Stop! You’re right! That’s rich.
It had been a long while since Patrick had been “in a room.” But it was all coming back—including how much he despised it. It was a first date, a job interview, a talk show appearance all rolled in one. The room was an audience to entertain. And with minimal effort, he could have them eating out of his hand. But did he want to? Not really. But it wasn’t just that he owed this to Cassie. He owed it to Greg, Maisie, and Grant. He owed this to Sara. She could only rest if her family was taken care of. And he owed it to Joe, who would want him not just to survive—but to thrive.
“After the events of this summer I’ve got a tight ten on child-rearing. I could drop in to a Giggles in Dayton or Comedy Hut in Tulsa and kill.” Patrick looked around the room as the table leaned in, desperate for more. Wait, wasn’t one of them named Tulsa?
Patrick closed his eyes and pictured Maisie and Grant. And when he had a crisp, firm image of them, he began.
“For instance, why is it kids lose their baby teeth? Why not their baby nose, or baby ears? Why doesn’t a chubby little arm fall off when it’s time for their adult arm to come in?” Patrick mimed his arm falling out of its socket for effect, but it was wholly unnecessary. They were already devouring this. “My nephew calls pockets snack holes, and honestly it’s changed my whole outlook on fashion. And food.” He mimed reaching into his pocket. “Anyone want a pistachio Oreo Thin? Please ignore the lint.”
The room got very loud. Some scrambled to take notes, before discovering the dearth of paper. Others turned their own pockets inside out as if looking for snacks, and commenting how brilliant that was. Others still, made plans: You know who we should get to write this? You know who could play the brother? The love interest? The kids?
The excitement around the table melted something deep inside him. He was picking up steam, hitting a stride. He was the Tin Man with freshly oiled joints after a long time rusting in the rain. A lion finding the courage to go on a journey. A scarecrow confessing he wasn’t all that scary. After a few minutes of his routine, Patrick was standing in front of the open arms of Scott LaBerge, the wizard, asking for a brand-new heart.
“Well, we should wrap this up. I took the kids bowling last month, and my nephew’s ball should be reaching the pins any minute now.” He looked at an invisible watch on his wrist. “I should be there to cheer him on.”
“This is the show,” Scott LaBerge declared, tapping the table excitedly with his pen. “You are the show, Patrick. You’re the head of the modern family. A Father Knows Best for the era.”
“Uncle Knows Best!” said Basil, or Abner or Quill.
“Guncle Knows Best,” said Bow Tie, and the room went wild. The sun emerged from behind a cloud and all seemed right with the world again. Or did it?
Scott LaBerge pounded on the table, calling the meeting back to order. Everyone grabbed ahold of themselves and renewed their rigorous posture. “Clearly, we’re excited. I hope you’re excited. We’ll get down to work here and I hope you’re looking forward to moving back to LA.”
“Back to LA?” It spilled out of his mouth like ELL LAY.
“Well, yeah. The show will shoot in LA.”
“I thought it was going to be in New York?”
“We thought it would take place in New York, there’s a certain precociousness to city kids. But, no. We would film it here.” Scott LaBerge looked confused, and even went so far as to let the tip of his tongue slide out one corner of his mouth. “Costs and such to consider. Is that a problem?”
The room began to spin, but Patrick said nothing. He owed this to Sara.
Cassie got the call with an offer an hour later.
* * *
Patrick, the city whispered.
After his meeting he strolled the back lot again, his thoughts reeling. This was supposed to be his way back to the kids, now he was, what—farther away? He chuckled when he got to the New York set, which seemed only to exist to taunt him. He took a seat on a stoop across from the facade of a bagel shop. It was eerie, New York, when empty of the people that make it such a pulsing, vibrating place. He looked down the street, past an NYPD car and several Yellow Cabs parked by the curb. Steam rose from a subway grate, which somehow added to the artifice. But the street was indeed vacant. He was hearing things, on top of everything else.
“Patrick!” His name rang again.
Another ghost, he thought, calling to him from a different time, from actual New York, when he would walk home on empty streets late at night from his gig at the Greek restaurant, plotting a better, more promising life that didn’t involve setting people on fire. He stood up and continued down the block, charmed by the store windows with colorful mannequins in angular garb; they must be dressing the set to film.