny. It might even be too funny. But do you realize what you’re doing?”
“Making people laugh?”
“You’re making fun of hair in Hollywood. You’re making
fun of Ron Howard and his baseball cap. You claim Brian Grazer taunted him by spiking his hair. You list every man in Hollywood who dyes his hair. Garry Shandling? Poor Martin Short—as if he doesn’t have enough problems. No one even knows who Ian Ziering is anymore. You talk about David Kelley’s bald spot!”
“So do you! You’re obsessed with it.”
“I talk about it. I don’t write about it. I have no desire to have every flack in this city hate me.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Show it to Simon. Let him decide.”
“Do you think he’ll hate it?” asked Tim.
“Look at him right now,” commanded Sandy. Tim stood up and looked toward Simon’s office. He was still leaning back in his chair, gazing out the window.
“What do you see?” asked Sandy.
“A depressed old man in a nice office,” said Tim.
“I see a man with a bald spot the size of a yarmulke. How do you think he’ll respond?”
Tim looked again. Funny how that fact had slipped his mind. Maybe Sandy was right. Maybe he did have a death wish.