Yes, Dabney did talk about himself in third person.
“I’ll do what I can,” Milt said, knowing Dabney would be calling Gil as soon as they got off the phone and would get the money from Gil the same way he had added the symbolic “producer” credit to the film’s IMDb page and everyone had just let it go because, along with Milt, no one on their team was very good with confrontation.
“All right, Dabney, well, I really gotta call Gil now.…”
“Sure thing, Milton. Oh, one more thing. In addition to you asking Gil for more money for me, maybe one-thousand and five-hundred dollars more, I wanted to tell you about the funniest thing I saw when I was working at my desk yesterday looking out the window to some squirrels fighting in the woods.…”
“Mm hmm,” Milt said. “Dabney, I really gotta go.”
“Righty-o, right right. But the squirrels looked exactly like Abbot and Costello. Do you know who they were? I know you’re young, but—”
“I know who Abbot and Costello were,” Milt said. “I gotta go. Thanks for everything, Dabney.”
As Milt was placing his finger to the red call-end button on his screen, he could still hear Dabney yammering on about the squirrels.
Milt hated hanging up on people, and had probably only done it three times in his life, if that. But he needed to call Gil, and he knew Dabney would get his money, regardless of if he should or not, because Gil, well….
“Hey, Gil,” Milt said as the bathroom door opened. Laney’s face displayed her shock that her husband was back on the phone yet again, with Gil Gladly.
Milt shook his head rapidly as though to say, “Shut up, don’t say anything at all. WORK’S WORK.”
“I’m not doing anything at the screening in Manhattan, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it!” Gil shouted through the phone, so enraged by now, he had stopped stuttering.
“What? Gil, come on, we already nearly sold-out the tickets, and it’s been advertised for weeks that you were going to do Q&A with the audience and a mock-up of KidTalk with Dillon Rogers, who you’d sing a quick song—”
“I d-d-d-dd-d-don’t care! I’m n-n-n-n-n-not a d-d-d-d-dancing monkey! I kn-kn-kn-knew you’d say all this, and I don’t care. I’ve been th-th-th-th-thinking about it, and I j-j-j-j-j-just want to be in the theater with my w-w-w-w-w-ife and the cr-cr-cr-crowd watching the movie together and they can eat their p-p-p-p-p-p-popcorn and g-g-g-g-g-go home.”
“Gil, you agreed to do the stuff with Dillon months ago! We’re lucky he’s still in New York so he doesn’t have to fly anywhere. Plus, we need this show as a rehearsal for the large event in Chicago. Do you have any idea how hard it was getting everything arranged for Dillon for Chicago? He didn’t get the emails I had been sending and—”
“I d-d-d-don’t c-c-c-care about D-d-d-dillon R-r-r-ogers! It’s n-n-n-n-ot his film! What m-m-m-ade you th-th-th-think I’d go up on st-st-st-stage and dance around like a fucking m-m-m-m-m-m-monkey?”
“Gil,” Milt practically cried, “you agreed to this months ago. We advertised it this way. We charged twice as much as a regular movie because it’s gonna be this special thing! We’ll get crucified on Twitter and in the geek blogs if you don’t do it now last minute like this. It will ruin the whole tour! The rep of the film!”
“D-d-d-d-did you t-t-t-t-t-tell them about my h-h-h-h-heart condition? D-d-d-d-d-don’t they kn-kn-kn-know I’m n-n-n-n-n-not well? What d-d-d-d-d-do they w-w-w-w-w-wwant from me?”
“You want me to tell the Manhattan theater about your heart?”
“NO! DON’T YOU DARE! DON’T TELL ANY-ANY-ANY-ANYONE! IT’S N-N-N-N-NOT THEIR B-B-B-BUSINESS!”
There it was again. The complex human being that was Gil Gladly. Did he want Milt to tell the Manhattan people running the show about his heart or not? Milt was getting so exhausted by Gil’s damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t injunctions.
And it was still—what?—barely 7:00 a.m.
Laney stepped toward Milt, drying her hair with the towel, and gave him a loving peck on the cheek. Her lips felt warm. Milt smiled at her and they locked eyes briefly. She nodded. It will be okay. Just a little longer.
She went toward the dresser on the other side of the room by the shitty desk and shitty office chair and began going through her clothes to get dressed for the day. She took a hit from her vape pen, coughing.
“Gil, please,” Milton pleaded somberly and almost in a whisper. He had so little left, and it was so early in the morning, he was still somewhat hungover and depleted from the LA trip. Probably sick. His throat hurt. His eyes were dried out.
Couldn’t Gil just do this one thing?
“I’m n-n-n-n-n-not doing it. No. I n-n-n-n-n-eed to go to SLEEP.”
“Look, Gil,” Milt said, going through it all as quickly as possible in his parboiled, burnt-out mind, “people love you. Okay? I know you’re scared. I know this is so difficult for you. This whole tour and everything for the film. Revealing yourself like this. Putting yourself out there like this. I know you’re worried not enough people will come or like it. But we’re practically sold-out at Manhattan, and most of the other shows are nearly sold-out too. These are your people! They’re your friends and family and fans. People who grew up watching your show. They are there to show you love. It’s like in 42nd Street when she calms the new girl down before she goes out on stage and reminds her, ‘They’re here to enjoy you. They’re here to like you.’ No one will make fun of you, Gil. No one will heckle or boo you. This is your church. These are your congregants. You won’t be a dancing monkey. You will be a god. Go out there and give them everything. Just a few more times, we sell the film, and everyone’s happy. People loved the film and they loved you in LA. That will keep happening. It will. Don’t worry about your two ‘industry’ friends who said the post work didn’t look and sound so great. People know it’s a sneak preview and it’s good enough for the regular viewer. We’ll fix it later when we sell the thing and have more money for it. It’s a good movie, Gil. You are great up on stage. Even now in your sixties, you are. Can you do that?”
Silence.
Milt looked at Laney and she was smiling that inimitable full-face smile that had tricked him into falling in love with her, eventually making her his wife.
She was proud of him. This pride gave him strength.
“Gil?” Milt asked. “Will you do it?”
“You’re good,” Gil said with an avuncular haw. “All right, look. J-j-j-just m-m-m-m-m-make sure n-n-n-nothing else g-g-g-gets f-f-f-fucked up. Not for a few days, okay? And I’ll do wh-wh-wh-whatever you n-n-n-n-need me to do. It’s j-j-j-j-just…everyone w-w-w-w-wants a p-p-p-p-p-iece of me.”
“Well, you’re so damn delicious, is the thing,” Milt said, reaching too far for a laugh that never came. “So, you’re cool, then?”
“Y-y-y-yeah. Y-y-y-y-y-you kn-kn-kn-know me. I get all m-m-m-m-m-mad at f-f-f-f-first then c-c-c-c-calm down. I g-g-g-g-g-gotta w-w-w-w-w-work on that.”
“You’re an old man, Gil,” Milt chuckled. “I think it’s too late for you!”
“Ha!” Gil said, adding cheerfully, “And fuck you too, junior!” Then he hung up without his goodbye, as always, and Milt dropped his phone on the coffee table.
“I think I did my mitzvah for the day,” he said.
“What is that, some kind of Jewish Boy Scout thing?”
Milt’s phone vibrated and he checked to see Gil had texted him: “By the way, People said yes.”
“Which people?” Milt texted back.
“PEOPLE. MAGAZINE. They’re going to do a large feature on us. In PRINT. Coming soon to a grocery store checkout aisle near you!”
“NICE!” Milt texted back. “That’s great press. Woo-hoo!”
“Also, I think you got me sick.”
“We gotta stop making out so often.”
“You wish.”
Milt smiled and shook his head.
“What?” Laney asked.
“Kinda cool,” Milt said. “We’re gonna have a piece
in People Magazine about the tour and the doc.”
“Yay! That’s so great, baby! I toldja it would start happening!”
Milt went over to Laney by the dresser. She stood there, eyes on him. They were both naked, Laney holding clothes in both hands. Milt put his body against hers and hugged her tight with her arms at her sides. She didn’t hug him back, but she did permit him to do this.
“Why do you let him do all this to you?”
“Babe,” Milt began, “it’s my job. We made a movie about the dichotomy between the confident and polished character Gil Gladly is onscreen and the real person he is off. What do you expect?”
Laney pulled away from Milt, kissed him on the lips. “When I was in the shower I was thinking about it. I want you to know that I really do love you. I do. A lot. I don’t even know why.”
“Me too,” Milt said.
“Me too!” Laney squeaked happily. “Hashtag me too! It’s like, I don’t understand why I want to be with you, but I do. Bad. For a very long time. I don’t know why. It’s some weird thing and I want to have babies with you and travel with you, and I just don’t get it. Errrggh!” She kissed him again.
“I think that’s why what we have is weirdly special, you know?”
“Gay.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Milt said, pulling away and beaming.
She laughed. “Don’t worry. I told you. Contracts. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You won. You won me. You’re my husband, and we’re getting older and I’m glad I’m doing it with you. It’s an adventure! Always! So much more to come! The rest of the tour is gonna be great!”
“So, you’re still my good girl, then?”
“I’m your fairly decent girl, yes,” Laney said, kissing him one more time before going back to the dresser to get her clothes on and grab some neon-blue socks.
“Why did you say all of that to me just then?” Milt asked, almost as though something were wrong. “You never talk like that.”
“Because,” Laney turned back to him to show off the goods with that winning smile of hers, “you made me feel special.”
“Man,” Milt said, watching her and shaking his head, “it is exhausting keeping you smiling. But it’s worth it.”
“So much of this is just about patience,” Laney said, putting her socks on. “Like everything else in your life right now. I just hope I can learn how to punch some patience into you someday soon.” She laughed at this and finished dressing, throwing on an Anal Cunt t-shirt and some dark jeans.
“Ugh, what’s wrong with me that you saying violent things like that to me just makes me love you more?” Milt said, smiling as he walked to where he had put his phone and saw he had a text from Silverstein saying he’d quit and gotten a new job running a campaign for one of the politicos he’d interviewed often in the past.
“Shitsmelled is shitting bricks about it! I can’t WAIT to rub it right in his face as much as possible!”
“That’s great, man,” Milt texted back, snorting. “Very proud of you and enjoy it. PS: Forget about Shitsmelled. Go do your job.”
“It’s what marriage is all about, I guess,” Laney proposed. “I love you, babe, but sometimes I want to fucking kill you.”
Milt snorted again, smiling at this and immediately erased Melody Winston as a contact. He turned off his phone and threw it onto the small couch.
Milton breathed in deeply and exhaled. “As long as you don’t mind how long it’s gonna take for me to lose all this weight, stop smoking cigarettes, stop drinking as much as I do…” he said over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Laney said, tying up her neon-pink running shoes. “We have the rest of our lives to make ourselves perfect.”
“Where do you want to go for breakfast? I’ll handle Gil’s video snafu when we get back. I’m hunnnnn-gray. And by the time we get back, he’ll probably have forgotten about it anyway.”
“Oooooh,” Laney purred. “I want a big, big meal. Our last one for a while, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Milt said, smiling back.
“Do we still have enough left on the Discover Card?”
“Uhhh…” Milt blanched. “Let’s talk about it over breakfast. Waffles?”
[STUDIO AUDIENCE APPLAUSE; ROLL CREDITS.]
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Mathew would like to take this opportunity to thank the fantastic team at Post Hill Press and Permuted Press for their full support, helpful recommendations, meticulous hard work, and crucial consultation on this project. Particularly: Anthony Ziccardi, Michael L. Wilson, Heather King, Rachel Hoge, Devon Brown, and pinch hitter Felicia A. Sullivan.
Special thanks are also due to Jim McBride for initially connecting Mathew with the Post Hill group, as well as fellow author and Post Hiller Ellis Henican for his recommendation in working with the team on putting out this novel.
If Mathew were to have dedicated this book to an actual person, he would have done so to the memory of novelist and columnist Jay Cronley (1943-2017)—a man Mathew never had the chance to meet but whose hilarious and honest books were a tremendous source of inspiration in the creation of Selling Nostalgia: A Neurotic Novel.
Mathew finally thanks his family, friends, and colleagues around the country who continue to bolster him throughout his constant juggling of far too many projects in far too many realms. Luckily, that wife of his keeps Mathew somewhat sane and in line, capable of focusing and getting the work turned in on time…or as is too often the case, a little early. She typically keeps the brush-shaking to a minimum.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MATHEW KLICKSTEIN is a longtime author, journalist, filmmaker, playwright, and arts therapist.
His previous books include: SLIMED! An Oral History of Nickelodeon’s Golden Age; Springfield Confidential: Jokes, Secrets, and Outright Lies from a Lifetime Writing for The Simpsons (with Mike Reiss); and Being Mr. Skin: 20 Years of Nip Slips, Cheek Peeks, and Fast-Forwarding to the Good Parts (with Jim “Mr. Skin” McBride). His writings have appeared in such publications as: Wired, NY Daily News, Vulture, and The New Yorker.
Mathew’s film work includes the documentaries Act Your Age: The Kids of Widney High Story and On Your Marc, and the screenplay for Sony Pictures’ Against the Dark. He was a casting producer for Food Network’s Restaurant: Impossible and co-creator of National Lampoon’s weekly television series Collegetown, USA. He is also the writer of the comic book series You Are Obsolete.
Mathew received his BFA from the screenwriting program at the University of Southern California and, in addition to other creative endeavors, is the host and co-producer of the nerd/geek culture podcast NERTZ, based on his book Nerding Out: How Pop Culture Ruined the Misfit.
He lives in Boulder, Colorado, with his wife Becky. More on his past, current, and future shenanigans can be found at: www.MathewKlickstein.com.
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