And the Next Thing You Know . . . Read online

  He set the phone down finally.

  “Oh really?” he said.

  “Absolutely! But I’ve just come off a pretty bad break-up,” I said with a touch of melancholy in my voice, a carefully practiced sadness in the eyes, “and I’m simply not ready to jump into a relationship or dating or anything right now, okay? I know, I’m probably just too sensitive.” There was a noise from the other side of the table—it was almost, not quite, a snort. “But please, no hard feelings, all right, Theo?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way! You’re clearly a great guy—fabulous really—and honestly, it’s just a question of lousy timing. It’s totally my loss.”

  “Wait. Did I do something to make you think I was hitting on you?”

  “No! No, not at all. You’ve been—terrific! Perfect, really! And so understanding as well. I can tell, you’re a sensitive guy, too. And I’m sure there’s a fantastic man out there for you somewhere. I just didn’t want you to have any expectations that this could lead to—”

  “Which I naturally would have because…you’re so…” he said with a vague gesture that seemed to indicate me from shoes to hairline, “…whatever.”

  “I just wanted to be sure—in case Rebecca had led you to think, that maybe something might—”

  “Rebecca didn’t say anything about you, okay? I’m just meeting her for lunch. I was totally surprised by her text. She told me to be nice to you. Fine. I have no clue who you are, and I don’t care. I can absolutely promise you I have zero expectations of you, but—and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, because you’re clearly a great guy—fabulous, really,” he said pointedly, while I started to burn. “But—I have no interest in you. Absolutely none. I don’t want to date you, I don’t want a relationship with you, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want you to get down on your knees and suck—my—dick. Okay?”

  What the—???

  “I hope that doesn’t bruise your ego,” he said smiling, “but I doubt anything could.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, there’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I just assumed you and Rebecca had discussed that this was a set-up.”

  “A set-up?”

  “Yes. Apparently sometimes a blind date can be just too blind.”

  “This is not a set-up. You suffer egomaniacal delusions, my friend.”

  “I’m telling you—my friend—she’s been trying to set me up for months.”

  “Look—I know you told me your name, but I wasn’t really listening. Jeff was it?”

  “Jeffrey.”

  “Jeffrey. Of course. How could I forget? It fits you. So pompous.”

  “Hey. I wouldn’t make fun of names. Theo.”

  “The point is—Jeffrey—you might need Rebecca to fix you up with guys. I do not. I do just fine without any outside help.”

  “Let’s get a few things straight. A., I don’t need help getting dates, which, B., I have explained to Rebecca many times—and C., she obstinately arranges these things anyway.”

  “She would never, in a million years, try to set me up on a date.”

  “I’m pretty sure she has, little Theo.”

  He paused for a second, while his face got really red.

  “If you call me that again, I swear to God I will cut your nuts off right here with this butter knife, you condescending prick.”

  Touchy.

  “Okay, all right!” It was impossible not to roll my eyes. “Theo! I’m just telling you, she’s trying to fix us up.”

  “First of all, nobody’s fixing me up because I’m in a relationship, asshole—”

  “What language to come from such a baby-faced—”

  “So setting me up would be kind of stupid.”

  “Oh. Then why are you here?”

  “And I would like to think that if she did actually try to fix me up, she would think more of me than to try to fix me up with an arrogant, constipated, piss-elegant, Armani-wearing lawyer—you are a lawyer?”

  “Yeah I am! And the suit’s Brioni.”

  “Believe me, nobody cares.”

  “You brought it up.”

  “And the other thing is, I can’t believe she would be trying to set up her little brother. How sick is that?”

  “You’re Rebecca’s little brother?”

  “Yes! You moron! But you had to assume that the only reason I could possibly be sitting at your lunch table was to be offered up as some kind of appetizer for you! Because I must be begging my sister to fix me up on dates with a conceited, overbearing, pompous, lacrosse-stick-up-his-ass lawyer who’s way too old anyway! In your dreams, Ace.”

  “Old?!”

  “Old.”

  I couldn’t believe the ball bearings on this kid. I’m not even thirty!

  “I’m not even thirty!”

  “So old.”

  “How old are you then, twelve?!”

  “Twenty-four, but still too young for you, you zeke.”

  “What a piece of work.”

  “I am! You know what else I am? Outta here.” And with that Theo threw his napkin on the table and stood up.

  Oh for crying out loud, he was tiny. Five-foot-six maybe? And that’s with the curls. I tried—and failed—to stop the laugh that burst out. His great dramatic gesture—his furious exit—was ridiculous, this itty-bitty redhead with the bright pink face.

  He heard my half-laugh and his head snapped around at me. I thought for sure he was going to lose it completely. The only thing that stopped him from flinging himself across the table at me was—

  “Hey, boys,” said Rebecca, suddenly standing next to him. “Wanna hold it down a little?”

  “Please tell me that you did not try to pimp me out to this narcissist loser.”

  “Listen here, you pipsqueak,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “I don’t know who you are or who you think you’re talking to—”

  “Shut up, the pair of you.”

  Okay, it’s not as if every head in the restaurant—and did I mention this was a really noisy place?—wasn’t already turned in our direction, but now the overweight headwaiter guy was making his way through the tables as best he could, scooching his fat derrière between the tables sideways.

  “Sit sit sit!” said Rebecca. To my surprise, little Theo obeyed like a cocker spaniel. She turned to the panting garçon with a smile. “I’m so sorry the boys got carried away for a moment. They promise to behave themselves.”

  He was too out of breath to respond—he just gave us a look before he started to make his way back to his post by the door, huffing his pardons left and right.

  “Did you fix me up on a date with this geezer?” Theo demanded, as soon as she sat down.

  “No!”

  “Who’s a geezer?!”

  “Let me think—that would be you, grampa!”

  “Stop!” said Rebecca forcefully. “Theo, I didn’t set you up with anybody.” She turned to me. “Jeffrey, is that really what you thought? I’d hook you up with my little brother?”

  “I didn’t know he was—!” I stopped myself before I was yelling again. “You know what? Forget it. I’m going to go.” My turn to throw in the napkin. “Enjoy lunch with your—with this demon seed. I’ll see you back at the office. I can buy my own lunch somewhere, and he doesn’t look like he can.” I kissed her on the cheek quickly.

  “I can’t believe you’re being such a child,” she said rolling her eyes.

  “Me?!” I stopped myself again. This time the little pygmy marmoset definitely snorted.

  “You’re the one storming out of a restaurant.”

  “Which I’m not doing fast enough,” I said. I turned to the little-shit brother and smiled. “So nice meeting you, Theo.”

  He smiled back at me for a second.


  “Fuck off, dickwad.”

  Chapter 5

  Live at the Apollo—Diner

  Theo

  Monday afternoons I had my songwriting workshop, and afterward a group of us always went to the Apollo Diner down the street.

  The workshop—really quickly, it’s a bunch of us who are writing or hope to write musical theatre. Some are lyricists, some are composers, and some, like me, do both. I won’t drop names, but some seriously big shows and people have come out of this workshop.

  We meet every Monday at 4:00. Somebody gets up and plays a song they’ve written, and then we all talk about what we heard. The good and the bad. You have to audition to get in, there’s a two-year apprenticeship before you get into the main group, and yeah, it’s a big deal to me that I get to spend my Monday afternoons in this workshop—even though you’ve never heard of it.

  Swithin, Jasper, Jessica and I made up our little crowd that went to the diner after. Oh, and Tyler. It’s easy to forget Tyler because he hardly ever says anything, but he always comes along. He works with a lyricist, but she doesn’t come out with us—he does. And he doesn’t speak.

  Jasper and Jessica work together. Jasper quit smoking, but doesn’t seem to believe it. He always has a pencil or something between his fingers. He’s from Mississippi, very southern, very laid back, and very, very gay; Jessica is native Brooklyn and she’s butch-er than the rest of us guys put together. They are a strange pair.

  We all started together in the first-year group a couple years ago, along with forty-some other wannabe songwriters, and after two years we few, we happy few, were the only ones invited into the big group last fall.

  The big group is where I met Madison. Madison had been in the workshop for a while, so he wasn’t officially one of our crew, but I had been dragging him along, sort of an honorary member. Madison works with a composer, Carol, who sometimes hangs with us because we’re so awesome.

  These meetings at the Apollo—we partly dissed the songs we’d just heard (especially those from people who aren’t in our little group), and partly we just traded theatre gossip.

  On this particular Monday, Madison’s composer Carol had performed a new song from their show. It had gone okay. I’d done a song too. It had gone like gangbusters.

  As we got to the diner, Madison was avoiding the topic of how our respective songs had been received by lecturing Carol and me about our miserable Shakti—whatever they are. Madison, you see, was on some wacko path to enlightenment or Nirvana or something. I never paid much attention.

  “Oh God, here we go,” said Carol. “When he starts talking all this swami crappola, I’m done.” I didn’t have much patience for it, either.

  “Hey!” shouted Swithin, as we approached. They had commandeered a couple tables and shoved them together. “You were brilliant!”

  I beamed and smiled and the others applauded. Yeah, I know it wasn’t exactly Sardi’s, but there are worse things than getting an ovation in the Apollo Diner.

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Carol, confiscating the applause for herself and curtsying. “You’re too kind.”

  Everyone laughed except for Madison who made a face like he was having a baby.

  “You guys were great, too,” said Swithin, “and Carol, you know how crazy I am about your voice—”

  “Thanks, Swith,” and she kissed him on the cheek as she went to sit down.

  “But you!” Swith went on. “Man, you were a rock star!” He didn’t mean Madison. He raised his hand for a high-five, then lowered it some because my five can only go so high. “That song—was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.”

  Swithin was an oddity among us. Another composer/lyricist like me, but he came out of a folk music background. And California. His parents were both studio musicians out there. He was tall and lanky with straight blond hair that fell across his face, and I always thought he looked like this surfer-boy/pizza-delivery-guy fantasy.

  Okay, I might make fun, but I really liked Swithin. And his songs were always good, if different. And different was also good. And he said all this great stuff about my song—what’s not to like?

  Madison and Carol had been in the workshop for a few years before us. Madison had had an off-Broadway show about what—five years ago?—that had been sort of a success and it still got occasional productions out in the regionals, and now he had this new show going into development at the Goodspeed Opera House. Which was huge. A developmental production there was no guarantee of anything, but it was a gigantic break, people in the business would see it, and it could lead anywhere. Any of the rest of us would have killed for the opportunity.

  And he was my sort-of boyfriend, a status which probably needs to be explained, but I don’t want to. Or can’t.

  He’d been really keen and I’d been cool, he kept at it, and I relented. And then all of a sudden he seemed to have something better to do.

  What was the deal? I’m not very tall, but it’s not like I’m repulsive or anything. Guys hit on me all the time. Like Madison had. Or that nut-job Rebecca invited to lunch, whatever that was about.

  I mean, I wasn’t ready to marry the guy. Madison, I mean, not the nut-job.

  Of course maybe it was stress about Goodspeed. Or maybe it was the upcoming cabaret night.

  One more thing, real quick—the songwriting workshop was putting together a cabaret night to showcase the best material that had come out of the room this past year. And none of Madison’s songs had been chosen. Which meant that the workshop director, a guy with three Broadway shows (and one really terrible movie adaptation) to his name, had picked a bunch of songs over Madison’s. It was no small slight.

  “These things are completely political,” was Madison’s only comment.

  Political. Two of my songs had been chosen, and I was hardly the most popular guy in the workshop, given how bitchy my comments usually were. But I let it slide.

  Madison would never in a million years admit it, but I’m sure the whole thing stuck in his craw. Probably didn’t help that I couldn’t stop chortling about it.

  Anyway, that might be the reason for Madison’s sudden—diffidence. I should really try to do something about the chortling.

  There, now I think you’re up to date.

  Back to the Apollo and my friends all applauding for me.

  “You really outdid yourself, darling,” said Jasper getting up to kiss me on both cheeks.

  “Man, you have got to show me that wonky chord thingy in the middle of the bridge,” said Swith.

  “Yeah, what the hell was that?” said Jessica.

  “A mistake!” I explained. “But after I played it, I really liked it, so I kept it.”

  “Frickin’ brilliant.” Jessica again.

  Of course I was eating this up. It was maybe a little awkward that nobody was gushing about Mads and Carol’s song and they were right there. But mostly I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “I really liked it,” said Tyler very quietly. All heads turned to him and he blushed. Tyler spoke. This was a big deal.

  “Thank you, Tyler.”

  “Madison was just lecturing us,” said Carol, “about our blocked chakras, and boy, do I not need to hear any more about my kundalini!”

  “He talks about your kundalini?” said Jasper, one hand over his mouth in feigned shock. Then he turned to Jessica and whispered loudly, “Isn’t that the thing that gives a woman an orgasm?”

  “Jaspeh,” laughed Jessica—that’s Brooklynese for Jasper—“you are such an idiot.”

  “Honest,” I said, “when he first started going on about it, I thought he was talking about some fancy pasta we don’t have in Iowa. Kundalini Alfredo or something.”

  “Laugh all you want, kids” and we did “but it doesn’t bother those of us who are just a little more enlightened.”

  After we (both the less and the
more enlightened) had trashed the other songs we’d heard that evening, we talked about the cabaret night that was coming up at Don’t Tell Mama, a little club on 46th Street. Okay, I wasn’t the only one from our group who had material picked for it—in fact we all had songs in it. All of us except Madison. Even Carol had something on the program she’d written with somebody—not Madison.

  (I don’t like to brag, but—for the sake of transparency and full disclosure and all, and just to be completely fair and honest with you, I should mention that I was the only one from our group who had two songs chosen for the program. Actually, come to think of it, I was the only one from the entire workshop to have two songs chosen for the program. The only one. Just me. Nobody else. Just sayin’.)

  Madison, being the mature professional at the table (not to mention the one on the path to whatever), reacted exactly as you’d expect—he sulked like an eight-year-old the entire time we talked about the cabaret night. Then he graciously mumbled something about being sorry, he would really try to get to the performance but he couldn’t promise because, well, Goodspeed, you know.

  Is it bitchy of me to notice that he had just deflected the conversation back to himself?

  “Really, darlings,” Jasper said to Madison and Carol. “Really interesting song tonight.”

  “Thanks, Jasper,” said Mads, pouting. He was obviously marking this down as too little/too late; and let’s face it, everybody knew that ‘interesting’ was the universal code word for nice-try-but-it-didn’t-really-work-now-did-it. “It’s just a first draft, you know, I’m not sure why everyone took out after it the way they did.”

  “It’s a terrific song, Madison,” I said. I could afford to be nice, and besides. I had a plan. “But how does it work with the scene? I’m trying to remember—”

  “Well, you haven’t read what we’ve been working on. Tanner’s ideas, really.”

  “Really?” I’d been hearing about this Tanner guy a lot lately. And that’s the guy’s first name, believe it or not.

  “Tanner?” asked Swithin.