My boss knocked on the wall of my cubicle.
He asked, how’s that episode of 30 Rock or Brooklyn Nine-Nine coming along?
It’s almost done, I said. It just needs some punching up. The plot is pretty tightly structured at this point, but it isn’t funny. Yet.
I believe in you, said my boss. He looked at me tenderly. You’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever had working under me. One day, perhaps, you’ll be in my position. Just remember to have the episode on my desk by 5 pm. Oh, and you already know this, but remember that sometimes the truth is the funniest thing in the world. Write from your heart, Matthew.
I felt warmth course through my body after being praised. I scanned the script of the latest Brooklyn Nine-Nine or 30 Rock episode for places where I could insert jokes.
My friend Elias texted me and asked if I could talk.
I’m at work, I texted back. Can it wait? It couldn’t.
Elias had recently gotten into a pretty bad automobile accident and lost his legs. He called me periodically, wanting to talk urgently. The conversation would always ultimately be about mundane things. But I made time for him even while I was working because I knew he was depressed. I understood that for him these conversations were urgent, that he was acting on a belated sense of urgency.
When I got off the phone, I had a dozen new ideas for the script. I wouldn’t use Elias’ name, but I’d use his pain. Comedy, I’d always opined, is simply tragedy plus time. Or from a distance. I decided that the newest draft of this 30 Rock episode would include several car crashes in the periphery of the screen, and they’d go hilariously unremarked upon by the supporting cast.
I got so involved in the writing process that I forgot to drink water! At a certain point, little pieces of dry skin started to fall from my chapped lips onto my paper. While dotting a T, my stylus ran into one of the flakes and got clogged.
I shook my pen. This damn thing is clogged and no ink is coming out, I said to no one, before noticing that a couple of interns were reading over my shoulder and giggling.
You are so funny, said the brunette. The brunette’s graphic tee spoke volumes to me. It said “I Love New York,” something I have always fundamentally agreed with but never had the balls to say out loud. Below the text, a statue of liberty was dabbing. Love the shirt, I said, with a complicit smirk.
The other interns receded into the distance so I could be alone with the brunette.
Still looking over my shoulder at my script, she asked me how I came up with that shit, because it’s so damn funny.
Writing and rewriting, I said. And traveling while still young. Certain experiences stay with one for life.
I’m twelve, she said. She described a recent experience with menses, one I was all too familiar with given the fact that by my thirties I’d had multiple long-term girlfriends. She told me that when she was older she wanted to go to Prague or Berlin, or perhaps -- even better -- somewhere with “no culture,” because in her opinion the least culturally rich places were those places where culture had a capital C. Museums, she said, are sterile places. She preferred listening to the puerile musings of the working class.
Well yes, I said, taken aback. I suppose anything can be fodder for a script. It’s just a matter of being open to new experiences.
I firmly believe, said my boss, suddenly stepping between us, that people can have rich experiences even while staying at home.
As long as they have iPhone privileges, his daughter said, laughing. My boss opened his palm. She pouted for a second and then placed her iPhone in his hand. You can wait in my office and do your homework, he said. I’m dropping you off at your mom’s house at 5:30.
You should read Matthew’s script, said the intern. Her dad grabbed it off my desk and flipped through it, stopping to grin at one of the longer passages.
This line of reasoning is a bit out of character for Tina, he said. It’s outrageously funny, though, so maybe we’ll leave it in. But otherwise, I think this script is good to go.
He saw that I was about to protest and cut me off. Matthew. You’re brilliant. This is incredible work. And don’t forget that this is tv we’re talking about, sort of lowest common denominator stuff. We’re not writing the next great American novel. No one really pays attention to what they’re watching on tv. They’re either stoned out of their minds or ‘Netflix and chilling.’
Dad! The intern looked appalled.
Sorry, sorry. Sometimes I can’t remember if you’re my daughter or my intern! He turned to me. Matthew, just go out, enjoy the day, spend time with your ex who you’re actually still pretty good friends with. I’m officially giving you the rest of the day off. And anyway, it’s true! You really did end things fairly amicably with your ex!
I admitted it and put my shit in my Jansport to get ready to bounce.
I sat in the office park for a bit chilling on my phone, checking my socials. It was 95 degrees and my back sweated against the Jansport. A beautiful day, though. Three birds in the air formed the points of a triangle. Light rays shot out of the sun in all directions. Two fluffy white clouds could be made out to the side. There was a mountain on the horizon, with a two-story house on its highest peak. A man looked through the attic window and smiled. Behind the mountain: ocean. Waves jostled each other gently. There were a few sailboats in the water but unfortunately a small shark fin circled the boats threateningly.
Listlessly, I opened Instagram and flipped through my stories. I knew I was putting off my decision. What would I do with my sudden influx of free time? The intern had teased me about whether I had any hobbies. I suppose I could go home and practice writing cop dialogue for Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Would that count as a hobby? Ugh...
I swiped to the next Instagram story, which was about learning to love your cellulite. That didn’t apply to me, but my ex had cellulite, so I screenshotted it and sent it to her. Things had ended on a good note between us.
The next Instagram story was about normalizing the use of baby formula, a goal I had always been down to work toward. I looked up from my phone and spaced out thinking about my generation….
I was sitting on the edge of a round fountain. It had three levels. The water sprayed up from the top, cascaded down to the second level, and then finally rested on the bottom level. The water was lit from below, and every few seconds the hue of the light would change. A few stray dogs were drinking the water on the bottom level.
I’m so thirsty, someone said. At first, I thought it was a dog. And then I realized it was just background audio. I turned around. Several of my co-writers were sitting on the grass among charcuterie fixings. One of them was smoking a spliff. They were pretty much all dressed in black.
Here, sip this, one of them said. He pulled a flask out of his sock. Come on, man. It’s just water. Or rather, it looks like water.
It’s vodka, isn’t it? I said, smirking. They all grinned up at me.
Matthew! Come join us! I know it’s a bit of a sausage fest, but unfortunately, that’s still how tv writers’ rooms are despite it being 2022. But we’re having fun, we’re drinking, and we’re shooting the shit. Fuck it... Come through, man!
I sat down with them for a second and even took a swig from Glen’s flask.
It’s not entirely a sausage fest, said Martha. Come on! I have a shit load of estrogen, though it is true that I produce a degree of testosterone too. Of course, my thyroid issues, among other things, sometimes affect the levels. Whatever, though. The relationship between sex hormones and gender is… complicated. But take my word for it -- I’m all woman. Just look at these titties!
She bounced up and down in a two-piece among all the men.
Everyone laughed. The truth is, no one really thought of anyone as a guy or a girl in the writer’s room, because what mattered was a person’s sense of humor. In any case, it was hard to think about gender while laughing.
My coworkers sat on the grass, eating prosciutto, smoking cigarettes, and swigging vodka from Glen’s flask. Outside of the writer’s room, away from Tina’s watchful eye, they discussed cinema, literature, art world gossip, and politics. Glen rolled his eyes. Richard feigned outrage. Martha called her interlocutor a cynic. Their theatrics were well-rehearsed, their debates reheated.
I felt increasingly alone amidst the smiling crowd... What were they getting out of this, I wondered. I shared many of their interests and passions, but I didn’t see the fun in making a game of them.
I excused myself politely. I have to go home and feed my dog again, I said.
They hugged me, despite the Coronavirus, and waved goodbye before fading into nothingness.
I returned to the fountain. I wasn’t sure why. I looked wistfully up at a passing jet plane, which left a pretty white chemtrail in its wake. I reached into my pocket, picked out a penny, and tossed it up into the air.
The penny flipped three, four, five times in mid-air and then landed with a plop in the water.
Don’t forget to make a wish, I imagined someone saying.
Oh, I didn’t forget, I said out loud. I most certainly made a wish! I wished that something would finally happen to me. Because ugh -- nothing ever happens to me.
--
When I got home and opened my door, I knew something wasn’t right. The smell was overpowering.
It wasn’t my dishes. I’d always been fastidious about doing them. In fact, with previous girlfriends, I’d always had a sort of unspoken arrangement. I would do the dishes, and in exchange, they would do the tasks that didn’t come to mind for me because I wasn’t raised to do them.
I walked into the laundry room. Nope! It wasn’t the laundry...
The smell was unmistakable. It was the unmistakable smell of death.
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve recognized that people never err when it comes to this stench, which is so horrible. The smell of death pisses one off so much that it makes people think of the worst thing imaginable: the death of a close friend or loved one. The idea of mistaking this smell for even a slightly more positive event, such as a maiming after a wreck or a daughter being female-circumcized while abroad with the Peace Corps, is frankly unthinkable.
I knew someone had died in my home. I just had to figure out who…
In an attempt to brainstorm, I got out some of my old photo albums. I blew away the dust, making several guys in the distance cough. It had been years since I’d seen these. I looked at photos from my college graduation. Mom and dad were in the photos, looking youthful. But had they died in my home? Doubtful. After all, I’d seen dad at the nursing home recently… He seemed fine! And mom… well, she had died when I was a kid. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to do it again in my damn condo! She was literally that intrusive.
But no…
I scanned my uncle album. This was the album that had first motivated me to become a comedy writer. My funny uncles’ eyes, ever smizing, gleamed and glimmered in the sepia photos. Surely these men would never die.
So who had?
Just when I was about to give up, I stepped into my bedroom. Immediately, I knew that this room was the source of the putridity.
My dog lay there at the foot of my bed. His head was twisted dreadfully. His tongue dangled out of his mouth and continued to pulsate mournfully. His matted fur had grown long, as had his nails. He lay there in a pile of excrement and piss. His tail was gone. Someone had sharpied the word “WHORE” on his ass. He had died of old age.
I sat down in my chaise lounge. I was stunned. I’d had my dog for 13 years, so it was pretty safe to say we’d formed a bond. But grief is strange. I must admit, my initial reaction was a feeling of betrayal. Why had my dog left me like that? I knew other feelings would soon emerge, but for now I felt angry. I felt like saying bad dog. And at the thought of that, I began to cry.
I walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror while I was peeing, admiring the depth of feelings my wet eyes represented. I hated that every time I cried, ever since I was a kid, I admired on some level my ability to reject toxic masculinity, even though as a kid I had never been rebuked for crying, and had in fact gotten my way with it a lot. My pee culminated in an impulse to dump, so I turned around and sat down, performed the ritual, then took a hot steamy shower. I swallowed a melatonin before moisturizing my face and getting into bed.
At work the next day, everything felt fuzzy. I barely remember even driving there. I wrote several 30 Rock scripts on autopilot.
Returning from the cafeteria at the end of my lunch break, while feeding the caged actors some of my leftover fries, I was suddenly startled from my reverie. The lead actor, reaching through the bars of the cage for something -- anything -- to feed his artist’s limitless appetite, eyed me ravenously. You look sad, he said.
Huh. I guess I am sad.
It was just a moment. He and the other actors in their cage instantly began squabbling for the leftovers I’d thrown them, babbling in their theatrical way.
It must just be their acting, I thought. There’s no way I look sad.
After finishing up my last script of the day, I knocked on my boss’s office door. Hold on, he said from inside.
It’s Matthew.
Oh, come in, come in.
I stepped inside and handed him my manuscripts. These are done. They need a little punching up from the zoomer interns, but structurally they’re sound.
My boss flipped through the pages. You’re... done…?
Yes, I said. Is it okay if I head out early again?
Sure, but… My boss was concentrating on the pages. These are excellent as always… The plots, like all comedy plots, transition from a state of disorder to one of order. Fitting for sitcoms, the characters don’t change fundamentally by the end of each episode, which allows the show to continue indefinitely. But… Matthew. I’ve never known you to simply put scripts on my desk. Normally I have to tear them from you, you’re such a perfectionist. What gives?
Eh, I said. You’re right. What you said yesterday. TV is just lowest common denominator stuff. I’ve mastered the craft of writing eps. So unless you see anything objectionable about what I’ve handed you…?
No, no, it’s all good, excellent stuff as always. My boss looked flustered.
My boy, he said in a grave tone. He opened his drawer and took a pinch of snuff. Are you sure you’re all right, he asked, sniffling once or twice but eyeing me keenly.
I’m good. Just… family trouble.
He looked relieved. So I’m not the only one. Listen, he said, I’ll let you off early, but can you drop off my daughter at her Go tutor’s place? And then the rest of the day is yours. She’s in the bathroom right now, but I can tell her to meet you in the lobby in 20-30 if you’d rather leave the office and wait by the fountains. It might take a bit because she’s doing number two.
And there I was sitting in the lobby by the fountain again. I examined the pennies inside of it, wondering which one was mine.
An old man reading a newspaper looked up at me. The Taliban is at it again, he said.
Oy, I said, politely.
They’re at it, he said, again. It’s western culture they take issue with.
Eh, I’m just a tv writer, I don’t know too much about that or anything, I said. I just keep it funny…
A tv writer! He scooted closer to me. Listen. You’re on the frontlines of this battle.
How so? I asked.
Islam is the conclusion of thousands of years of monotheistic experimentation. Judaism and Christianity were too hesitant, too reluctant to think things through. If you believe in one God, then there’s no good reason to care about anything other than this supreme being. If you believe, it’s only logical to devote every moment of your life to worship.
I listened intently. He had some good points!
Coming from a protestant background, we Americans at first learned to subsume our worship into work. By working hard, we preempted predestination. Our pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps ethic is just a mask for fatalism. If we succeed, it’s because we were destined to. If we fail, it’s because we’re condemned. We work hard not to create, but to reveal our destinies.
The old man lit a cigarette. The great thing about tv, he said, is that it is an affront to God. When we watch tv and zone out -- and let me stress that no tv has any redeeming value -- we waste time. Time that could be spent working or bettering ourselves. It’s the opposite of the Protestant ethic’s form of worship. Watching tv is anti-prayer!
I waited for him to continue.
He shrugged, returning to his newspaper. As an atheist, I watch a lot of tv. Simpsons, Sopranos...
The child intern sat down next to me. Who’s this creep? she asked.
It’s just an old man, I said. He probably likes to diddle kids. So stay well away.
Gotcha, she said, covering her breasts, pussy, and asshole.
I could see the old man’s face turn red behind his newspaper. The glow of his blush illuminated a particularly prescient op-ed. I felt a little bad.
A few minutes later, my intern and I were zooming through the city in my Royce.
Do you care if I wear a seatbelt? I asked her. I hadn’t been wearing one for the last 5 minutes.
It’s fine either way, said the child.
I asked her how her internship has been going.
Boring, she said. Plus I feel a little bad for the actors. It seems a little inhumane to keep them caged up like that in 2022.
If it were up to me, I said, every actor would be free to walk around the city as they please, lease apartments, and even get head. So I’m 100% in agreement with you. But…
But! I’m so tired of hearing that word. You sound like my dad. His favorite word is “but.”
But... these reforms take time. As I’m sure you’ve heard before.
With bitter irony, I pointed out an actor who was lying by the side of the road, taking desultory swigs from a brown paper bag. This is what happens when you just let them do as they please without a structure in place, I said. The actors on our show are happy. On some level, they enjoy the discipline of work. It gives them something meaningful to do. Some of the smart ones even contribute lines of dialogue to the scripts sometimes!
She beamed. Really? Like which lines?
I faltered. Well… remember the last episode where one of the side characters has a hacking cough? When he wiped the spittle off of his shirt and sheepishly said, ‘sorry, sorry,’ that was entirely improvised, even the hacking cough.
That’s awesome, she said. I think I want to study acting one day.
It’s an interesting field, I said. Are you more interested in the neurology of actors or their culture?
I think they’re interrelated, she said. But I’m more interested in applied acting. I want to harness actors for more socially useful ends, not just tv.
Through my Royce’s tinted windows, I could make out a pack of dogs drowning in a nearby lake. I felt emotional.
Nothing wrong with a bit of tv, I said defensively.
Do you watch tv? She asked me.
Not much, I said. Just write it.
Well, what do you do?
Just hobbies and interests, like any normal person.
I parked the car and rolled up my suicide doors – which were manual. We’re here, I said. Do you need me to walk you up?
The intern unbuckled her seatbelt. No need to walk me there. I can go in myself.
The emphasis was on the word ‘go’, and I shot her a look. That’s very funny, I said. If you ever decide to become a tv sitcom writer, I’ll have to watch my back.
No need to worry about that, said the intern, turning back to me as she pranced up the garden pathway of her Go tutor’s house. I’m not interested. Not in the least.
–
On the way home, I stopped by a dog shelter. Several dogs greeted me in the parking lot as soon as I opened my suicide doors. They licked me and wagged their tails.
They like you, said a staff member, slowly walking up. What do you have that I lack?
Two of the dogs turned back to glare at him.
The staff member flashed me a grin. They think I’m pedantic. Name’s Tom.
I shook his hand.
You here to adopt a dog?
Yeah. Mine actually passed away. Old Age is a bitch. Or was a bitch, before I found her corpse the other day. It was my dog’s namesake that killed her in the end, I must confess. So I’m looking for a new one.
These dogs, said Tom, are looking for what we like to call a “forever home.” A sort of place that they can never leave. May I ask what you do for a living?
I’m a tv writer, I said.
No shit, said Tom, sitting down behind his big desk and indicating a sofa for me. What show?
Some sitcom. 30 Rock or Brooklyn Nine-Nine.
I love those shows, he said. I watch them with my family on a nightly basis. I’m the sort of guy who has a wife and kids, you see.
Shocker, I said, gesturing toward his ring and his postpartum scars.
We love the dialogue that you cook up for Tina and her friends to utter. It’s charmingly off-kilter, said Tom. My kids especially like the side characters who are on the younger side. But my wife and I are fans of the show’s consistency, the way the relationships between the main characters develop without ever, y’know, developing.
It’s a job, I said. I just happen to be very good at it.
Tom leaned back in his chair. I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity, he said. I can’t wait to tell my wife and kids that I gave a dog or dogs to one of the Brooklyn Nine-Nine or 30 Rock Writers. Listen. I won’t ask you for an autograph. That would be too gauche. But would you ever… No, nevermind. Stupid to even ask.
What?
Would you be willing to meet my wife and kids?
Are they good company?
They help pass the time when I’m not here working at the dog shelter. It would be a super quick meet and greet. We can meet in the city square on Sunday. What do you say?
On Sunday I was planning on rewriting some old 30 Rock episodes for posterity’s sake. I don’t really have time for family stuff, anyway. Can you just show me to the dogs?
I understand, said Tom, suddenly coughing a decent amount. He’d been a heavy smoker in his youth.
He opened his office door and several of the most loving dogs stepped in. They licked me up and down and I had them roll over. We did drills. I examined their bodies for defects. Ultimately, I decided to let all of them languish in the shelter forevermore, aside from one, whom I named and took home with me as an official possession.
My replacement dog smelled the same as my previous one. He could smell or hear guys approaching the house with ill intent on a regular basis. Whether his senses were accurate or not was beside the point. I liked having an animal in my home who saw signs of malice everywhere, and who loved only me.
After several weeks with my dog, though, I realized that I didn’t love him back. I loved my previous dog but not my new one, even though they both relished the same slop and acted alert around threats.
At work one day, I found myself inserting myself into my 30 Rock scripts. I wrote entire episodes where Tina Fey drove to and from work, ate quiet meals between work shifts, and replaced dog after dog ad infinitum to great comedic effect. Something feels like it’s missing, said Tina to a black guy. She smiled sadly at a gay guy, who looked at the camera and winked. She spent the remainder of the season isolating.
I thought more and more about Tom’s family. I imagined them alert at the dinner table, sensibly keeping their ears pricked for neighborhood threats. No one will diddle my kids, not once, not ever, I imagined Tom and his wife saying in unison, before making yet another large and unspoken investment in their future.
My boss was talking to me. I tried to get myself to pay attention. Your work isn’t exactly declining, he said. There’s just a quiet sadness to it now. Audiences eat this up, naturally. It’s very de rigueur. But I’m worried about you.
I’m fine, I said. I just feel very much alone, boss.
I want you to take a week off, he said. Take some time to think about how you want to live your life. Think about what would make it more meaningful to you, if anything. It’s okay if the answer is nothing, We need you here. Tina needs you. The actors need you. The world audience needs you.
When I got home that night, I fed my dog and then myself. I took a Xanax and stared out the window at the world audience.
At midnight, I called the dog shelter. Is Tom there?
Tom speaking.
Hey, it’s Matthew Goldin, the tv writer who came in the other day – do you remember me? I think… I think I’m ready to meet your family.
Of course I remember you! And yes! Why don’t you have dinner with us tomorrow night? My wife is boiling something we’ll all enjoy. The kids will have learned something new in school that day. Meanwhile I, ever the traditionalist, will provide for the financial aspect of the evening, as well as do ill by my wife once you are gone.
And I’ll be the treasured guest?
Very much treasured. Argh, he added, pointing to his International Talk Like a Pirate Day tattoo.
I grinned silently and hung up the phone. I’ll see you then, I said forcefully.
The next day, while I waited to go out to dinner, I took a walk around my hood. At one point, before gentrification had set in, it had been one of the funniest neighborhoods in the city. This was back when comedy was dangerous. I remembered one night in particular. I’m not sure exactly what went down. But two of the funniest guys in my community got a bullet to the head.
I turned down one of the back alleys, where I remember satirists used to commit a decent amount of rapes. Now it was a froyo place. The aromas coming from the small business assaulted the senses.
I stepped inside. The bovine customers eyed me with serene curiosity. Their outstretched tongues shivered as they slid against their frozen ‘gurts.
The staff paced around behind the counter. Three men and three women, obviously actors. I got their attention using a little bell, one of many that dangled from my belt at all times. What is the flavor of the day? I asked slowly in a clear almost schoolmarmish voice.
The six actors recited a spiel they’d memorized perfectly. They pitched me the day’s flavor, which was something called “Vanilla Tarnish,” a vanilla that had been dulled so fervently that it ceased to be boring, via horseshoe theory, and became something quite exotic, quite exotic indeed. They accomplished this by having the froyo flavor repeat its name over and over again for many years, until it ceased to recognize it as its own.
I purchased a container of Vanilla Tarnish for 11 quid and dumped it into my Royce with ease. After dumping myself in behind it, I felt surprisingly satisfied with the knowledge that I was following social etiquette to the letter by bringing a little something for dessert.
I got stuck in traffic on the way there, however. As a result, the heat melted the most exposed periphery of the Vanilla Tarnish, causing it to leak out of my car.
A libtard in a Prius honked at me. You’re leaving a trail in your wake, he said, rolling down his window. Always quick to make associations, the Prius driver couldn’t help but think of poor Hansel and Gretel. As he drove on, his mind turned to other yarns, including The Pilgrim’s Progress, which he’d forced himself to read at age 20 in lieu of sex.
When I arrived, I saluted the house’s Amazon Ring camera with a humorous flourish. Home security systems reminded me of sex toys. Both were the works of technology, on some fundamental level. And both of them did a man’s job.
I felt sick as the Ring camera’s lens extended to focus on me. I ignored it, feeling suddenly bereft and impotent in the certainty that the Ring would not deem me a threat.
I’m armed, I said jokingly to a neighbor hosing off his little garden. A part of the world audience, the man’s curious smile turned into a grin as he digested the humor of what I’d said. The ring light turned green, and the door rotated in some convoluted sci-fi manner to let me in.
Greeting me at the door, Tom’s wife, wheelchair-bound, offered me her cheek, to which I bent down and kissed dryly. You must be Matthew, she said, in a welcoming yet vaguely peremptory way, as if in an act of flightiness I might decide to be someone else for the remainder of the evening.
She introduced me to her children, two iPhone-bound boys whose faces the censors had blurred. They’re interchangeable, said Tom’s wife.
We all are, said Tom, appearing in the room to hand me a beer. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t introduce ourselves.
His wife turned pale. She always forgot shit like this. Ever since she was a kid.
I’m Eustace, she said.
Understood, I replied.
I watched Tom watch me take a sip of the beer he’d handed me.
Satisfied, he suggested we all have a seat on the back patio while his wife finished seasoning the dinner.
I want to add the salt! No me! I heard the kids screaming and fighting.
Tom and I took our seats in front of the backyard’s abyss. He turned to me and discussed pussy for a moment, followed by current events. How’s your dog treating you? he asked without relish.
Truly a master’s pet, I said blandly.
Quite so, quite so. He was drifting off.
And your family? I asked. Tell me, in all honesty, what is it like having a family?
And living in the ‘burbs? he said, laughing -- and then coughing, to a concerning degree. Best decision I ever made.
I looked down into the abyss, the walls of which gloomy and self-serious scribes had covered with their tedious graffiti. Have you thought about getting that thing fenced off? I asked.
Tom laughed. The try-hard scribes and bards keep the actors in line, he said, despite their boring byproducts. Without the abyss, or something approximating depth, they’d flee to a suburb with greater pretense. These grad school pedants are an important part of the ecosystem here, believe it or not.
I never realized, I said. I thought their main function was being a reserve army of cognitive labor – and unwittingly disempowering working creatives.
Well that too, said Tom. They decrease your leverage at work, but they keep our neighborhoods predator-free.
Not all actors are predators, said one of Tom’s kids wokely from the other side of his iPad, his face tactfully covered by Steve Jobs’ legacy in much the same way as Adam and Eve’s nether regions were once protected by fig leaves.
Tom groaned.
With perked ears, his other kid came out. I’m thinking of becoming an actor, he said defiantly, waiting to be hit. His father dutifully socked him in the jaw, shattering everything holding his son together, everything that gave him structure, and reverting him to primordial goo, to cum, the majority of which was instantly sucked back into Tom’s urethra, and for a moment as his old orgasm played itself backward a Paul-is-Dead agony became legible on the rictus of his face.
I miss my brother, said the remaining structured cum, but can I have his toys?
Eustace wheeled herself out. She blinked to indicate that dinner was ready. Her paralysis had begun to spread.
Tom, his structured son, and I followed Eustace in. I noticed that Tom was pressing and unpressing the wet wad of his other son between his thumb and his index, enjoying the squelch and stretch of him as he dried. Playing with me, thought the wad, is like playing with glue. He knew, ultimately, that he was his father’s favorite.
We sat down at our places at the table. Eustace, of course, was already sitting.
I have a fairly solid read on the cultural thermometer, I said, so there won’t be any gratuitous wheelchair jokes from me today.
Eustace smiled. My husband is similar. He understands where the culture’s at, so he rarely makes fun of my condition.
Tom smiled. We all have our own conditions. Why punch down?
Tom’s structured son smiled. What condition do you have, dad?
Tom grinned. Benign prostatic hyperplasia. You’ll understand when you’re older.
The structured son raised an eyebrow. Sounds like philosophy major mumbo jumbo, he said. I don’t fetishize illness.
You did when you were a baby, his mother said. You had croup.
What is croup?
Basically, said Eustace, you had a distinctive barking cough. As we pushed you down the street in your stroller, you made a harsh sound, known technically as a “stridor,” each time you breathed in. You also found it very difficult to breathe in general.
Almost didn’t make it, huh, said the child, age 12.
Almost not, said Tom, serving himself another helping of boiled groceries.
We sat there in silence for a moment, before quickly addressing a series of disparate topics.
The family was eating very messily. They were getting food all over the place. There were no family dogs to gobble it up from below, so something else (unclear) took care of the droppings instead.
What do you think of us? asked Eustace. In all honesty.
I stood up. Tolstoy once wrote, “All happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
Cut the crap, said Eustace. We’ve all read Anna Karenina. What I want to know is what you yourself think. Don’t rest on the laurels of your reading.
Okay, I said. I’ll be honest. I’m jealous. I never wanted a family. All I ever wanted was to be a bachelor and to have my career go quite swimmingly. But when I’m not working, I feel like something is missing -- and my dog doesn’t cut it. I never feel lonely, though.
Eustace nodded. That’s what’s missing: loneliness. It is difficult to be alone after childhood, she said. Childhood is lonely because you are framed by a family that is increasingly ill-fitting. You’re forced to go to school, to do any number of things. You are the only real thing in a strange impersonal world that constantly imposes itself on you.
But when you become an adult, she continued, when you become autonomous, the world is yours, at least in theory. The people in your life, at least in theory, are people you’ve chosen. Your activities are, at least in theory, your true passions. If you achieve some semblance of success and can afford to have your own space, you fill it entirely. Drowning in yourself, you never have any solitude, never any space for yourself. You start missing loneliness.
Family, said Tom, is a frame. Something to surround you at all times. An affirmed not-you, a chosen strangeness. He smiled at his wife and his two sons, structured and unstructured. I only remember to love them insofar as they remain strangers to me, he said.
Well put, both of you, I said, clapping with slow-style sarcasm.
My parents like you, said the structured son. Like, like-like you. They probably want a threesome or crap like that. At the very least they’re trying to impress you with this little performance. The tween spat on his parents. Edgelord dweebs, he said, before excusing himself to go jack off quietly in his room again.
I couldn’t agree more, I said, standing up. What you’ve said is ridiculous. Family is family. It’s as simple as that.
Tom put his hands in the air like I was trying to shoot him. I think what we were saying wasn’t necessarily anti-family. We were just coming at it from an interesting angle. We knew it was somewhat provocative, though.
Family is family, I reiterated, standing up. And you should be grateful for what you have. I’ve never taken a stand on anything before, but I will right here. Treasure your wife and your children, Tom. They will be with you forever up until the moment you die. And if they die first, they will await you in Heaven -- if you’re a religious type.
Everyone shook my hand and wished me luck. Our time together had been a raging success.
When I got home, I found my replacement dog dead. He was hanging from the banister. Something, he felt, had been off for many years -- and he’d never been able to put his finger on it. Maybe, he had concluded after a while, maybe it was him. His very existence.
His ghost circled his own corpse, looking for bones.
Unfinished business, it said, mirthlessly.
--
I decided not to get another dog.
Instead, I went on dates.
I managed to snag a date with my intern’s Go tutor, who certainly utilized some interesting strategies. While we were eating Thai food, for instance, she utilized chopsticks. Meanwhile, I was looking deep into her blue eyes to see if there was something called the soul. She called me a pervert, but then she said she kind of liked it, so she told me about her childhood all night.
I didn’t call her the next day or the day after that.
I did get a call from my friend Elias while I was at work, though. I quickly regretted answering. His recovery, he explained, was going swimmingly. His legs had begun to grow back. I listened to him drone on and on about them. They help me move, he said at length. Or they will, once they finish developing, a process I never get tired of observing. I can’t wait to cycle between my apartment and work with these legs.
Not once did he ask me a single question about my life. I made an excuse to get off the phone. Surely someday soon an accident would again render him a friend.
My intern knocked on the wall of my cubicle to get my attention. She asked me how my date had gone with her Go tutor.
Rather well, I told her, all things considered.
You cad, she said. Isn’t it about time you settled down?
I’m doing me, I said.
You’re doing Aziz, said the ephebophile’s wet dream with a knowing smirk. And you’re clearly depressed, Matthew.
Studies have demonstrated correlations between creative output and mental illness, I said, more shrilly than I intended.
Gotcha, she said. Well, let me know if you need anything. My dad and I are always here for you.
She dashed off. I returned to my Brooklyn Nine-Nine or 30 Rock script.
Tina Fey, I wrote, was having a bad day. Lying in bed, she stared at her laptop and listlessly opened up another tab. Should I jack off again? she wondered. Or do something else, something else entirely? She reached her hand into her shorts and touched her cock (another shameless self-insert!), which barely responded. Whatever, it’ll at least pass the time, she concluded, clicking to a website that promised to depict actors with great liberty. Tina spent the remainder of the episode on this website.
A few hours later, my boss called me over into his office. A blonde in sunglasses and a pantsuit sat across from him. She swiveled her head and eyed me impassively.
This is Sheila, my boss said. He cleared his throat. She’s very interested in the website you mention in your script.
Sheila, FBI, she said by way of introduction.
The website? Oh! It was a joke, I said. And a bad one. Obviously, Tina would never jerk it to actors.
Oh shit, she said. I totally misunderstood.
My boss smiled. What did I tell you? he said to the FBI agent. He’s a good kid.
My boss took a pinch of snuff, sneezed.
I feel like an idiot, said Sheila. I’m really angry with myself for how literally I took your script. I know I’ve seriously wasted your time. I’m a low-quality FBI agent. I’m sorry.
There’s no need to apologize, I said. I looked at my boss. Despite obviously working to hold back another sneeze, he managed to wink at me. Look, uh… Sheila, was it? You can make it up to me by going out with me this Friday. Do you like romantic dinners?
Sheila turned beet red fetchingly.
I do, she said. It’s been my favorite food ever since I was a kid.
I’ll pick you up at 8, I prophesied.
At 8, I drove by the agent’s apartment. She lived in the ghetto. I texted her that I was there. A minute later, the door opened. She stood at the threshold, feeling herself for a moment, admiring her own agency.
The agent entered my car, looking sexy to me personally.
Let’s drive, she said.
My Royce went into action, getting to the destination in record time.
Let’s do this thing, I said to the waiter once we were seated, exuding charm so he’d get us the best food.
What are you hungry for? he asked us. Like what sort of food.
Italian, the agent and I said simultaneously.
Jinx, I said, depriving her of her voice forevermore -- and making her my wife.
Our eyes met. And time, petrified by fear, froze – before dashing into overdrive.
–
Brilliant work, said my boss, startling me. He was looking over my shoulder. As usual, I was hunched over the latest 30 Rock of Brooklyn Nine-Nine Script. Sorry, didn’t mean to break your concentration, he said.
I dotted an m and turned around. Sorry to keep you waiting, I said, I just wanted to make sure this episode was perfect.
No harm done, said my boss. I’m just happy that you’re once again writing in your inimitable style.
You think the situations I put Tina and the other actors into are funny?
Yeah! Of course! The situations are insane!
My boss tried to take the script off my desk but I slapped his hand away. Sorry, I said. I just want to make things a bit more arduous for Tina, if you don’t mind? I really want to see her squirm in this ep… Things will go awry before returning, naturally, to a state of equilibrium. I just want to stay in the office for a few more hours to work on this.
I have a better idea, said my intern, stepping into the cubicle. Allow me, she said, shadowboxing theatrically, to punch up your script.
My boss raised an eyebrow. That’s a lot of responsibility, you know…
Um yeah, I know, Dad, said the intern. Except I’ve been working here like 6 months and I think I have the tone and rhythm of the show down pat by now. It’s just tv, jeez. Pretty lowest common denominator stuff. Plus I’ll bring a fresh youthful perspective to the show.
What do you think, Matthew? asked my boss with a deferential little sniff.
I mean, she’s not wrong, I said.
Thank you, Matthew! she squealed.
I thought you didn’t want to be a tv writer, I said.
I don’t, but it looks good on college applications. Please, just let me do it! I already have, like, a billion ideas for Tina. For instance, I want to make her breathe really slowly for an entire episode – quite inexplicably.
That’s very funny actually, I said. Well, it’s ultimately up to your dad. I turned to my boss. I honestly can’t see the harm in having her punch up the script. If you’re okay with it.
Matthew, he said. Of course I’m okay with it. I just want you out of this office. You’re making the rest of us look lazy. Get some rest. Or go to the municipal pool with that new wife of yours. Sheila, right? You two have been hitting it off lately, no? Or, I forget – are you in a rough patch?
We are in a rough patch, yeah.
It was true. While I was glad to have nabbed a wife, I missed the strong independent FBI agent I’d met the week before. Upon getting married, she’d immediately quit the agency to focus on being subjugated by me full-time. In fact, she made grim work of the pun by taking a firm stance against the very concept of agency in a series of Medium essays, which were well circulated in trad circles.
All the more reason why you should spend the rest of the day at the community pool or the beach – or some body of water. Go.
My intern was grinning silently, obviously stunned by her opportunity. It brought me back to my early days of writing for SNL.
Go, said my boss, shooing me off. We’ll be fine here!
I put my shit in my Jansport and got ready to bounce. On the way out, I stopped by the lobby fountain to collect myself and text my wife an invitation to the beach.
The old man was sitting by the fountain again.
He crumpled his newspaper up into a big ball and threw it up in the air. It hung suspended in the air for a few minutes, spinning slowly, while he formulated his wish. Then it fell with a thud into the water, absorbing water and expanding so that it formed a gelatinous paste that all but filled the fountain. Some of the actors playing inside of the fountain screamed.
I can’t move, moaned a tubby actor in his mid-thirties.
Nor, I thought to myself, could I, relating for the first time in my life to a thespian.
Without enthusiasm, I drove to the beach. My wife was already there when I arrived. She wore big sunglasses. I kissed her clumsily on the lips.
This is nice, I said, sitting down next to her and feeling the sand between my toes.
It is, she said, before mentioning kids.
In the car, on the way back from the beach, I gave my wife the silent treatment. I wasn’t mad. The “silent treatment” was my term for when I went inside my head to play with dogs. I threw balls for them, patted them until they rolled onto their backs, and then patted their bellies, and even groomed them, sometimes for hours at a time. I’d always done this. Imagining dogs and the many ways of interacting with them had always been a great way to punish my loved ones.
When we got home, I made my amends. We talked things out. Afterward, sexuality and humor combined and charmed us into having intercourse with each other.
We did dirty talk and pretended, for a moment, to be actors. Condoms, she said, represented the slow cancellation of the future. I experienced horror but was turned on by her pretension. She used her vibrator to stimulate her clit while she rode me. The credits began rolling. I hadn’t even cum yet. The names of the people responsible for all this flashed across the screen.
I knew, of course, that if I didn’t shut everything down right then and there, the next episode would automatically begin. Things would be different and yet the same.
Out of passivity and boredom, I stayed where I was. This was lowest common denominator stuff, sure, but there was nothing else to do.
@matthewgoldin
What are you reading? The waitress at the coffee shop asked me.
Matthew Goldin - it’s kind of satirical magical realism I guess, I muttered dispassionately.
Sounds a bit subversive for me! Said the waitress. Probably, I said with a forced smile.
Magical stuff here, Matthew. Thanks for giving us a window into your wild writing career :-)