The Guncle

by Steven Rowley

  “I’m so glad you could join us on such short notice,” Scott continued.

  “It’s an easy flight from Palm Springs,” Patrick offered as they continued to stand awkwardly around the table.

  “There’s a flight from Palm Springs?” one of the staffers asked, insinuating the obvious—it was probably an easier drive. Patrick found there was a uniform banality to network staffers—certainly this bunch—like they all got their hair cut at the same place, or held similar opinions on something unknowable, like the future of broadcast TV.

  “There is.” Patrick was lucky to get the direct, otherwise you connected through Phoenix. “I don’t drive,” he offered as explanation, not sure if it made him seem less eccentric to a potential employer, or more.

  “Take a seat,” Scott gestured. His face was boyish, betrayed only by some premature graying over the ears. Instead of adding gravitas, it made him look like he had powdered his temples to play a part. Patrick took an open chair at the table’s midpoint; Scott assumed a seat at the head. Patrick faced the room’s window, looking out on a bubbling fountain. He thought momentarily of Maisie and Grant on their pool floats before focusing instead on the room. Several execs produced pens, but none of them had anything to write on.

  Everyone breathed in unison and exhaled.

  “We loved you in The People Upstairs. Big fans,” cooed the one that may or may not have been Kelsi. She wore oversized glasses and had some kind of topical lapel pin; political but not controversial. In fact, it might have just said women.

  “That’s nice to hear. It’s been a hot minute. You worry people forget.”

  The table murmured some version of “Never.”

  Patrick continued. “People don’t even watch TV anymore. Do you know there’s something called TikTok?”

  The table laughed. They knew. But also, they were there to defend.

  “How much tik could a TikTok tok if a TikTok could tok tik?”

  The table laughed again, harder this time. Someone declared, “That’s too much!”

  Scott signaled everyone to be quiet. “Well, we watch TV here. This table loves TV.”

  “And people watch our network. You should see our live+3. And our streaming service? We’re changing the metrics of how you measure success.” Someone (Abner?) flung a spiral-bound report in his direction; it came to a stop three inches from the edge of the table with the network’s logo facing him perfectly.

  “And you know who else watches TV?” asked the one in a bow tie. “Families.”

  Again the table murmured in agreement. Bow Tie grinned, proud of his contribution. And then he winked, as if to broadcast his queerness, too, and define this as a safe space for Patrick.

  “That’s right,” Scott confirmed. “Which is why we are always looking for a new take on the family comedy.”

  The sun passed behind a cloud, momentarily darkening the courtyard. Patrick hoped this wasn’t an ominous sign, but no one else seemed particularly bothered.

  “We all loved the videos you posted with your kids.”

  “My niblings.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My niblings,” Patrick whispered, as if leveraging them was a betrayal. But this was supposed to be for them, so he attempted confidence in his voice. “My niece and nephew.”

  “What’s that?”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “They’re my brother’s kids.”

  “Right.”

  “Their mother passed away last spring and they came to live with me for the summer.”

  “Our condolences.”

  Murmur.

  “That’s good, we can use that.”

  Patrick started to object, but Scott raised a hand to apologize, agreeing it was crass.

  “You have a real chemistry. With children. The way you talk to them! Like little adults. It’s edgy, but . . . safe. That’s the tone we’re looking for. New. But familiar. Tone is everything. The rest we can figure out, the circumstances and whatnot. Plot. With your input, of course.”

  Patrick nodded; as a response it was better, but shy of great. “Thank you. To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.” The room erupted with glee. Patrick didn’t even bother to attribute the quote, he’d already moved on to other concerns. (If they were going to model the show on him, they would learn soon enough about his love of Wilde.) Did he have chemistry with the kids? Is that what it boiled down to? Not connection, but chemistry? Not love, but science? “I do have a certain rapport with those kids, I suppose. It developed over time. They don’t drink martinis, so we had to find something else to bond over.”

  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.

  Footsteps pounded behind him, and Patrick felt someone grab his bicep.

  He spun around to see Emory.

  “I thought that was you,” Emory said. His glasses, oddly, were spotted with rain.

  “What are you doing here?” Patrick shook his head, amused. Emory wore a beanie slouched to one side, making him look like an idiot.

  “On a break from filming.” Emory pulled the hat off his head, and Patrick was relieved it was part of a costume. “I sometimes come back here to think.”

  Patrick looked around. This could be his world again soon enough. “Your glasses are wet.”

  Emory crossed his eyes and focused on his lenses. “Oh. I ran past the Western town. They’re filming something with rain.”

  What a bizarre occupation we share, Patrick thought.

  “What about you? You’re a long way from home. What are you doing here?”

  “Me?” Patrick asked, as if Emory could be inquiring about anyone else. He looked around at the brick and stone buildings that lined this New York block. “I’m a little lost.”

  “No shit.”

  “I was meeting about a show,” he said with a sour face. “If you can believe that.”

  “Of course I can believe that. You’re a goddamn star.”

  A plane went by overhead and they both paused to look up at the sky.

  “What about the desert?” Emory inquired. “Coming out of retirement?”

  “I don’t know.” Patrick tried to balance himself on a fake cobblestone. “The desert will always be there. But it’s time for me to rejoin the world.”

  Emory smiled. “I’ll miss that pool.”

  “I’ll loan you the house.”

  “I’d miss you in it.” He smiled even broader. He had one chipped tooth Patrick hadn’t noticed before. Another flaw that somehow made him ideal. “Where you headed?”

  “Now?” It was a good question. Patrick was lost in his thoughts; he wished there were more of the city to walk through. Alas, it ended ahead, melting into more bungalows and a small park set with a gazebo. “Back to my hotel. I have to walk the dog.”

  Emory smirked. “Is that a euphemism?”

  “No,” Patrick chuckled, remembering his explaining euphemisms to the kids. “No, it’s not.” Marlene, who was not used to hotels or the sounds of people walking a hallway outside her door, was certainly antsy and waiting to go out. “What about you?”

  Emory’s eyes lit up from behind his spattered glasses. “I have one more scene to film, but then grabbing a drink with you.”

  Patrick removed Emory’s glasses so he could see his eyes. “What are you looking for, Emory?”

  “Nothing.” He winked like he had the night that they first met. “Everything.”

  Patrick tried to call Joe’s face to mind. It came, blurred. Smudged. The features weren’t quite right. It’d been a lifetime since he’d seen it. Patrick did his best to dry Emory’s glasses on his shirt. “Well, I’m looking for . . . something.”

  Emory nodded. “Any idea what that is?”

  Patrick had never really seen Emory without his glasses. He looked older, more mature. “I think I’d rather like to do a play.” The words took Patrick by surprise. But they were in his head, planted by Cassie in his kitchen the day of their very first meeting. Being in LA felt like repeating something; Patrick desperately wanted to start something new.

  Emory took a step forward and they stood nose-to-nose. He gestured at the Manhattan streetscape around them. “You’re in the right city, then.”

  Patrick smiled in spite of himself. “I guess I am.”

  “A play sounds like fun.”

  “Does it?” Patrick was already second-guessing. It would mean saying no to a network show and the paycheck he was chasing for his family.

  “Have a drink with me,” Emory encouraged. “We’ll talk it all out.”

  They stood like this, on the sidewalk, at an impasse. Patrick blinked. Their eyelashes were almost touching. Emory wasn’t right for him, the age difference was just the start. But he also wasn’t wrong, and Patrick knew himself well enough to know when he was making excuses. Emory was full of life, a yes to his no. And the whole point of leaving the desert, coming out of isolation, was to stop. Making excuses. Saying no. “One drink,” Patrick relented. “Four max.”

  Emory flagged a couple of extras wearing fringe vests and boots on their way to the Western town. “This is my friend Patrick,” he said to one of them. “He’s going to do a play.”

  Patrick blushed. It was so stupid, Emory’s celebration of him.

  “Beats doing a Western in the rain,” the extra huffed before continuing down the New York block on their way, perhaps, to an old saloon.

  Patrick handed Emory back his glasses. “We really do need to walk the dog first.”

  Emory scuffed the sidewalk with his shoe. “Okay,” he said. “But we’re making that a euphemism.”

  Patrick kissed Emory in the middle of the street until all of New York fell away.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “TEN MINUTES TO CURTAIN!”

  The frantic banging on dressing room doors up and down the hall caused Patrick to smirk; it was just the jolt of electricity he needed before this performance. He poked his head out of his dressing room just as the stage manager, a rather humorless nonbinary person named Kacey for whom he’d developed a begrudging respect (even though they were immune to Patrick’s innumerable charms), passed his dressing room. “The house seats I asked for. Did that all work out?”

  “Work out how?”

  “Are they here,” Patrick implored.

  Kacey rang for the box office on their headset. “House seats for Patrick O’Hara. How many. All five?” They covered their microphone. “All five.”

  “They’ve arrived?” Kacey nodded, yes. “Okay, that’s good. Good. Thank you. Go.” He gave them a nod to keep moving, not wanting to be responsible for holding the curtain.

  “Fall down some stairs,” Kacey said before screaming, “NINE MINUTES. NINE MINUTES, PEOPLE.”

  Patrick laughed. It wasn’t exactly “Break a leg,” but since the play was Michael Frayn’s Noises Off and he was playing Garry Lejeune, the play-within-a-play’s leading man, he would indeed be, as part of his blocking, falling down a flight of stairs after slipping on a sard
ine. A choreographer friend taught him to do it just so, but still after a tech and three dress rehearsals he was feeling sore, especially after the second dress when he twisted left instead of right and his shoulder took the brunt. He stepped back inside his dressing room and sat, then studied himself in the mirror. The mustache was still there. He thought he might shave it after the kids returned home, but he’d grown accustomed to it and it seemed to fit his character. The lighting was good; throughout rehearsals he’d taken goofy selfies and sent them to Greg for the kids. He looked older, but he liked it. He had lived a life and survived it.

  On his table sat a program. Westport County Playhouse Presents NOISES OFF. He had nearly given Cassie a small heart attack when he told her to turn down the pilot, but she managed to work it all out. Patrick told her he needed a year, and they compromised: it takes a year to get a show off the ground anyhow, and as long as he made himself available in March to shoot the pilot he could have most of that time for himself. She’d even found him a play in Connecticut, earning her commission and then some. It wasn’t Broadway, but it held some prestige with the New York critics, so it wasn’t such a bad deal; he could see the kids through their first year back home, meeting them most days after school. He was even introduced to Maisie’s friend Audra Brackett, who was—as advertised—a delight. Once his new TV show began production, he’d be six months in LA and six months in New York. For the first time in his life he’d be bi.