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Date 5: Golden Rings
I understand the notion of portable property. I do. I’ve read Dickens. There’s a lot to be said for having your wealth hanging on your person. If, say, all the banks suddenly closed and you couldn’t get your money. Or you needed to disappear and could only take what you could carry.
So, when Jay, an Indo-American lawyer shows up for our scheduled date at Starbucks (I save my special coffee shop for special people) I understand there’s a cultural difference at work.
Jay is very good looking. Big, liquid brown eyes, nice skin and the body of a marathoner (he’s completed five, including Boston, New York and London). But I can’t take my eyes off the gold chain hanging around his neck with links so heavy I’m not sure how he holds his head up. And on his wrist. And the big honking gold watch and the rings. Big, gold rings with big, huge diamonds.
Also, he seems like he’s in a hurry. I’ve burned up nearly three weeks of my six-week deadline, so believe me, I know about dating efficiency. But before I can launch into my interrogation he’s already launched into his.
Under cross-examination – and I bet he’s very good in court -- my ‘successful screenwriting career’ is laid bare as the failed promise it was. Within five minutes he knows I rent rather than own my apartment; that my job is far from glamorous or lucrative.
I can tell before I’ve finished the foam on the top of my gingerbread latte that I won’t be getting a second date.
Jay takes his glittering self off about twenty minutes after we meet. I am so demoralized I called Josh.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Do you feel like watching The Mighty Boosh?” He also shares my love for this wacky British comedy.
“Which season?”
“All three of them.”
He chuckles. “I’ll bring the junk food.”
After we finish our TV fest and we’re hanging out in my tiny living room on my tiny couch, Josh says, “Now I want to see your movie.”
“My movie?”
“Yeah. Your student movie. The one that won awards.”
I squirm on the couch. “I don’t know where there’d even be a copy any more.”
“You are such a bad liar. I bet if I walked over to those shelves and looked—“
“Okay. I have a copy. But it’s old and bad and I’m embarrassed.”
“Lucy, you won awards. You got an internship. Come on. I won’t laugh.”
In the end we watch the movie. And he does laugh. I’d forgotten how funny some of the dialogue was. Sure, my old student movie is amateurish and deeply flawed, but I remember the excitement I felt writing that script. It makes me kind of sad.
He turns to me when it’s over and I can tell he’s impressed. “That was amazing.”
“It’s a long time ago.”
“What are you working on now?”
“The effects of vitamins on the spleen.”
“Not your health magazine gig. Come on, you must have a screenplay on the go.”
In truth I have about half a dozen scripts in various states in my computer. Some are half-finished, some are done. I haven’t looked at them in a while.
“It’s a tough business,” I say.
“If you have a dream I think you should go for it.”
“I already failed once.”
He looks at me as seriously as he ever has. “No, you didn’t. You gave up.”