“Because I cooked for you hellions, so it’s an occasion.”
Maisie lifted the pancake off her plate just enough to peer underneath it. “What do you mean, they own everything?” She seemed very uncertain about her food, even though Patrick was impressed with the pancake’s even pecan color. “What do they own?”
“What do they own?” Patrick repeated incredulously. “Pixar. Marvel. Lucasfilm, 20th Century Fox, ESPN, the Disney Store, Disney Channel, Disney World, Disneyland, Disney Plus, Disney Cruise Line, Disney on Ice, the El Capitan Theatre, Disney Theatricals, the Netherlands probably, you name it they own it. They used to own me, if you can believe that.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“My show was on ABC. Don’t you guys read Variety?”
“No, we’re kids.” Maisie finally decided her pancake was safe enough to try, and she sectioned off a small bite.
“What do you read, then?”
“Kid thtuff.” Grant’s speech impediment seemed exacerbated by maple syrup, as if Mrs. Butterworth herself had stapled his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
“Kid stuff. Hmm. Well, so you know, they had me locked in a pretty airtight contract, turning tricks for the mouse. Which isn’t to say my people didn’t renegotiate as soon as I had even a modicum of leverage.” Patrick rested his hand on the Golden Globe as evidence. “But still.”
“Who are your people?”
“Who are my people? Well, I got rid of them all. CAA. ICM. WME. SAG. Triple A. Anything with three letters. It’s all bullsh—crap. Why? Who are your people?”
“We don’t have people.”
“You don’t have people?! Well, you have me. And that’s not nothing. Anyhow. Actors are products to the entertainment industry; it’s dehumanizing. They chew you up and spit you out. And that sort of thing sticks with a person.” Patrick looked out the window in time to see his neighbor Dwayne, the D in JED, walking their dog, Lorna. He waved and Dwayne looked up in time to wave back. “We could do pancakes in the shape of something else. Daffy Duck, perhaps. I’ve always had a favorable opinion of Warner Brothers. I’ve never done a Warner picture, so that’s probably why.” Patrick used to enjoy amusing himself by pretending he was an actor under the old studio system, spoon-fed amphetamines to keep him tap-dancing for days; these jokes were probably lost on the kids. Fortunately, the extra syrup had done the trick. Grant swirled his last bite of pancake around his plate in the most elegant pattern, like his fork was Michelle Kwan in Edmonton, 1996.
“Can you do Paw Patrol?” Grant asked.
“Paw Patrol Pancakes?” Patrick took a long sip of his coffee. “I like the alliteration. What’s Paw Patrol?”
“They’re search and rescue dogs,” Maisie explained.
Patrick glanced over at his phone. “Hey, Siri, what’s Paw Patrol?”
“I found the following results for prawn petrol.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Patrick reached for his phone, knocking the wooden spoon resting across the bowl of pancake batter onto the floor. He looked down; it would be easy enough to wipe up off the terrazzo floors.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
“It’s fine. Just remind me to clean it up so Rosa doesn’t have to.”
“Who’s Rosa?”
“Oh, you’ll love Rosa. She comes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She’ll make us a real brunch. Do you like chilaquiles?” The kids didn’t know how to answer. Patrick unlocked his phone and typed Paw Patrol into Google and scrolled through the results. “Produced in association with TVOntario, which is owned by the government of Canada. Good one, Grant!” He gave his nephew a high five. “Canada is harmless and the prime minister is a total snack, so we can do Paw Patrol. But another time, because we have to move beyond brunch and start planning our day. What are you guys thinking, do you have anything on your calendars?”
“We don’t have calendars, either,” Maisie said, annoyed.
“No people, no calendars. How do you keep track of your meetings, appointments? Do you have assistants at least?” Patrick threw her a smirk.
“No.”
“Well, neither do I. Not anymore. Just Rosa on every other weekday.” Since he was mostly pulling their legs, Patrick didn’t go into detail about how he preferred it that way. That assistants and agents and publicists often created just as much work as they fielded. （One of his past assistants had reorganized his closet unannounced and sent a shirt that had belonged to Joe to dry cleaning. Patrick had to race across town and beg them to give it back uncleaned; it had long since lost Joe’s scent, but that was not the point.） Instead, he picked up his phone and pretended to open his calendar app. “Well, look at that. I have a light day, too. So . . . what should we do? What do you guys do with your friends?”