Romantic Comedy(28)

As we wrapped up, after the director, whose name was Abraham, and I had both given our notes, Elliot said, “It’s ending with a whimper instead of a bang. Either we need to punch up Jay and Dillon’s lines or make Noah and Henrietta do something more dramatic.”

“Well—” I said. The sketch ended with Noah and Henrietta doing yoga, and the idea that immediately occurred to me was simultaneously obvious, reliable, and, because of Noah’s presence, slightly embarrassing to articulate. But because approximately 30 percent of me had developed a crush on Noah while 120 percent of me was a comedy writer, I said it anyway. “Why don’t we have one of them fart? Or both of them, and that’s the one time Jay and Dillon actually listen?”

Dillon said, “Or I turn to Jay and am like, ‘Wait, did you hear something?’ And he’s like, ‘Nope, I don’t think so.’？”

“Alternatively,” Elliot said, “while, Sally, I hate to deny you that old chestnut, you know when kids play the game Airplane? What if that’s what they’re doing, with Noah on the ground holding Henrietta up on his legs. Is that doable, Noah and Henri?”

One of the ways it was obvious that Noah was a good sport was that he didn’t hesitate before lying flat on his back on the not especially clean stage floor, his golden hair draped over TNO dust and debris. He lifted his legs and arms, and Henrietta leaned over him so his heels lined up with her hipbones, their hands clasped. As he bent his knees, he said to her, “Want me to take off my shoes?”

“Nah,” she replied—Henrietta was also a very good sport—and then she leaned in even farther and suddenly was aloft on his feet. Watching them, I felt a strange and not immediately identifiable feeling, though I knew it wasn’t good.

“Can we get some airplane sound effects?” Abraham said. “Or they just make them with their mouths?”

“Vroom, vroom,” Henrietta said. “Or no, that’s cars.”

“Let’s try it both ways,” I said to Abraham.

We went through the sketch again, start to finish, and when we got to the airplane part a second time, I understood. I was jealous. Not because Henrietta was famous and I wasn’t, or because she was objectively prettier than I was. I was jealous because she got to tussle in this silly way with Noah, to hold hands with him. I was jealous of the physical contact and the proximity. I thought then of Gene and his dick pic. Apparently, I was due for a session with him after all, to stave off exactly this type of inconvenient yearning.

After Bob, the camera guys, and the control room had decided which camera would cut to Noah and Henrietta on the floor, rehearsal was finished, and I thanked everyone. “Hey, Sally,” Noah called and waved me over from the stage, where Elliot had joined him. “Breaking news on the wildlife front. Turns out Nigel suggested a snake instead of a panther.”

I glanced at Elliot. “Like Britney Spears at the VMAs way back when?”

“I know she’s not the Indigo Girls or Diana Ross,” Noah said, “but don’t you think a Britney homage would be pretty cool?”

I blinked, trying to determine how much he was joking. Could it be that Noah was one of those rare guys who didn’t essentially dislike or mock women, and who also didn’t ignore our existence, and who also didn’t see us primarily as objects of lust? That he was weirdly, disarmingly fine with us?

“On the one hand, yes,” I said. “On the other hand, a snake is even more terrifying than a panther.”

Looking between us, Noah said, “How do animal rights activists feel about snakes?”

“Who cares?” Elliot said.

“I think people are less protective of reptiles than mammals,” I said.

“All things being equal, I’d rather not offend anyone,” Noah said.

At the same time, I said, “TNO wouldn’t be TNO if no one was offended,” and Elliot said, “Good luck with that.”

As Bob approached Elliot with a scheduling question, Noah said to me, “I have something else to run by you. The future of comedy hangs in the balance over this. You ready?”

“I hope so.”

“This is also for Choreographer. When I rip off my clothes to reveal my leather shorts and vest, someone in the makeup department asked if I want my tattoos covered with concealer. I said no because I’m playing myself, right? But then I started overthinking it and I was like, but I’m playing myself back in the year 2000, when I didn’t have any tattoos yet. So is the answer yes or no?” Before I could respond, he said, “I know this is trivial, but I got worried about breaking some comedy rule that I don’t even know exists.”

“If there’s a rule, I don’t know it, either,” I said. “But what kind of tattoos are we talking about? Do you have a gigantic dragon across your chest or something?”

He smiled. “Not yet, although the night is young. No, I have three and they’re all run-of-the-mill.”

Oh, yes, I thought. The Celtic symbol I read about in “Kissing and Telling with Noah Brewster.” Aloud, I said, “Where are they?” We were standing about three feet apart, with Bob and Elliot still nearby, and I probably sounded less relaxed than I intended to as I said, “Do you want to just show me?”

“This one, for starters.” Noah held out his left arm, pushing up the long sleeve of his T-shirt, and on the inside of his forearm, I saw an image of music notes on a staff. “Not cheesy at all, right?” he said.