Part 3 (1/2)

So they were siblings, not mother and son. But it sure looked like she was raising him. I wondered what the story was.

”Hey,” I said to Daniel.

He didn't answer. Maybe he didn't speak English, but it felt more like he couldn't be bothered responding. There was an air of mischievousness about him, or maybe even outright defiance, like he was one of the trickster G.o.ds, Loki in Norse mythology, or Prometheus among the Greeks.

Zoe looked like she'd had it, so before we could say anything else, she said, ”Well, it's nice to meet you both.” Then she trudged up the stairs.

As they disappeared, I glanced up at Daniel again. He was still ignoring me, but I should probably point out that he was a little like a Greek or Norse G.o.d in one other way too: teenager or not, he was one of the cutest guys I'd ever seen.

The following week, after we were finally unpacked, Kevin was was.h.i.+ng the dishes after dinner, and I was trying to preheat the oven so I could make cookies. But the oven was gas, and so old it didn't even have a pilot light. You had to actually open the oven up and light it with a match.

As I was trying to light it, I said to Kevin, ”Maybe this is how he did it. The guy who killed himself in our apartment? Maybe he put his head in the gas oven.”

”We don't even know if that's true,” Kevin said.

”Yeah, but if it is true, maybe he did it here. It sure looks old enough.” It was kind of creepy looking into that darkened oven, thinking that someone might have once died there, in the exact spot where I was now.

The apartment had no dishwasher, so Kevin was drying the dishes by hand. ”Who knows?” he said. ”I bet it's just a story.”

”Yeah,” I said.

The oven still wasn't lighting. How the h.e.l.l hard was it to light natural gas anyway? I'd turned the crank.

Then I realized something. ”I don't smell anything,” I said. ”I'm not even sure the gas is turned on. But doesn't it have to be? I mean, doesn't the hot water tank use gas? Darn it, I wanted to make snickerdoodles.”

”Make what?” Kevin said.

”They were my favorite cookie as a kid.”

”We need to call the landlord.”

I sat back on my heels. ”Not yet. I should totally be able to figure this out. Especially since I'm the butch one in this relations.h.i.+p.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. ”Are we really doing this?”

”What?” I said matter-of-factly. ”You know it's true. It's what everyone says after they meet us. We're both butch, but I'm the impossibly butch one.”

”First of all, who cares who's butch? Aren't we beyond all that by now? But if someone did care, the fact that you have to be the butch one just proves how totally insecure you are, that you're not really the butch one.”

Hmmm, Kevin had a good point. I'd expected this sparring to go on longer. But he'd already teased me into a corner.

”You know,” I said, ”I think I liked you better back in high school when you were a dumb jock.”

Kevin laughed.

In the other room, my phone started to chime. I couldn't think the last time someone had actually called me.

”It's probably your mom asking if we're okay,” Kevin said.

Thinking he was right, I almost ignored it. But I didn't know what else to do to get the stove lit, so I decided to take the call after all.

Unknown caller, the screen said.

I answered it. ”This is Russel.”

”Russel Middlebrook?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

”That's me. Who's this?”

”My name is Lewis Dunn. I'm the personal a.s.sistant to Isaac Brander. He's read your screenplay A Cup of Joe, and he'd love to talk to you about it.”

I was confused. ”What?”

”Are you the author of A Cup of Joe?” the voice said. ”The screenplay?”

”Yeah,” I said, still confused. I'd written that screenplay earlier in the year. It was sort of a romantic ”dramedy,” the story of a twenty-three-year-old barista named Joe living in Seattle, unhappy with his life. He runs into his old boyfriend from high school, Milo, and decides that getting back together with him will solve all his problems, but Milo has a new boyfriend now. Meanwhile, in an interweaving ”flashback” storyline, we learn the real story behind Joe and Milo's relations.h.i.+p in high school (which isn't at all what you think).

The screenplay was (very, very loosely) based on my relations.h.i.+p with Kevin, and I'd been pretty happy with it. It was a ”gay” story, but it wasn't about being gay. There was no gay angst, not even in the high school flashbacks, and there was also no straight female best friend, no b.i.t.c.hy gay sidekick, and absolutely no gay hustlers or self-destructive party boys. It was just the story of two guys trying to figure out their lives.

I'd sent out a bunch of query emails to agents and producers, but only a couple had even responded. I'd also entered a bunch of (expensive) screenwriting contests, placed in a couple, and also put the script on TheBlackList.com and Inktip.com - two (expensive) websites where writers post their scripts so ”Hollywood insiders” can supposedly read them. But no one had ever gotten back to me. The problem hadn't been finding people willing to take my money in order to get the word out about my screenplay. The problem had been finding any Hollywood insiders who actually gave a f.u.c.k about reading it.

”Didn't you send Mr. Brander your script?” said the voice on the phone.

It was finally becoming clear to me: I was hearing back from one of the handful of people who had actually requested my screenplay.

”Oh!” I said. ”Yes! Of course. Let me just check my notes,” I said, brazenly lying. I hesitated a moment, checking nothing whatsoever. Then I said, ”Yes, I absolutely did send Mr. Brander my script. You just caught me by surprise.”

”Well, Mr. Brander would like to talk to you,” the voice said.

”About what?”

Yes, I really am that slow.

There was a moment's hesitation on the other end. I, of course, kept kicking myself.

”Um, about your script,” the voice said. ”Mr. Brander thinks he might be able to do something with it.”

Do something? I thought. As in, turn it into a movie? This couldn't really be happening. Could it?

”Do you have representation?” the voice said.

”Uh, not currently, but I've been talking to a couple of different agents.” Translation: one single agent had requested a different screenplay of mine six months ago, and I hadn't heard a d.a.m.n thing from him ever since.