Til the Real Thing Comes Along (10 page)

On the Monday after their last date, which had been on a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the Venice kite festival, R.J. sat
at the office working on the monologue for Patsy when the door burst open, Harry Elfand-style. Harry had a strange look on
his face.

“Listen, I know this is real unfair, and I know you’ve been through a lot of shit in your life,” he began. Then he closed
the door behind him and sat on the corner of her desk, and in R.J.’s stomach she knew this was serious. “Anyhow, you didn’t
do nothin’ wrong,” Elfand said. “But you’re a scapegoat. See, Patsy decided a long time ago that the reason we needed a woman
writer on the show in the
first place was so she wouldn’t come off lookin’ like what a bunch of guys think a woman is like. If you get my meaning. She
said she wanted a woman’s point of view, so we hired you. Well now she hates the scripts and she’s gotta blame somebody, and
I’ve
got a long-term, run-of-the-show, ironclad contract… so it ain’t gonna be me. And shit—”

“Harry, didn’t you stick up for me? I write better jokes than any man on your staff.”

“She doesn’t care.”

“You didn’t defend me,” R.J. said. “You didn’t.” Now she was standing and pulling open her desk drawers, emptying the contents
into her briefcase. “And I suppose Barry didn’t either.”

“Barry ain’t here. He’s out with the flu or somethin’. Hey, the Writers Guild says she has to pay you for the next two months
anyway.”

“Big deal,” R.J. said, slamming drawers. “I’ve got a kid to support. A career to worry about.”

“Aww, c’mon,” Harry said. “Everybody knows your old man left you a bundle when he kicked off.”

“Get out of here, Harry,” R.J. shrieked, collecting the framed photographs of Jeffie she had placed on every windowsill and
shelf. In his soccer uniform, in his Little League uniform, with her at Disneyland, with Arthur at the Santa Monica pier.

Arthur. Left her a bundle. What a joke. She was still going to court nearly once a month at her own expense to fight greedy
business partners and numerous associates who were trying to attach the estate for fees R.J. was certain were trumped up.
And now she was out of work with—big deal!—two months’ pay. Harry Elfand took one last look at her. “Sorry,” he said, and
backed out, closing the door.

R.J. sighed and sat on her typing chair for a moment to sort out her thoughts. The spring creaked as she swiveled back and
forth, wondering what in the hell she was going to do next. There was no doubt she’d keep writing. That’s all she knew how
to do. So she’d get another job on another show. Start again with a new staff of people, a new star. She’d be fine. And she
wouldn’t take it personally. It was just business. Then why was she ready to cry?

Was it because the romance with Barry was starting to go bad too? For some strange reason, while she was in the water with
Jeffie at the beach on Saturday, he just disappeared.
Without saying goodbye. She thought he’d gone for a walk or to the men’s room or to get something to drink, but hours went
by and he didn’t come back. And he hadn’t answered her phone calls since then. She had even considered calling the police,
but she was afraid if it was nothing, if it was just that being at the beach with her and her son made him nervous, then he
would think she was an hysteric.

Now she knew that he hadn’t been kidnapped, because he had obviously called in sick to Harry. So it was she he was avoiding.
Never mind. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. What mattered was her child and her work. She was good at her work and nobody
could take that away from her. So she wouldn’t write for Patsy Dugan. Maybe she wouldn’t even write for television anymore.
She would take a shot at writing fiction. A novel. The thought was overwhelming. Maybe she’d start with short stories. Yes,
she would, she thought, as she pulled a folder of her sketches out of her file drawer and put it into her briefcase. She’d
try writing short stories first and see if she could sell one.

When her things were all packed, she stood in the doorway of her little cubicle of an office and stared. She had loved that
job. Loved being one of the few women writers in town who could sit in a room and write gags with the best of the guys. And
now, she was out on her ass.

Maybe she should call Dinah. Dinah would tell her it was all for the best; now she could start writing real things. Big things.
Like movies and books. She picked up the phone. Short stories, she thought. About what? Something that really moves me. Arthur’s
death. No. She knew she wasn’t ready to write about that yet. Instead of dialing Dinah’s number she dialed Barry’s number
at home. It rang three or four times. Then Barry answered.

“Barry?” R.J. said. “Thank God. I’ve been so worried.” He told her he’d had to leave the beach suddenly on Saturday because
he didn’t feel well. He sounded very cool and distant, and as if he couldn’t wait to get off the phone. By the time he told
her what had really happened Saturday, she knew what the first sentence of her short story would be.

CHICKEN IN A POT

a short story by R.J. Misner

The only problem with Jackie Schwartz was that he couldn’t go outside. Inside, though, he was great. Cute and sexy, warm and
nice, with the best sense of humor she had ever known.

When Molly first met him he lived in a big house in the Valley where the grass on the lawn had grown very tall because Jackie
couldn’t go outside to mow it. He had three Chihuahuas, Patty, Maxine, and Laverne, and he drove an old school bus to work.
During the first two months Molly knew Jackie, the school bus was vandalized, Maxine the Chihuahua was run over by a hit-and-run
driver, and Patty the Chihuahua was eaten by a raccoon. Molly thought it was a string of real bad luck. Jackie knew it was
life’s way of telling him that the world was a dangerous ugly place, and that he was right to stay indoors. So he did. The
grass on his lawn grew taller and Jackie Schwartz felt certain that inside his house was the only place to be.

The truth was that he really did go outside. Five days a week. As long as it took him to get to the school bus, which he parked
in the driveway at the side of his house, and out of the school bus and into the office building where he worked. And then
again out of the office building in the evening, and directly into his house, which he never left on the weekends. Just stayed
inside until it was time to go back to work again on Monday.

He earned lots of money at his job, so he never had to go out to everyday places like the market or the cleaner’s. The cleaning
lady who came to his house three times a week was paid extra to do that for him. Also, there were many girls at work whom
he could phone and ask to come over to his house for “dinner and dancing,” as he called it. And they did. So Jackie never
lacked for company or someone he could “laugh into bed,” which is how he described his technique, since his funny personality
was his ultimate charm and he knew it.

Then one day at work he met Molly. She had sad eyes, as if she had just been through some terrible disaster, and he met her
when she came into his office to ask a question of his partner Martin. But when she opened the door her eyes met Jackie’s,
and even though she talked to Martin, asked him her question, got her answer, and left, the whole time she was in the office
her eyes had been locked with Jackie’s. After she walked out and the door was closed, Jackie said to Martin: “I’m in love
with that girl. Who is she?”

Martin gave Jackie Molly’s telephone number and Jackie called her and made her laugh on the phone, even though he knew that
he didn’t really have to work that hard because he could tell that she liked him already. Soon Molly became one of the girls
who would drive over to Jackie’s house for “dinner and dancing.”

It was wonderful for both of them. Molly was not only a great laugher at Jackie’s jokes but she had a few jokes of her own
to tell him, and of all the girls who had cooked dinner for him over the years, her dinners were the best. Especially her
chicken in a pot. She had learned to cook when she was married, she told him. And her eyes, which were sad even when the rest
of her was laughing, told him not to ask what had happened to her marriage.

Usually she crept out very early in the mornings because she had a son who was being cared for by a housekeeper, and Molly
liked to get home before her son woke up and have breakfast waiting for him and then drive him to school on her way to work.
And after she was gone, Jackie would lie alone in the bed
and think about marrying her. And what it would be like to have her move out of her house and into his house. She would, of
course, bring her son. There was lots of room for him. He was eleven years old and would probably love Laverne, the only surviving
Chihuahua. And they would all be busy at work and at school every day, and every night they would have chicken in a pot and
laugh at Jackie’s jokes and Molly’s jokes. It was a good idea.

One night when Jackie and Molly were in bed together after making love, clinging happily to each other, telling jokes and
laughing, Molly said, “Tomorrow, Bobby and I are going to pick you up at two o’clock and we’re going to drive down to the
kite festival at Venice Beach.” Bobby was Molly’s son.

Jackie tried to keep the smile on his face and not reveal to Molly what he was thinking, which was that there wasn’t a chance
of his going to Venice Beach, or any beach for that matter, because beaches were outside and he didn’t go outside except to
get in and out of his car to go to or from work.

“I’m busy tomorrow,” he told her.

“Oh,” she said, her sad eyes looking even sadder. “I thought it would be a good chance for you to meet Bobby.”

If Jackie was going to marry Molly someday, he really
ought
to meet her son. Maybe Molly thought that his not wanting to go to the kite festival meant that he didn’t want to meet her
son, and that wasn’t true at all. But all he said was: “Sony. Busy tomorrow.”

She didn’t pressure him. Not even one question. She just kissed him a little kiss on the cheek and soon they were asleep.

In the morning when Jackie woke up, Molly was gone. He looked at the clock and knew that by now she must be at her house having
breakfast with Bobby, probably talking excitedly about the kite festival.

Kites. Jackie had never even owned one, but in the days when he was still going outside he used to see them in the sky at
the park and imagine what it would be like to be able to lie on top of one while it floated around. Then, after he imagined
that, he pictured looking down at the park from the kite and that
thought made him dizzy and nauseated and afraid. Dizzy and nauseated and afraid with a very dry mouth and throbbing palms.
The way he felt now at the thought of going outside, to the beach, to the kite festival. His heart was pounding and he put
the pillow over his head to stop the images that came and made him feel panicky.

Molly. She was so sweet and so beautiful. Light-years better than any woman he’d ever known. Why would she ever marry him
anyway? A man who spent his life locked in his house or his office. This was a test, he thought. This was God’s way of seeing
if Jackie could and would take some steps to make himself well.

Venice Beach. To go to Venice Beach with Molly and her son. Maybe he could handle it. Try to relax, look straight ahead… No.

At noon the phone rang. It was Molly. Even her voice was sweet.

“Ooh, good,” she said. “You’re home. Thought I’d call to see if you’d change your mind about coming with us. I’m packing a
picnic.”

A picnic with sweet Molly and her son.

“No,” he said. “I have a meeting. I was just on my way out.”

“Ahh, sorry, hon,” she said. “We’ll miss you.”

After he put the phone down, Jackie walked all around his big house. In and out of each room. Into his den, where he sometimes
worked on projects at home, and into the guest bedroom, which was the room he was thinking would make a great room for Bobby,
and into the living room, where the drapes were always drawn. He opened them now. Just a crack. It was the first time he had
looked out that window for a long time, and he was surprised to see how tall the grass on the front lawn had grown, because
he hardly ever looked at the front of the house. Almost always he drove his car into the side driveway and entered through
the side door.

Molly, he thought. Her laugh. Her jokes. Her chicken in a pot. The way she liked to sleep at night curled up so dose to him.
He was in love with Molly.

“Molly,” he said into the phone when she answered,
wishing for an instant that he had made an error in dialing and the voice on the other end would now tell him: “You have the
wrong number,” so he would be able to change his mind.

“Jackie, hil Was your meeting called off?”

“Yes,” he got himself to say. “Pick me up at two.”

“Hooray,” she shouted. “See you soon, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. He had made the right choice. He would handle it. He knew he could. This was God’s way of telling him it was time
to leave the house.

He dressed very carefully. Madras Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that said
HA$$$AGEN-DAZS
on the front and
RUM RAISIN
on the back. Shorts and T-shirts were what people wore to the beach. He remembered that from the days when he still went
out. When it was nearly two o’clock he went to his closet and found a hat. A blue baseball hat that had a white D for Dodgers
on it. A girl named Joanne, who used to come over for “dinner and dancing,” had brought it to him one night as a gift. Wearing
the hat made him feel a little safer. As if, in case the world caved in, at least his head would be protected.

Molly honked the horn, and when Jackie peeked outside he realized that this was the first time he had ever seen her car. It
was an old yellow Mustang convertible, and she and her son sat in the front seat, looking at the house. They were both smiling.
A convertible. Jackie hadn’t counted on a convertible.

He walked to the car. All the time monitoring himself, telling himself he would be fine and that he could handle it.